Floyd Kelly

The day the world went veggie-based was the day my life got significantly more complicated. It was sudden. One morning, the ATMs just stopped working. Then, like a magic trick in reverse—poof. No more money, no more cash, no coins. And to make matters worse, no more paper or plastic bags. Instead, we all carried a wicker cornucopia, a constant, lumpy companion.

My name is Harriet, and let me tell you, I’m dern tired of hauling a cornucopia around all the time. The sheer weight of it is a nightmare for my arthritis. The wicker tip constantly snags on my sweaters and dresses, and last winter, I had to start wrapping the cornucopia in a blanket to keep my potatoes from freezing solid. Sure, although it did make a good purse for my keys and phone, it was also a good way to scare off would-be cheesecake pursuers. Nothing says “I’m not interested” quite like an elderly woman like me with a decorative gourd.

Yesterday was the breaking point. I was trying to pay the bus fare, fumbling through my cornucopia past yams and a pointy pineapple, looking for the right-sized tomato to plop into another large cornucopia that serves as our bus’s payment bin. On the ride downtown, I stared out the window. We passed the gas station, and I saw a man handing over a cornucopia full of lemons to get gas. Lemons! Can you imagine the exchange rate on lemons? A little further down, we passed the bank and saw people going in with their cornucopias empty, and coming out with them filled with various things—a head of lettuce, some carrots, maybe a nice rutabaga. This whole situation is not the dream, you know?

My stop was just a block from my home, and the short walk felt like a mile, with the cornucopia banging against my hip every step of the way.

That’s when I saw my neighbor Brenda struggling to hoist her own payment horn into her trunk. I saw my chance. I slowly approached her, looking both ways like I was about to share a state secret.

“Psst. … Psst. … Brenda,” I started in a low whisper, “I have an idea. A revolutionary one.”

She stood in front of me, her eyes wide. “What is it?”

“Okay,” I said, my voice crackling. “What if—and just hear me out—instead of all this,” I gestured to her overflowing basket of yams and odd pumpkins, “we just used… little pieces of paper?”

Brenda stared at me, her face of deep profound confusion. “Paper? Harriet, don’t be ridiculous. How would you carry it?”

That was it. I told her “No fruitcake for you this Christmas.” I just turned and started hobbling away.

Brenda, bless her heart, called after me, “Cornucopia of Love, Harriet! Cornucopia of Love!”

Still hobbling away, I heard her. Oh … I heard her. No fruitcake.

“My poor arthritis. My hips. Dern you, cornucopia!”