Danny Wall

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ORANGES

by Danny Wall

 

The old man squatted on the faded plastic chair outside his fruit stand. One jutted elbow and two inward feet made for an odd position, but some evolutionary advantage allowed it to emerge as the pose that would take the least amount of effort to rise from. His other hand battered a meager breeze into his face with a sun-worn paper fan. For it was August in Shanghai.

 

"Hello, Mr. Cheng!” A tall woman said without looking at him. He smiled at her and waved in a greeting/fanning gesture without interrupting his air flow. He made sure to twinkle his eyes in her direction. This was his speciality, and it guaranteed good luck and generous customers.

 

The woman traveled among the pyramids of fruits and vegetables. “Where are the carrots? You know how much my kids go through carrots." She somehow managed to be burdened with a full bag of groceries, an oversized purse, a knapsack over one shoulder, a wad of keys and an ever-ready cellphone. "Are they in season now? You get new bunches so quickly! Do carrots even have seasons? They're an underground thing, right?"

 

"Yes, carrots!" Mr. Cheng agreed, raising his voice to meet her instead of his body.

 

The woman’s whole body turned whenever dipping and bowing through the narrow aisles. Shopping became a circus show, her articles juggled in arcane, natural rhythm. Hand to hand, then arm to arm; from hand and arm to arm and hand. A bunch of carrots got swept up into the mix.   

 

Her voice kept the same pace, full of talk of sports practice, back-to-school nights and dinner parties, of infused olive oil and bok choy or was it Romaine. Mr. Cheng’s eyes sparkled, so the woman would feel understood.      

 

“Hey, new oranges!"

 

“Ah! No, old. Too old." Mr. Cheng offered from his seat.  “Next week you can. Next week very good.”  

 

"Oh? Well, they'll be just great for juicing. Blame Victoria for all the juicing. Maybe a discount, then, of course? Juicing is totally the new thing. You’re going to really clean up around here with all this juicing."   

 

The conversation trailed off as she slowed in front of the oranges, a steam-powered engine finally spent and stalled.

 

Why couldn’t she have some oranges? Everyone needs oranges. They’re not like dragonfruit or grapes or anything.

 

She forced the juggling, and the conversation, to begin again, but Mr. Cheng didn’t listen.     

 

He closed his eyes, since he could see what was coming. Yes, there! A soft “yelp!” Then the patter of dull thuds from a cascade of oranges.

 

He pursed a smile instead of sighing. The effort to rise was needed. He didn’t heed the woman's torrent of apologies, which were admonishing herself more than offering condolences.

 

He hobbled through the humidity, his eyes soft. The light in them lied to assure her that this wasn't a problem and it made sense that it happened this way.  It wasn't her fault, of course. It was the oranges.

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