When it's hot out, as it has been in New York City for the past, oh, most of my life (or two months, give or take), nothing refreshes like a good, cold, chocolate shake; however, I can't write about that because my wife will become angry that I'm getting chocolate shakes which are: 1) not good for me, and 2) not being shared with her. So instead I'll write about nothing being as refreshing as good, juicy, summer oranges.
Let's be clear: when I say I'll write about good, juicy, summer oranges I mean that I'll write about the dried out, pulpy, hot summer oranges being sold by a fruit vendor in midtown Manhattan. I do not mean "stolen" oranges. I mean physically hot, notably warm, unpleasantly above room temperature oranges.
I wanted, of course, a good, juicy, summer orange. No one goes out thinking, "You know what I could use? A hot orange! One that's really pulpy!" But that's what I got. It wasn't expensive. To be honest I have no idea how much it was. I saw a sign that said, "3 oranges for $2." I only wanted one orange and carried one, a particularly plump and juicy looking one, to the man leaning against the cart, staying beneath its too small umbrella, with a bored, rather-be-standing-in-a-pool-chillin'-with-my-budz look on his face. I held up the orange and one dollar in the international handsign for "I don't know how to say this to you so I will show you my offer of trade - this paper money for your good, plump, summer orange." He looked at me as if I were deranged.
"How much for the orange?" I asked.
He pointed at another customer.
I looked over my shoulder at the other customer. A short man talking excitedly on a cellphone as he threw fruit into a bag. I looked between him and the vendor, holding my dollar out to no one, holding it out the space above some apples, unsure why I should care about the other customer. I looked back to the vendor who then said, "Not my cart. Pay him." The other customer was not a customer. He was the vendor. In my haste to get away from the non-vendor, the man I am now convinced is the "muscle" of the fruit vending operation, I didn't count my change.
So, I took my orange back to my office and prepared to peel and eat, to refresh myself with its plump goodness. Only I couldn't get through the skin. It was the toughest orange I'd ever touched. I broke a nail on it (not a finger nail, a 1 inch wood nail I pulled from my office floor). I found a knife lurking in my desk drawer and sawed into the rind. As I peeled, the orange split open, pulp yawned out at me and an unexpected warmth rose to my finger tips.
Let me repeat that: an unexpected warmth rose to my finger tips.
Yes, the interior of the orange was warm. I was disgusted. According to Wikipedia* "warm + disgust = hot." Therefore, I was suffering from an extreme case of hot orange.
Did I eat some of it? Yes. I convinced myself that it was only hot due to the nearly 100 degree temperature. However, once I tried it I realized my error. It was hot because it was evil. Pure, unadulterated, pulpy evil. I threw it away. Luckily in my office we separate our refuse into "recyclable paper", "non-recyclable" and "evil," so there was a bin for it.
Only later did I remember that I could have taken it home to give to my dog, who has recently shown an interest in eating cantaloupe.
*Not really.
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