THE PINEAPPLE AND THE PEARS
Once, there was a pineapple that hated itself.
It hated itself because it had not been born a pear.
It would stare with horribly envy at the lovely russet dots that the Worden Seckel Pear wore as makeup.
It would end up weeping every time a Kieffer Pear bragged about its "quince-like flavor" in a clearly flirtatious manner.
It would curse its coalesced berries (which is what a pineapple actually is) every time it overheard a Flemish Beauty and a Beurre Bosc complimenting each other on their hourglass figures.
"If I had only been born a Sheldon or a Vermont Beauty," the pineapple could be heard moaning. Constantly.
So like all self-haters it turned to plastic surgery.
The plastic surgeon sized the pineapple up in the consultation room.
"Well, we can do some dermal abrasion. We can smooth you down here and here and here," he said, drawing lines on the pineapple with a marker in a rather cavalier fashion.
"And the top?" the pineapple asked hopelessly.
"Oh, that's the easiest part of the job. A few snips and that thing's ancient history. We can recycle the pigmentation and inject you with it. Give you that natural, pear color."
"But will I be truly mottled?" the pineapple asked with trepidation.
"Yeah," the plastic surgeon said with a slight hesitation.
"And the waistline?" pineapple worried. "Can you make it...truly pear?"
"Yup. Body recountouring. For that, you're going to need to be hospitalized for several months, though. Make no mistake: this is a commitment."
"Oh, I don't mind. I don't mind a bit!" it exclaimed. The pineapple was beginning to see "the light at the end of the tunnel."
So the pineapple embarked on its odyssey of self-discovery.
Autumn turned into spring. Solvency turned into bankruptcy. The pineapple changed into a pear.
Very slowly. And very, very painfully.
The pineapple (no...the pear!) was limping down a hospital hallway, occasionally stopping to check its reflection in mirrors on the walls (the clinic had a superabundance of these).
The pear went home...by taxi...wearing dark sunglasses and a scarf and large-brimmed hat. It checked itself in the taxi driver's rear-view mirror. It tried flirting with the cabbie, who was a handsome Bosc of a pear. It worked! The Bosc actually flirted back and tried to give out its number! Success!
Months went by and the pear began socializing with other pears, who welcomed it with open arms.
The pear was horrified one day to find itself drawn into a conversation in which the objects of ridicule were pineapples!
And much more horrible still, the pear found itself agreeing with the other pears and casting aspersions on its own pineapple past! It felt itself such a traitor! And yet it felt exhilarated and free at the same time. It had made it across the great divide between ugliness and beauty! It had triumphed.
One day not long after, the pear found itself being cajoled by a restauranteur.
The restauranteur was praising the pear's beauty and begging it to "just sit in the restaurant window for a few days." It said it wanted patrons to "admire its beauty." It stressed it would be "in fine company." He had only invited one Duchesse d'Angouleme Pear and one Louise Bonne of Jersey to share the basket with the pear.
The pear felt itself irresistibly flattered and accepted the offer.
The pear had taken the sun in preparation for this modeling assignment and was mottled beautifully when it showed up at the restaurant, which was called Au Vin Rouge.
The restauranteur led the pear past some patrons and through some swiveling doors and suddenly the pear found itself in a...in a...in a kitchen!
The restauranteur motioned to a chef who was now looking at the pear and salivating in a very unnerving fashion.
And then the pear saw the compote bowl on the cutting board.
The pear thought about screaming, but this proved horribly unnecessary.
MORAL: METAMORPHOSIS IS A WELL-TRAVELED, BUT DANGEROUS AND DARK INTERSECTION.
