When you go into the supermarket and buy a cucumber wrinkle free wrapped in a tight transparent skin. When you pick the cucumber up trying to scrub your mind of everything by thinking of nothing. It’s futile, you know? ‘Cause there’s something inescapably sexual about this vegetable and you want the tumescence disguised in a plain brown wrapper. But in this enlightened era, consumer favour show and tell so you shuffle to the check out with all those other saps who’ve got their own cucumbers, or cucumbi, and you all know (no matter the “yeah yeah” of all this) there’s something more, much more, going on here than just Salad.
And the checkout girl says “How ya doing” and she sorts through the produce and everything’s run o’ the day ’till she picks up the cucumber and the whole store shivers and enters denial. But the terminal rejects everybody’s code so you religiously avoid eye contact ’cause you know and you know she knows and everyone in line knows that she knows everyone else knows. You and everyone else sighs with relief when she’s registered that great green ribbed sausage in it’s added smooth ‘though unlubed protection
And thank God she’s passed on to the cereal and the soup packets and you pays your money and you get the hell out and get back home and unpack and put the things you bought away in their allotted places freezer, fridge, low shelf, high self drawer, cupboard, under the sink. Then weeks later you open the crisper and there it is… the cucumber you’d forgotten all about.
And trying not to pick it up you pick it up in you gagging hand and the cucumber says “Well… friend…it may be the beer, it may be the belly, it may be the time, it may be fear, debt, the job, heartache or doubt about the last time you had sex. It might be the medication, familiarity or the lack of clout. It may be sadness, expectation, boredom, a lack of imagination or it may just be that you run out of fantasy head movies. It may be that you need a better class of pornography. It may be all or none of the above but I, the cucumber, do not lie!”
And the cucumber says in a voice of fire to your cringing soul bathed in chilled spotlight “Face it fella, you just can’t get it up anymore”.
And you close the fridge door, walk across the kitchen floor and throw yourself into the bin.