The Pickle Jar

A sliver of light peeked through a crack in the door, widening to a few inches until the lightbulb switched on. The round bulb looming over the top of them only lit up when the door was open - some kind of sensor, he assumed. The shelves around him were jammed full - a large jug of milk, sliced salami, chicken cutlets, three different types and colors of sliced cheese in plastic packaging, a tall can of whipped cream, coffee creamer, a variety of fruits - some he recognized from his time at the grocery store, and some he had no idea the names of. A few of the berries were beginning to grow a light-colored fuzz around the edges. An assortment of condiment containers clanked against the Pickle Jar as the door rattled open.

The gaunt, mascara-streaked face staring back at him was that of a teenage girl, maybe 15 years old. She squinted her heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes and the smears of black eye makeup blooming from her lids created a raccoon mask over her red, blotchy face. This was all framed by a tangled mess of golden strands falling out of a loose braid behind her.

The girl looked distraught.

She took in a shaky breath and on her exhale, he heard a faint whisper, “Okayokayokayokayokay.”

A faint tick, tok, tick filled the air, and just above the open doorway behind her, a large, white-faced clock read 3:30am. A small squeak escaped just before her face crumpled and a new wave of inky tears plummeted down her cheeks.

Oh dear.

She dragged the sleeve of her jumper across her nose from elbow to wrist, leaving a slug-like trail behind. Then that same arm shot out to snatch the jug of milk, giving him a close-up of the mucus.

Lovely.

She tilted her head back as she took a big swig, then shoved the jug back onto its shelf. An audible gulp shook the stale air around them. This poor girl was a complete mess. On top of her clown-like appearance, she was now sporting a full milk mustache dripping from the corners of her lips and down her chin. A heavy sigh filled the air as the jars around him jingled. She plucked out the strawberry jam and the butter, and then it was dark once more.

7:50am

This time a boy, about the same age as the girl from earlier, stood tall in front of the refrigerator, deep in thought. The door hung wide open, giving the Pickle Jar a full view of the small kitchen.

It wasn’t actually that small, he realized, it was just completely packed full of stuff. Small appliances lined the counters - an air fryer right next to a blender, shoulder-to-shoulder with the microwave, and further down the line were a panini maker and two different coffee machines. The wooden island in the middle of the kitchen was topped with marble and housed the stove, some spices, a vase full of absurdly large sunflowers, and a wooden “Kiss the Chef” sign.

The boy’s hair matched the girl’s almost perfectly, his a slightly lighter shade of gold. Their eyes were identical shades of deep blue, not unlike the ripe-looking blueberries which sat on the shelf across from him.

This boy, however, was markedly less disturbed and had a smattering of brown freckles over his nose and cheeks. The Pickle Jar wondered if the girl, too, had a set of freckles to match her brother’s, somewhere underneath that war zone of makeup and tears.

The boy popped his lips - once, twice, three times - and tilted his head as he reached toward the eggs, then retracted his arm as if he’d suddenly changed his mind. His fingers grazed a container that looked like leftover pasta, but he decided against that, too. Finally, the meat drawer screeched open as he lifted out a plastic wrapper full of salami, followed by thinly sliced turkey which he stacked on top, and finally he pulled out a crinkled package holding a block of cheddar cheese which he set on top of the turkey, all of this sitting atop his left hand. The boy then balanced a jar of mayonnaise, and somehow stacked another jar of mustard, all on top of one another in a bizarre kitchen circus trick. Maybe he and his clown-faced sister could take this show on the road. The leaning tower of meat, cheese, and condiments wobbled and swayed as he set them on the counter and got to work. Two slices of white bread landed on a wooden cutting board, were promptly smothered in mayo and mustard, then covered in salami and turkey.

The boy closed his eyes, shook his hips, and sang out, “Mmmm, mmm, mmm!” as he slapped on four slices of cheese - two on each side - and squashed the two sandwich halves together. A yellowish white mixture began to ooze down the crust of the bread and his chin as he bit into the creation.

He looked back to the refrigerator and his eyes seemed to pop, as though realizing he’d left it open that entire time. The Pickle Jar didn’t mind. He liked seeing the world outside of the refrigerator whenever he got the chance.

The boy quickly put everything back in its place, like jigsaw pieces into a puzzle, and reached for… could it be?

Yes!

The boy pulled the Pickle Jar off of his shelf, plucked out two plump pickles, and set the Jar back in its place. A loud CRUNCH rang out as he shut the refrigerator door.

12:30pm

There was faint giggling coming from behind the door before the light came on. In front of him stood a petite woman with long, straight, light brown hair that was slightly mussed and a splatter of freckles to match her children. Her white, silky robe hung open and underneath it was something lacy and pink that barely covered anything at all, if the Pickle Jar was being perfectly honest.

Not that he was looking.

Behind her was a tall, black-haired man in tight boxer shorts and eight, perfectly shaped abdominal muscles bulging from his torso. His sharp jawline framed a tan face with warm, brown eyes. The man’s full lips twisted in a smirk as he wrapped one arm around the woman’s waist and spun her to face him, leaning in close just as she squirted a dollop of whipped cream onto his nose. He responded by rubbing his creamy nose all over her face, and she giggled uncontrollably. Then he stuck out his tongue, and licked right up the side of her cheek.

Disgusting.

The Pickle Jar would never understand people.

They smashed their faces against each other, making smacking sounds not unlike that of two sloppy sandwich halves being slapped together. Without pulling away from the man, the woman blindly reached behind her to put the can of whipped cream back on a shelf and shut the door. The last thing he saw was the “Kiss the Chef” sign toppling over as the woman was hoisted up onto the kitchen island.

The Pickle Jar did not want to think too closely about what he heard next, but for once he was glad the refrigerator door was closed.

***

The time between fridge openings was never predictable. Sometimes, the jars would rattle as different family members yanked the door open several times in a row. Then, for what seemed like eons, he was back in the dark, left to his briny thoughts, kept company only by his salty cucumber companions.

He did wonder sometimes whether the other refrigerator tenants saw the same things he did. Thought the same way he did. But he couldn’t ask them, because pickle jars don’t have mouths. He could only see because the label of this particular brand had a cartoonish picture of a bumpy, smiling, bright green pickle with two large, oval-shaped eyes that the Pickle Jar was able to see through. The pickle in the picture seemed to be doing a little jig, with stick figure arms and legs bent in all sorts of strange directions, one hand waving around a large black top hat.

Ridiculous.

As if pickles could dance. All he’d ever seen them do was bob up and down in their own juices.

***

The woman was back, this time fully clothed in straight, light-colored jeans and a soft pink sweater swallowed her whole. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a twist, and she peered through thick-rimmed glasses to scan the shelves, pulling items out one by one.

The chicken cutlets. A large head of broccoli. Butter. Lettuce. Ranch dressing.

Her lips pursed, and she looked far less amused than she did earlier during her whipped cream rendezvous.

Behind her, a broken “Kiss the Chef” sign sat on a messy kitchen island. The clock read 7:50pm this time, and through doorway beneath sat a large, wooden table with four places set for a family meal. There was one empty chair. Hers, the Pickle Jar assumed. The other three chairs were occupied by the disgruntled mascara girl (now cleaned up and looking much more put together), the golden-haired boy, and a rather pudgy man that the Pickle Jar did not recognize. He looked to be middle-aged and had short, blonde hair to match the two teens at the table. He glanced through the doorway at the woman, and his eyes were so blue that the Pickle Jar couldn’t help but notice that they, too, looked like large round blueberries.

“Need any help babe?” He called out as he leaned back in his chair.

The woman scrunched her eyes closed, took a slow, deep breath in, then out, and plastered a smile on her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She replied in an almost too-cheery tone, “No hun, all good in here! Dinner will be ready in a jif!”

With that, the sliver of light from the outside world got smaller and smaller as the door hinged shut. The bulb switched off, and the refrigerator inhabitants were left alone in the dark once more.

THE END.