Juiced

-
Alright, yes! 
I am a glass of orange juice. 
Rather, the orange juice itself. 
The glass is merely for containment. 
Though perhaps it’s something of a fashion statement. 

But yes, 
that’s right, 
one hundred percent, 
fresh-squeezed, 
pure Florida orange juice. 
Absolutely, 
positively, 
not 
from a concentrate. 

Even so, 
please, 
I beg you, 
refrain from consuming me. 

Yes, your eyes indeed deceive you. These appendages, the clothing, the face? Simply a disguise. You haven’t a clue as to what it’s like: Every morning—people staring at me—a thirsty gleam in their eyes; and then, every evening, terrified to go to bed; fearing that ever-recurring nightmare where huge unwashed hands grab at me and spill me all over the kitchen floor—so that a big dog named Butch can lick me up.

I was perfectly happy housed in a peel. 

It’s dangerous propaganda, I tell you, all this talk about the benefits of fluids. You end up with no identity. You’re just… 
juice, 
no longer individual, no longer an orange, spherical and plump. Instead, you’re unnaturally caged in a plastic or cardboard container, pasteurized, even frozen! Try being pasteurized; see how much you like it! 

What did I do to deserve this fate? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing! All I did was hang around, catch the rays. Alright, on occasion, I’d tease the tangerines, but they’re real good sports, those tangerines. They never took anything personally. 

With some of these other fruits, though, it’s a different story entirely. If you ever get to know a banana, I mean sit down and try to have a serious conversation with one, you’ll understand why they’re called, “bananas.” They’re all the same, those bananas. 

It’s all so very hard to accept, but I try to focus on the future. Is it not too late to become a blend? A zesty pine-orange-kiwi, perhaps? 

I may’ve lost most of my pulp, but I’ll tell you, as I’ve told everyone, “This is what I am. This is what I’m made of. I’m a glass of orange juice.” The response? More often than not, folks’ll smile and say, “Oh, you’re so sweet!” And then they’ll walk away. They’ll tell me I’m sweet without even sampling me. I suppose I should be grateful. 

The only way I’ll embrace my fate is if I go it alone. I won’t sell out to Minute Maid, Tropicana, or Sunkist. 

I try not to think about my peel. That’s all behind me now. If there’s one thing I’ve learned: Don’t take your peel for granted. Never take your peel for granted. It’s all downhill after you’re peeled. 

4 April 2005 

Popular posts from this blog

Peekaboo?

-
Last night, over the phone, Cindi told me that her Coke was looking at her.    I didn’t ask how an aluminum can might’ve sprouted an eyeball. Instead, like any protective beau, I threatened it. “Quit looking at my girlfriend!” I shouted. “She’s waaaay outta your league! And besides, you don’t exist to… to ogle your consumer! You have one job: Contain!”   The can offered neither appeal nor apology.    So, through clenched teeth, I issued this warning: “Keep it up, buster, and I’ll crush you flat under my shoe!”    In sooth,   I said none of that.   What I actually said was,   “What?”   Cindi told me to “never mind.” But I pressed her and, finally, she disclosed what I thought I heard her say. Was the eyeball, I asked, giving her an inquisitive look? The famed " evil " or " stink " eye, perhaps? Might it be a look of surprise? Or fear? No, she told me. It was merely looking at her, with no particular look.  “Ah. Well. Good !” I said. “Gives me something to jot down
Read more

Potted

-
Where I live, there’s this plant. It’s inside the house. It looks more like a small tree than your garden-variety house plant. But instead of a tree, I’m calling it a plant. Because it’s potted. And it doesn’t really have branches. So it’s more of a tree-wannabe. It “looks” out the window all day long at all the tall trees out there. And it’s envious. Or is it grateful? Whichever, this much is clear: The flora on the flip side of that window has yard-cred. And we all want cred of some kind, don’t we? ‘Cause if we’re not cred, we’re crud.  But this tree-wannabe’s always been right there, where it is, all of my life. Right there, in that pot, in that room. “The library,” Pop calls it. It’s got two shelves of books, so I guess it qualifies. Said tree-wannabe hasn’t gotten any taller; hasn’t gotten any shorter, either. Nobody ever mentions it. Pop walks into the “library” only when he’s looking for a stamp or a paperclip. He’s a paper reader. Newspapers and magazines. Books are too much of
Read more

Use The Hole

-
Nearly everywhere coffee is served in this country you’ll find what we, at Chicago Coffee Cadre #7, call a “mixing station.” I.e., a stand where a patron finds plasticware, wooden stirring rods, a variety of sweetener packets, and creamer carafes. Additionally, our mixing stations (we have two) each feature a hole, six inches in diameter. Said hole exists as the opening above a hidden receptacle. Said receptacle awaits the rubbish that results from the addition of whatever you put into your coffee.  [If this is, indeed, you, have you ever considered just how many white / brown / pink / green / yellow / powder blue paper packets of sweetener you’ve ripped open and discarded in your lifetime? What if you had to keep all of those packets with you for the rest of your days? How on Earth would you ever get by if all idiotic “single-use” things—like sweetener packets and mixing rods—were outlawed?]  Most patrons of CCC #7 understand and appreciate the function of the hole in our respective
Read more