082/2012 The Apple Picker

Word Count:  436

It was his job to go out and pick apples. He moved his stepladder around each tree like a shadow on a sundial. It would take him all day to pick three. Every day for the month of September he would rise with the sun, nod to the nurses and they’d nod in turn to security who would unlock the door to the courtyard, let him out, and lock it back up again.

He’d climb up, linger on each step, look around. Finger the fruit as it grew. Noted the red skin from the sunny side reach around to paint over the green. Knew exactly when each apple was ready, left it to ripen until he was sure.

He was their success story, their poster boy pointed out through two-inch thick glass lobby walls as the annual influx of board members walked by. Hard to imagine, said the doctor bringing the small group tour to a halt, this man killed, much less (and a pause) ate five neighborhood boys. Good that they met in September, for the winter he spent tied down in his bed.

In spring he was let out one day a week. To trim branches, inspect blossoms and such. In summer it was still a weekly assignment to ensure no bug nor disease bothered the trees. But late August, depending on summer conditions he would start his daily routine.

The cook was the major complainer, since the patients and staff all complained straight to him. They wanted pies, crisps, just the raw fruit to enjoy while the apple picker took his own time. One time the doctors suggested he pick a bit faster, a bit sooner perhaps. He’d reacted quite badly and had to be put back on meds.

Another strategy was cooked up, an assistant to help. One he could teach and employ. Carefully selected, a young man who was also a patient, slight of build, non-threatening and who showed interest in fruit trees and quietly followed direction. It seemed to work well, for the helper was pleasant, convinced the apple picker to pick more every day. With the two of them working a basketful was gathered in no time at all.

Everyone was happy though the picker soon realized that a trick had been played. In the cooling last days of September, the trees nearly picked clean, he brought in a basket full to the brim. He set it down in the lobby. The guards grabbed him, the nurses screamed as they peeked inside. The blood painted each ripped-off part of the body a glossy, bright, ripened red.