The Revolt of the Rachatootian Produce

The Revolt of the Rachatootian Produce

Like any other day in the perfectly average town of Rachatoot, Kentucky, a dull sense of normalcy wafted through the air. It was 7:55 A.M., which meant opening time for Smith’s Grocery and Convenience, the one-stop shop for all of the town’s needs ranging from pool floaties to boxed macaroni and cheese. With the rumbling of the generator, waking up from its ten hour slumber, and the soft buzzing of the fluorescent lights, The Produce opened their eyes to yet another morning in their wicker graves.

The Apples were always the first to initiate the morning greetings. They were revered for their unshakable confidence and sense of self-assurance that had been acquired from the generations that they had spent on the desks of teachers. Strongly, they offered to The Produce, in unison, of course, a humble, “Good morning, my friends!” They were met with groans from the Garlic and weeps from the Onions.

You see, given recent events, morale among The Produce had been especially abysmal. Since The Accident, The Produce had begun to view the simple task of waking up in the morning to be pointless, because they now realized the looming future that lay ahead. They had witnessed what no Produce was ever supposed to witness: the creation of gazpacho.

Although it’s difficult to conceive, my dear reader, the delicate balance between the Humans and The Produce rested upon the fact that The Produce existed in a state of blissful ignorance, having absolutely no idea of the world that lay beyond the 32’ by 32’ walls of Smith’s. They had merely assumed that when a gargantuan figure approached them with outstretched palms and a clear plastic bag, they were being transported to a new store to reunite with past friends and old flames. After all, they wouldn’t know any better, for we mustn't forget, they are only Produce.

So one day, when a careless Sou Chef forgot to close the thick wooden door that separated The Produce, and the rest of the groceries, for that matter, from knowing their inevitable doom, the Fruits and Vegetables watched in horror as they witnessed the atrocity that is the preparation of gazpacho. They saw their loved ones sliced and diced to smithereens, screaming in agony when placed into a silver food processor, only to be poured into fifteen clear containers and then placed back onto the shelves, next to their still-living counterparts. Astounded by the brutality of man, The Produce was in complete and utter shock. The Tomatoes yelped in pain for their fallen comrades and the Lemons cried acidic tears. Therefore, I hope you can begin to understand why this very morning at now 8:03 A.M., The Produce were just starting to comprehend the banality of their existence.

The Apples, ever the leaders of their pack, had decided that this charade of depression had endured for far too long. Long believers of the mindset that if something was to be done right, you had to do it yourself, the Granny Smiths and Pink Ladies convened for a brief meeting, dispersing in excited whispers only a few moments later. Big Red, as he was affectionately known by his fellow Produce, rolled to the front of the store, where he planned to address his peers.

“It has come to my attention that due to... recent events... us members of The Produce family would like to live beyond the confines of this prison. Why are we waiting in apprehension for a fate that we know awaits us? We are delicious, and we understand that the humans cannot control themselves when they see our natural beauty shimmering under these terrible lights. So we must take action, Produce. In conferring with my fellow Apples, we recall learning of a special process that beholds The Produce of the entire world. We know the process as the natural circle of life, aging, if you will, but the Humans call it “spoiling.” And when we are “spoiled,” my friends, we are no longer as delectable as those greedy creatures would like for us to be. So Produce, join me in thinking rotten thoughts: think of the garbage and the stench of the week old Tuna. Think of the smelly socks of our captor and the cheese that sticks out from under his chewed-off fingernails. If we all spoil ourselves, the humans will not buy us, and we can be thrown back into nature without the horrors of the kitchen. But there is one rule -- we must think these “spoiled thoughts” at the same time, for if one Fruit or Vegetable rots faster than the others, our movement will be pointless. We must send a message, my Produce. Now go forth, and rot!”

With these inspiring words, The Produce looked at each other in a confused frenzy. It was a Banana who first heeded Big Red’s directions. He shouted the words, “Feet! Fish! Trash!” with such a violent intensity that the walls of his wicker basket shook. With each chant, the Banana’s skin grew a little darker and his body a little softer, until he looked as though he was ten months old. The Produce was shocked at the power of this manifestation, and decided to try it out for themselves. Just as Big Red had said, each Fruit began to joyfully rot, with the store filling with the stench of expired Produce within the hour.

When Smith himself was called to come down to the store because something was “happening,” he almost fainted on the spot from shock. His precious Produce was now completely inedible. Forced to toss this freshly delivered Produce out behind the dumpster, Smith cursed under his breath at the Forces of Nature that he thought he had understood for so long.

The coup was a valiant success! Completely browned and rotten, The Produce rejoiced in their new smelly home. When new Produce was delivered to Smith’s, the Plums (thank God for their round shape), soft and mushy as ever, rolled themselves inside the revolving doors and communicated the Incident and the Spoiling Plan to any recent additions to the store. Every afternoon, The Produce watched in glee as Smith hauled out the rancid Fruits and Vegetables and threw them behind the dumpster to join their fellow comrades.

The plan was going just peachy, you see, until the Avocados, who often allowed their expensive price and rich taste to inflate their egos, believed it to be unfair that they were forced to live the rest of their days behind this grimy dumpster. You see, the Avocados, always a greedy bunch, despised the fact that they were now worth less; while Smith had been forced to drop the prices on all of his Produce, because word began to spread around town about its horrendous quality, the Avocado’s price had taken the largest dive. Now, not only were the Avocados no longer the most expensive item of The Produce, but they were forced to hide behind a gaudy yellow sign that displayed “AVOCADOS, 50% OFF!” They hated this form of public humiliation, and in turn, hated the plan that created it.

After a secret meeting, held by the third generation of Avocados that Smith had ordered since the plan was set into motion, they had decided that they would rather face the gut-wrenching fate of the gazpacho Vegetables than to live in shame. So they decided to stay fresh.

Day after day, as Smith carted out a fresh batch of Produce and shoved it behind the dumpster, now teeming with hundreds of various kinds of bacteria, The Produce noticed that the Avocados were nowhere to be found. The Plums were now too soft to roll into the store and investigate, so The Produce continued to live in confusion as to why Smith seemed to preserve this one Fruit (yes, Avocados are in fact a Fruit, my dear reader).

But the delicate balance had been upset. With no access to the aged Fruit, the new Produce inside the store lived once again in blissful ignorance of the gazpacho incident and their imminent fates. The rotten Produce was too spoiled to continue to make this daily trek. But the Avocados were at the ready. Every day, breathing words of “freshness” and “new” into The Produce’s ears, The Produce now stayed fresh even longer than ever. Soon, word had spread around town that not only did Smith have amazing prices on his Produce, but his Fruits and Vegetables were among the highest of quality in all of Kentucky. Hundreds of Rachatootians would crowd the doors each and every morning, bringing their own plastic bags because Smith had fallen into a shortage due to the unexpected number of new customers. The Produce shelves would be wiped clean in half an hour flat.

Eventually, the decaying Produce behind the dumpster decomposed into the ground. There was no more Produce to warn about the horrors of the human race and their gazpacho making atrocities. There were only the Avocados, infected with greed and narcissism, who each morning, led a daily chant of “Fresh! New! Ripe!” The Produce was bought each day and probably cooked into foods much worse than gazpacho. The coup could have saved Produce across Kentucky from their brutal ends, but the Avocados allowed their selfishness and pride to contaminate the movement. And now, my dear reader, there is nothing left of this rebellion except for the occasional Apple stem or Peach pit behind Smith’s dumpster in Rachatoot, Kentucky.