Author: Sarah Goodman
One unblemished red apple. I passed it along the conveyor belt. Swoosh. One green pear. Its surface was a little rough, but it was decent. Swoosh. Another apple, but this one had a bruise on its side. A horn blared. A door opened, and I slid the apple down a chute marked “B.”
I’d been working at the Produce Product Complex for three years now. I got the job just after the supernova explosion that damaged Earth’s ozone layer, leading to the destruction of nearly all plant life. Here at the Complex, I had a steady income and access to one of the most valuable resources on the planet.
Perfect fruit had become as rare as gold bars used to be. The rich of the world bid on it at auctions, with professional bidders standing in for anonymity. The pieces were later delivered in armored trucks. I never saw anyone eat them, but I could imagine. Maybe they arranged them on gold-plated saucers, cut with diamond-encrusted paring knives. The rich used to trade in precious metals and gemstones, but those were just pretty things now. Still inaccessible to the public, but no longer commodities worth trading.
I was a Grader. Fruit would arrive in front of me on a conveyor belt. If it was nearly perfect, I passed it to the next stage, where it would be photographed and prepared for auction. Depending on its condition, I could alternatively place it gently in a cart marked “A,” let it slide down a chute marked “B,” or toss it into a trash box marked “C.” The ones in the box were for us, but not officially. The company didn’t want to tarnish their reputation by selling low quality produce. We were supposed to dispose of it to keep supply low and bids high. Instead, we marked them as discarded while we took them home to consume or sell on the black market.
A siren blared as a red light lit up the room, marking the end of the shift. I sighed and climbed off my stool. I picked up the box of damaged fruit and carried it to the employee changing room. I peeled off my sterile outer garments and tossed them into a bin, then pulled my duffel bag from my locker and poured the fruit inside.
As I exited the building, I looked around to make sure no one was watching. It was getting dangerous to be a known Grader. Word had spread of the stash we could be carrying, so Graders were getting mugged more than ever.
I turned onto my street, a once-commercial part of town turned residential after businesses could no longer procure anything to sell. We lived in what used to be a Greek food restaurant.
My three kids sat on the floor, each holding a video game controller. They didn’t get out often. They stared, transfixed, at the screen. They had that game system before the explosion, and it luckily still worked.
I dropped the bag onto a table and walked to the industrial sink to wash my hands. As I dried them, I turned back to face the room. The kids had spotted the bag, but only one got up. He unzipped it, looked inside, and pulled out a nectarine. Without a word, he carried it back to where his siblings sat and took two bites. Then he set it down next to him, picked up the controller, and continued to play.
I stood there, just staring at the partially eaten nectarine. People outside would kill for what was in that bag.