You could tell it had once been a fine specimen of a cucumber. Large and sleek. Dark green, waxy skin. Now it was punctured and scarred, a mockery of its former splendor.
What drives a well-bred cucumber to this sorry state? I don’t know. I gave it a wide berth as I passed by, then stopped, reconsidered and got out my camera. I retraced my steps, raised the camera and clicked the shutter. The cucumber remained insensible.
I thought about lifting it onto the curb, but I didn’t. In its helpless state, it probably would have been kicked and stomped by some hoodlum passing by. So I left it where it lay. When it woke, would it be ashamed? Would it have appreciated my helping hand?
Somehow, I don’t think so. After all, if a cucumber is going to change, it has to want to change.