I'm an apple. And a strange and tragic thing happened to me today. No, it's not what your thinking--well, perhaps I'd better start from the beginning. You have to know me to understand the story.
I am both Golden and Delicious. My skin shades from the pale, spring green of an unfurled leaf to a daffodil's yellow, and I must admit that as I've ripened I've acquired a little something of a blush, just at the upper curve of my crown; I think it's rather becoming, and it sets off my flat bronzish speckles. I suppose my rise in life is part a matter of luck; sisters of mine, of like beauty, were shunted by misfortune to the bottom of the cart; they ended their existence as cider components, mere mash. Knowing that, I was a little nervous when I felt that warm hand cup me, its calluses rough and careless. I could hear the thunk of the others being plunked into the baskets, and I felt the strange shudder of being loosed from the branch, that moment of suspension, when my fate hung suspended too-it was a sweet gush of relief, I can say, to travel so gently to the top of the pile. I've never been so grateful for my clear complexion as I was then, for what it saved me from. We are taught to be prepared for natural sacrifice, when our sweetness finally becomes too much to bear and we plummet; I was destined for something other than that desperate plunge.
Sometimes I wish that I'd experienced that ordinary bliss. It hasn't all been easy, and it's often been strange. The traveling, the sorting, the chill dark of the refrigerated truck--a horrible memory, and I'm sure if I were still attached I'd sway my branch just thinking of it. No stars in that cushioned blackness, and it was so cold the other's skins squeak-rubbed against me. We were so tightly crammed and yet we couldn't even smell each other; I think that was what frightened me the most, that there were thousands of us pressed together, and yet not a whiff of the fragrance that cuts through the orchard on the frostiest October nights. We all smell a little different, unique, individual, not too many people know or notice that.
As you can imagine, after all that, even the fluorescence of the supermarket was welcome to me. Once again I was lucky; that sweaty stock boy's clammy hand left me again on top of the pyramid. Those lights--I think that all they're designed to do is enhance blemishes. But I was lucky enough to bask in them I suppose; those siblings of mine who formed the foundation never saw even that much light, and everyday the shifting pile would bruise them anew.
They used to complain about it at night, when all the hubbub of the day had died. I pitied them but decision must be made; the store will of course present its best fruit to the world on the upper surfaces of the pile, and once again my appearance saved me from a wretched fate. For me it was broadening, being in the market; I've never met so much interesting produce, been exposed to such varied experience. The brash passion of the bananas, who come up so fast and die so young: all of them so assured, in their greenness, that they'd be tough enough to avert the peeling--until their bellies yellowed and their stems browned, and they began to talk of salt breezes and wail that all they wanted was to let the tropic sun rot them into island sand.
The tomatoes, on the other hand, were more than reconciled to their fate; they assured me that they loved a sauce, and seem to have a soldier's brave longing for self-destruction: a whiff of basil was the scent of so much gunpowder and glory to them. Even now I think fondly of the timid potatoes, one of whom confessed to me, with the quiet dignity of his tuber race, how appallingly naked they all felt, now that the womb of soil they snuggled within was chafed away. Oh, there were so many, many interesting fruits and vegetables there; I hardly rested at night, because there was always someone new to meet. I'm surprised my looks didn't suffer for it, I've been fortunate in that department as well, I suppose.
The day, however, was another matter entirely; harried is the only way to describe it. Rush, rush, rush, and constantly fingers creeping over you, the sticky palmed children lunging after one from those dreadful carts, all snot and cracker crumbs. Tinny music, and housewives squawking at each other. The nights were fascinating, but the days were drudgery, waiting to be chosen. In the pink hours near dawn, I would wonder who it would be, who would come for me, my Prince or Princess Charming. I don't know how much longer I could have lasted in that environment, the bustle of days and the whirl of nights, pining away.
I was there perhaps four days when She came for me, when I met my fate. She never hesitated; She didn't linger with her arm in the air, hovering, mulling; She reached right for me, and spent the walk to the register rubbing me gently against her woolen jumper. If I could have purred. . .They put me on the scale, and I caught sight of my reflection for the first time, gently blurred and glowing in that silvered surface. Just as I noticed She noticed it, too, and smiled as I wish I could have. She broke a crispy bill to pay for me, and I think in that moment felt truly fulfilled.
For sustenance is our purpose; they only possible glory is in an individual end. I won't lie; I felt I deserved it. We apples have a glorious heritage, a proud and distinguished linage: My ancestors have been involved in the greatest moments of history. We were the savory God chose for himself, we were Newton's prod; even our disgraces have a tragic grandeur--if we were not so succulent, that witch could never have tricked that princess into accepting her poison. (Personally, I have heard that the branch of the family involved in the scandal were the Granny Smiths; it was their tartness that hid the toxin, which would have cut right through the sweetness of something like myself. I can't know for certain though; we don't associate with them, so haughty and prideful of their being preferred for pies.) I felt then, that having avoided the anonymous end of so many of my kind, that I was ready to welcome my destiny, to sacrifice myself, my everything, to Her pleasure and Her pleasure alone. My only modest hope was that she wouldn't eat me after peanut butter.
I began to be worried when, as we walked out of the store and into the pallid suburban sun, she began to treat me so cavalierly. Sudden, without warning, she moved me from the cushion of her breast, tossed--tossed--me, in the air. I was choked, soured, with fright. And then She caught me; I landed with a soft plop in her hand. All the way to the school She tossed me, and I learned to like it, to find it exhilarating even: to rise up is an astonishing reversal, you must understand, for one who spends a lifetime preparing to drop down. But I think that was the beginning. I couldn't quite trust Her after that. I was less shocked than inconsolable when the lid of the desk came down on me, and blackness descended. But I bided my time, whispering false hopes. And when She reached for me, rubbed me, polished me, against the warm wool covering her thigh, I was once again hopeful, ready to forgive Her anything.
Anything but this. She took me, She proffered me, to another. I didn't see it coming; the bell had rung I knew, knew, it was lunchtime. But She didn't leave with the others; She strolled to the desk, with whispered words and flattery, and left me on that desert desk for the teacher. Just like so many before me. Left me there, to be swept away. I know she won't come back. I'm only waiting now, for that final fall, the gentle arc, the explosion that will bruise my flesh and scatter juice, when I hit the bottom of the wastebasket.