Produce was his Life

Produce was his life

“This is a little different than stocking.”

the store manager told me as his hands quickly rearranged potatoes.

He moved as if on auto-pilot,

like produce was his life

at one time or another.

“You can put your own personality into produce.” he said.

“It’s kind of fun if you ask me but you’ve got to

stay on top of things. See, this is called grading the rack.

I’m weeding out all of the bad stuff.”

I watched with wanton interest as his hands moved like

a machine. All the potatoes moved into a neat pile as

his fingers passed. He talked as he worked making his

movements seem effortless.

“Have you ever seen a green potato?” he asked.

“No, I can’t say that I have.” I replied.

“You see, the potatoes actually start to bloom under

the lights.” he continued, “Their skin begins to turn green and the

potato will go bad soon after. There’s nothing worse

then the smell of a bad green potato. The stench will

linger in a room for weeks. We’d never be able to get

it out of here. You’ve got to stay on top of things like this.”

I didn’t see the severity of the situation but his words

hung heavy with serious undertones. All the potatoes looked

brown and healthy. The store manager worked from the bottom

of the rack to the top, talking the entire time. He wanted me to

feel his passion for produce, the kind of team spirit found only

with a job at a corporate grocery chain.

The problem was, I just didn’t feel it. I never would.

My ambitions in life far exceed middle-management.

I have marvelous dreams that may never come true,

but they’re my dreams and they carry me through the

passing years. They carry me through endless work shifts

amounting to nothing more than sore feet and short-lived

paychecks. And maybe I am a good worker now that

I’m out of rehab but I still don’t care about this job.

It was as simple as that. But I couldn’t tell him how I felt.

Not when he was sharing so passionately his lust for produce.

I did need a job. I couldn’t jeopardize it by interrupting his

diatribe with my true feelings about job security.

Finally, he was to the top of the rack and towards the

end of his speech. I listened as I watched his hands as

he watched me. Suddenly my eyes caught the glimpse of

the ugliest spud I’ve ever seen. It was standing out at the

top of the rack like stepchild with a kool-aid moustache.

It was way up in the corner of the rack, forgotten or overlooked,

for god knows how long.

“Well,” he sighed, “None of these are green but you’ll see one

sooner or later.”

Just then I pointed at the lone potato hiding up in the corner of the rack.

The manager’s eyes followed my finger and mute words towards the

potato. When he spotted it I think he immediately achieved an erection.

“Yes!” He exclaimed. “That is a green potato!”

He went on to tell me more about the dangers of the green potato while

mixing in his philosophy of produce. I listened still, my interest growing

fainter with the passing of each word, my need for a cigarette growing

stronger with each reference to freshness.

I suppose he thought I did care. Drug addicts are good at pretending.
I’ve had a lot of practice looking attentive after living with three

different women. But deep down I feel like an outcast. I feel like a misfit

in this world, who wasn’t born with the innate ability to care about his

financial future. I feel like a drifter, a discarded cigarette butt slowly

rolling down the open interstate never to be loved again. Come to think of it,

I feel like that ugly, green potato standing out amid the flock of healthy, vibrant

spuds who will eventually find homes. An ugly green potato that will be thrown

out of the pack, left to grow old as its stench builds and all its eyes become blind.