I get up every week and make my way to the local Hippie "natural foods" store. Beth always seems happy to see me. 50 something odd product of the 60's, she's triple-AAA '98 t-bone, pink on the inside. The conversation doesn't make as much sense as just something that takes place. I walk out carrying a note, some St. John's Wart for my moodier days, and a dozen oranges.

The ritual continues past Pauli's Pizza, jaunting over to the hardware store. I never knew a guy named Bob before I was in Ohio. It's fitting, knowing a guy named Bob in Ohio (not so fitting, me being IN Ohio; any case). I slip him the note, gesture to him with the bag of oranges, and make myself look cute and innocent (which in a black fedora and duster trenchcoat complete with shades isn't easy).

He gives me little pamphlets on saturdays about Christ having paid for my bounty in full. He's part of the saturday Christian entourage. He quotes Corinthians and Luke, sure; they're the Budweiser of Christian salvation. But anyone who can pull off quoting Revelation- he usually goes for the sword-wielding Christ in a blood-drenched white robe bit- on up-note has my respect and fear.

So I slip in a Bible quote and smile on occasion. It's really like keeping up a foreign language. Two wayward white people pass each other in the night, I make some allusion to Isaiah 18:12 if the guy looks down, suddenly we're brothers, Japanese tourists at Disneyland. I almost got play once because I knew the book of Numbers.

Like Gilligan's Island, we repeat the classics that made us smile: I pass him the bag of oranges; he laughs, says he doesn't nearly need that much, and takes a few oranges for himself; I shrug, laugh again, quote Corinthians, and leave.

Why this transaction takes place I have no idea. It began 2 years ago with me going to get banana chips, finding out they had no sugar, then randomly getting waved over by Beth who wanted to know if I was passing by the hardware store. Apparently they have a thing of some sort involving oranges. I don't argue. With her you don't even speak: she does it for you.

Bastard that I am, I usually have 9-10 oranges left. Now I could take them back to her, but that would worry her. Bob just sortof winks at me funny. I take the oranges as a token of esteem to The Musician. The Musician is a strange boy: he's lazy as hell unless he owes someone a favor. That and he likes oranges; go fig. Since getting fresh fruit means going off campus for awhile, he doesn't bother.

I can almost hear "Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip..." when he starts to say something like:

'Dude! That is like so fucking cool of you! Shit! Man, I was like not sure when I was, y'know, gonna go out and like get some fruit. Cuz', y'know, there was this chick last night and, like, I thought I was finally gunna bang her...' It descends from there, subsequently. There's ALWAYS a "chick" he's "about to bang"; there's also a Second Coming that's just about to happen.

So sitting there, half-naked, shades on, I look outside my windows and smile at The Musician. Apparently he feels cleaning my windows justifies his existence and repays the debt. I peel an orange and eat it.

So just remember: your window could be washed with 30 minutes of walking.

previous - next