I knew I had to jump on the bandwagon right from the start.

Their attraction was insidious.

Surrounded by admirers who touched them, who elbowed other admirers just to be near them…

I was intrigued.

The mangos were so sexy…six all laid out in a box, and on top of another six in their own presentation, and another six and so on and so on.

The mob held them aloft, twirled them in the light of cost-efficient addictions and hoisted them away.

I too could not resist.

I placed a box in my cart.

My drool Oh these are my precious-sous

I placed them in the middle of my cart and surrounded them with gifts as I continued through my sustenance search.

The free sample folks knew better.

“Shrimp parfaits?”

“Salted cheese malts?”

I could only reply, “I have mangos.”

These makers of finger delights raised eyebrows and voiced little tsk tsk tsks.

“Uh huh,” they observed, and pitied me as I continued on.

My obsessed glee meant nothing to professional food shoppers.

They knew better the misfortunes awaiting.

They knew mangos would be my match.

Aisle after aisle as I wrapped them tightly with jars, boxes and bags of treats and sundries my smile grew larger.

Other more experienced buyers shook their heads as I passed…

“Mangos huh,” they said.

“What you got there buddy, mangos is it?” they said.

“What you doing?” they asked, like I was a young lad caught in possession of immorality. “Do you know?”

I knew.

Mangos.

They were the ultimate opponent.

At the checkout stand the tiny electric scanning chirps stopped briefly as the mango was held aloft, and turned in the light, and placed back into its box alongside five similar beauties.

The checker lofted each of the other five as well.

“You know what you have here, yes?” he asked.

I knew.

“Why mangos of course!” I giddily professed. “Mangos sir, mangos!”

I pushed my cart into the parking lot in full trot.

I unloaded the booty quickly, left the empty cart standing, and burned the tires in a left and then a right drift that screeched “Mangoooooooooo.”

Honking my horn down the highway.

Blasting Queen’s “We Are the Champions.”

I had the fever.

Now safely in my home they would be the ultimate surprise for my significant other.

Those lunches I pack each day would now be feeble memories, detestable digestables to what would be revealed when my packaged gift of loving partnership was opened in the middle of a hard day at work.

Oh how blessed would she be??!!

That first mango.

Oh that godforsaken first mango!

Yes, my knife cut softly and smoothly and then the core stopped any hope of preparations.

Hmmm, what is this fruit?

I pried left and right, the shadow of my visage resembling a hunched-back artist molding clay on a potter’s wheel… I wrestled another… and then another… the mushy rendering leaving streaks down my arms and onto my clothing.

“I like mangos,” the woman who was going to be pleasantly surprised said when seeing the devastation I had instigated.

“Are you juicing it,” she asked, and touched my shoulder in a pat that, although not full-fledged pity, suggested that maybe I could salvage two sips of mango into a cup.

The second morning I believed that my storing the remaining three mangos in that cool large box that lights up the kitchen at night when I search for salty treats would make a difference in my craftsmanship… and I had binge-watched Top Chef and British Baking Show, mostly fast forwarding to episodes about fruit.

Hmmmm.

Maybe the knife was bad? I tried four.

Cutting and dicing advice on my laptop.

What? A cutting board?

Sanitize my hands?

A long flat seed? Easy to remove?

A mango splitter?

YouTube advice from everyday chefs in white smocks!

Liars!

One mango would not give up its grip and I sliced away quarter-size round fruit fingerlings until they too were smooshed on the counter.

Another mango kept slipping from my hand to the kitchen floor as I tried to pull its skin away, its speedy roll past my feet only slowing when it reached the living room carpet.

The last mango, red with yellow tinge, shining in the LED light, basking in the glow of microwave and oven clocks resembled the sought after-achievement of every athlete.

That trophy one raises overhead.

The words of the fruit stand stocker came to mind, “make sure you score them first.”

That was easy.

Mangos six, Klas zero.

That last mango would go whole into a paper lunch sack.

• Contact Klas Stolpe at klas.stolpe@juneauempire.com.