First Place, Last Pickle

Don't touch that trophy

I desperately require some comic relief.

Mind you, I like my comedy flirting with existential dread in the vein of Waiting for Godot and a good glob of what’s-it-all-aboutism, so what more perfect interlude to get me through this interminable January than a seven-minute screening of pure delight and despair known as the Last Pickle, care of my kids who would prefer I didn’t share here. But since this already lives on the public YouTubes (and we talked about it in therapy), grab a healthy snack and sit back:

A few years ago, my girls led their NYC Take Two film academy team of summer camp kids on this mad mission to write, edit, act, and prop-master the heart out of this epic pickle biopic, which—against all odds—won first place among the programs that season. I say against all odds, because we didn’t rear your typical trophy kids (no sports, not competitive) so never expect such results. The fact that they excelled at this project (and enjoyed the process) was thrilling enough; the award added extra oomph. If I were still in grad school, I’d write a thesis about the sweet and savory depth of its messaging and technique. But since I’m here, I’ll unpack it a little more informally for your benefit.

You’ve got Mitchell, the pickle in the brine jar, and Duane, the tomato, next to him on the shelf of the mostly empty fridge. Mitchell introduces himself,

I’m the last of the jar. No one seems to want me. Sometimes I feel there’s no point to my life.

Duane encourages him. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna get picked today, Bud, I just know it.”

Sadly, in a pick-me world where apparently getting eaten is more useful than being spared, Mitchell gets left behind, and eventually tossed.

Scene change. Now we’re in a pile of garbage. Mitchell is mostly out of brine and transfers what’s left from his big jar into a little one, so he can carry along enough to stay hydrated.

Contrast to the old grape he meets who’s gone raisin. “I used to be so beautiful, so smooth and soft. Now I’m so..ahh [she screams].”

And then something every aging woman of this era needs to hear:

It’s ok. Your wrinkles don’t matter. I can tell you have a good heart.

Mitchell sets off on a quixotic quest for his life’s purpose. Does he matter? Why are we here? The raisin advises him, as a wise old character in fables often does, to ascend some far peak to seek answers. Maybe climbing the highest Trash Mountain will reveal something. But look out, “there’s a monster—a huge cube of compressed trash and broken dreams” he might encounter, “The Notorious Compacted Garbage Monster.”

Old lady Raisin, who used to love adventure is excited for the opportunity to join him. The character they meet along the way: a raccoon of course, who they convince him not to eat them but join the journey for the promise of better trash elsewhere. Raccoon and Notorious CGM see each other from afar and it’s heart-eyeballs at first sight. The monster calls it like he sees it: “Roar, you’re trash,” he says to the pathetic pair of old food. “That’s right I am,” responds the raisin with a withered voice.

Much like the children’s song, “The Bear Went Over the Mountain,” there’s only ever more of the same.

The bear went over the mountain
The bear went over the mountain
The bear went over the mountain
To see what he could see.
And all that he could see ...
Was the other side of the mountain.

“What?! It’s just more trash!” Mitchell exclaims.

“What did you expect?” asks the monster.

Mitchell is so disenchanted. There’s nothing special here to show for their troubles. “I wasted our time.”

But then, there it is: New life! A baby tomato plant, a sprout from Duane’s seed. The tiny tomato might die here in the hot sun if it weren’t for Mitchell sacrificing the last drops of brine to help it thrive while Mitchell shrivels. This was the point of living, to die like this. (And it’s a good death, full of slow-mo flashbacks, then panning out to planet with a sappy soundtrack, “It’s a Wonderful World.”)

You brought us together. You brought joy to our lives. You made a community.

In other words, Mitchell mattered. We all do. If we can achieve any inch of such things—adding joy, helping someone, community-building, connection—we are worthwhile. That’s a life well-lived, no matter any accolades.

But, it must be said—since we seem to live semi-permanently now in the Upside-Down where a Nobel Peace Prize winner, whose country we just hijacked for oil, just hands over her trophy to our pouty anti-peace President—keep your paws off that trophy, or else. It’s ours.

First Place, Last Pickle, proud mama.

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