A Halloween tale inspired by a true story of a very kind and knowledgeable Costco employee

It was a sunny July afternoon when I wandered into Costco, the air thick with the scent of free samples. My mission was clear: find the perfect watermelon.

In the corner of the produce section, they were piled high in a green, glossy pyramid at the edge of the produce section—each one identical, each one whispering pick me in the hum of the refrigerated air. I lifted each one, gave it a firm tap. Thud. Too dull. Another—tock. Too hollow. I felt like a melon medium, listening for the soul of the fruit.

Then the lights flickered.

“You’re listening wrong,” he said, voice soft as plastic wrap crinkling. “Don’t listen to the Tik Toks and the Instagrams.”

Before I could ask where he came from, he reached out a translucent hand, resting it on a large, dark-green melon near the bottom of the pile. He turned it over once – revealing a deep yellow spot on the underside of the fruit.

“This one, papi” he murmured.

I thanked the specter and he was gone. No footsteps, no cart wheels squeaking down the aisle.

At home, I sliced it open. The flesh was ruby-red, glistening like jewels under the kitchen light. The first bite was transcendent—sweet, crisp, alive.

Thank you, Watermelon Papi.