Rotten On The Vine
The afternoon sun scorched overhead as Jose knelt before the tomatoes, sending wisps of dirt blowing through the rows of red-speckled plants. Slowly, gently, he reached the pruners through the tangled cluster of vines and leaves, careful of the sharp blades weaving through the delicate stems. Sweat dripped from his brow as his hand began to shake. The wind blew. Leaves rustled against stems. Like a hiss.
The handles closed.
With a snip, the tomato fell to the ground. Jose breathed again as he quickly brought the pruners back. He looked down at the tomato, and the splotch of black rot marking it. It’d have to go in the compost pile.
He hated the pile. It was good for the plants though. But he had to. The plants needed the nutrients, to grow big and strong. Full and ripe, he meant. Still, the pile. Maybe he could bury it. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. He’d already cut it off, and that was good, right? It cleaned the system.
You have to get the rotten ones off quick, before they have a chance to infect the rest of the vine.
In the distance he could hear the highway, and the occasional passing car. He could even see it, barely, just past the field. Maybe he could reach it, if he ran now. If he could just get close enough, he could bring help. Those were dangerous thoughts though. He couldn’t let himself think those things — that’s how it starts. That first glimpse in the wrong direction. The first thought led astray. The wind brushed through the leaves again, the plants rattling. Besides, no runner had ever made it. Best not to think those things. Best not to even look at the road. The vines quivered, shaking against the stakes. He stood back up, tomato in hand.
He passed the other silent farmhands, just silhouettes stretching through the dirt as he kept his eyes on his feet. Just the wind through the vines and stems. The small, pristine tomatoes hanging red and plump.
The barn door. He hated the pile. He wouldn’t look up as he stepped inside, the air baking in the afternoon humidity. He had to cover his nose to stop from gagging. The mound was stacked high, drenched with the smell of decomposition. Organic matter, breaking down into its elements. Good for the plants.
He tossed the tomato on, watching it roll back down toward his feet. It settled in the crook of a thin, white arm, jutting from the pile and decaying into it. For a second, he was going to run.
Just for a second though. Closing the door, he returned to the field under the hot afternoon sun.
Best not to think those things. That’s where it starts, and they catch on quickly. Because you have to get the rotten ones off quick, before they infect the rest of the vine, and the plants always need more nutrients.