The Orange Drop

By Rosalinda Valeri

I.

The orange is an elite fruit / The citrus of the orange is striking in its sweetness / Unlike the citrus of the lemon, which cuts sharply against the tongue / Far from the tang of the lime, which has a quality best described as blanketing / The orange sits among her citrine sisters—a welcome sweetness / The orange is amicable then; she plays well with others / She must, for she’s been playing since at least 314 BC when she was first written about in Chinese literature / We have China to thank then, in some part, for the introduction of the orange to the world / The orange is old-fashioned / The old-fashioned likewise is garnished with a rind—manipulated into a curlicue—whose host is our faithful orange / The orange helps; the orange adds, its citrus infectious / Have you ever watched someone eat an orange and not had the urge to ask, Could I have a piece, please? If you have, then I’m afraid you might be stronger than most / The orange is dined on delicately / She requires care, from start to finish / Even the tearing of her sheath must be done with care or else you sacrifice parts of her fleshy sweetness—first to the rind, then to the compost / Once bare, she is ready for consumption, carpal by carpal / Eating in this way is rewarding: every action accompanied by a gift, working your way down, gradually, from ten, to nine, to eight, to nothing / Ending satisfied—earning, eating the fruits of your labor /  

II.

Maddie, Anna, and Patricia live in a four-bedroom apartment within a large, rain-beaten-blue house on Main Street. They are my neighbors. We have another neighbor, too, who lives in what looks to be an abandoned storefront - the apartment complex is located above and behind  - her name is Kayla, and she lives across the street from where I live above a store called The Clothes Horse.  The clothes are expensive, and I’ve never seen anyone enter the store, nor have I seen any horses, but Gloria, the owner, stays in business nonetheless. We have another friend, El, who doesn’t live up on Main, but makes the trek to see us often.

The six of us would often congregate at the rain-beaten-blue house on Main, where we had access to the best living space, the most living space, and where above all else, it was the most comfortable. We were situated there on the morning of Wednesday, March 24. I was the first to arrive, largely unannounced, as was custom, at around noon. I came in heavy—that is to say, I had just picked up two ounces of weed from the chef at the restaurant I’d been terminated from just a few weeks prior. He handed me the weed and said a bowl, to-go. The weed was packaged in two bags, held in a sturdy paper to-go bowl. I later learned from former co-workers inside that he’d referred to me as his new little dealer. I received this news affectionately.  

Kayla arrived shortly after, between 12:30 and 1:00 p.m.. Kayla also came in heavy—that is to say, she came with a woven, circle-shaped basket bag—stolen from Urban Outfitters, she’d often boast—within which there were two oranges and three clementines: citrine spies, tucked away. Upon seeing the oranges, and remarking that they’d gotten a bunch of oranges in their Misfit Market, Maddie mentioned a mafia connection to oranges: the orange is a death motif in the Godfather. This observation was significant, given our new cult-like obsession with The Sopranos. 

All that afternoon, we mulled over the idea of doing yoga. Days felt longer during this period, so we started them later. We were trying for wellness. The seeds for yoga were sowed prior to my arrival; Patricia and Maddie had been talking about it when I got there. The call for yoga was interrupted by an impromptu session of smell therapy. Maddie, since her bout with COVID-19, has yet to recover the full capacities of her nasal cavity. This comes up often, but this particular morning we—Kayla, Maddie, and I—decided to play a nose game. Patricia would hold up a bottle of essential oils while covering the label and have us each guess. Maddie guessed correctly only once. I suspect her nose got tired; rebuilding nerve endings is tough work.  

After our nose game, El showed up and we could start business. See, the group was dry—that is to say, we were all desperately out of weed—mine having run out last, just the night before. The two-ounce pickup came at a crucial moment: Rejuvenation Day. El was crucial because they had a scale, whereas, having made the decision to deal hastily, my scale was in the post.

Within that room, I made four deals: one eighth, two qs, one half. Thus, the process of weighing, sorting, and bagging began. Around me, my friends carried on several conversations of their own while a bowl was carried from hand to hand; the bowl flowed with the conversation, each aiding the other. I, in the throes of business, abstained from the session but added my own sound bites every so often when my eyes and hands found themselves not wholly occupied. 

I very much liked it—the process of weighing, sorting, and bagging. I started with the tallest order: the half. Using the bowl into which the weed had been initially transferred, I spread out some bigger nugs to start before sprinkling nugs of smaller and smaller sizes. Aided by the image of a burrito bowl—Kayla remarked, The weed is starting to resemble rice and beans, pico, and corn salsa, a new Chipotle special. The group concurred. A bowl to-go, I offered.  

Emma left, and a fattie was smoked, followed by a lull in conversation. Maddie broke the silence, So should we do yoga? We decided to move the coffee table, a staple at Maddie's house. The table was handed down to her from her parents, the tabletop itself a mosaic of multi-colored clay tiles.  But the mosaic was often hidden from view, the table often cluttered with glass jars housing varying amounts of water, notebooks for those rare occasions that one of us might take notes for school, the weed tray which was itself a vessel holding a variety of glass-blown bowls, ash trays, roaches, halfies, and lighters, lighters which had a habit of wandering off, burrowing between blanket folds, camping in couch crevices. Whenever we had a particularly hard time locating a lighter, Kayla would suspect, The disappearing lighters are a symptom of a haunting.

In the process of clearing a space for the preordained yet unattainable yoga, Kayla’s bag toppled to the floor, releasing a single orange. We all looked at one another for a moment: death omen.  

III.

I have this irrational fear that I’m going to pass out, I said to Maddie while in line, between steps, maybe between steps two and three, on our way to dose one of our COVID-19 vaccinations. Maddie and I had contracted the virus at the same time, both of us through work, though it’s unclear who had it first. Over Christmas break, while I was having three to four panic attacks a day due to developing “cold symptoms,” she was anxious about having contracted candle poisoning for which symptoms include headaches behind the eyes, coughing, etc. due to the inhalation of paraffin wax. There in line, we were three months recovered and mere minutes from our first vaccinations, but nonetheless an anxiety gripped me.  

The vaccination clinic was lovely in company. One woman in particular made my day. She wore leggings and a gray wool sweater. I saw her cast her stare upon my outfit. It was a warm day, so I wore utility shorts that were pistachio green, tight but modest in length, and a white wife beater. I’m apt to go braless in any type of weather, but warm weather especially calls for a cheeky type of dress, and of course, we were getting vaccinated in the valley: there was a persistent breeze. I looked down and saw the pink of my nipples peak, and peek, through that threadbare, hand-me-down wife beater, from Maddie actually, that just slightly obscured my body from view. I looked at the clientele, of an older generation, and smirked to myself, thinking something that has become a bit of a manifesto: here’s a little bit of culture. Having grown up with parents who preferred a conservative type of dress, clothing has always been imbued with a sense of rebellion for me. With all this in mind, I was prepared for an icy glare—despite her sunglasses, I knew I’d be able to feel it— that never came. Instead, the woman in the leggings and gray wool sweater asked, How did you get that color? Did you go somewhere? In delighted shock, I replied, No, I have roof access and conviction; I’ve been laying out at any chance I get, 10:30 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. is prime-tanning-time. We continued to chat throughout the vaccination process.  

The shot itself was easy. The nurse administering the shot spoke to me throughout about the potential side effects—headaches, sore arms, rare fevers, etc. I felt the needle penetrate the layers of my skin; I didn’t dare look, but I felt every motion—though there were merely two—I was heavily aware of each of them, in and out. The nurse told me to relax my muscles beforehand, but, being anti-athletic, I don’t really know the difference between tensed and untensed and, when I am either anxious or unencumbered, I have little to no control over the tensity of my muscles. Another mantra, normally applicable to mental and psychological personal phenoma, applies here: I’m nothing if not self-aware.

Maddie was done first, and I emerged from one side of the aisle of curtained-off booths, in pursuit of her. When I found her, I bombarded her with a slow, trickling stream of questions: How do you feel? How is your arm? Everything okay? She answered my pleas with ease. She claimed, The shot felt like nothing. My arm is fine, doesn’t hurt at all. My arm, on the other hand, felt like the victim of a bee sting, a sting-throb, not constant but rhythmic. The wheels in my brain felt like they were slowing—picture something thick, gelatinous, between pudding and jello, thickening. It was getting harder to answer my own questions in return.

IV.

There are, apparently, two realities compiled within this moment, this matter of minutes post-vax.  Mine are as follows:

I remember saying I don’t feel well. This, though, could be easily debatable—the first time I ever fainted, when I was maybe eight or nine, the first words I uttered to a cousin once aware of a bad feeling were: I don’t feel well. My memories may have been blending. I then told Maddie directly: I’m going to pass out. Upon surrendering to my body and its tired plea, I settled into a lucid slumber—eyes closed, speaking capacities limited, hearing and smelling capacities intact, physically immobile—upon the back of the waiting area chair among the other vaccination patients. The last thing I recall before succumbing to a blackout came from the mouth of a cop: Is she usually that color? (referring to my fading sunburn), to which Maddie came to my defense, She’s been tanning.

Maddie, however, tells a different story. Her story is caked in heroism. She remembers me as lucid, very communicative, very amenable to her questions. She remembers me saying, I feel like I might pass out; I believe this to be the true dialogue. She wasn’t sure I was serious—I don’t blame her, I’m dramatic—but mere minutes before, in line, I had hinted at it. It couldn’t be an off-color joke in my eyes. She asked, Wait, are you serious? To which I answered, Yeah, I’m going to pass out, at which point she sprung out of her chair and caught me before I hit the ground.  

I have no memory of falling. No memory of being caught, of being held. She remembers calling to a man in a yellow vest spraying disinfectant on the seats, Excuse me, sir, excuse me, sir. Her pleas went unanswered for some time. This I didn’t hear, though it happened before the cop asked about my skin tone.  I must have been blacking in and out— 

V.

I see groves of orange trees the gals and I might bike through come the end of the semester, come my graduation / Kaleidoscope-catching / The light in this image, strobing, like a camera flashing / Sand grains, refined, slip between toes, warm, enriching / Massaged by thousands of tiny grains, particles which under a microscope become colonies of fragments / Rind cracking, breaking, spurting a gentle spray: a bitter mist / At once alien and crustacean / Novel and ancient / A staring contest with your own bloodshot eyes, face grinning / Graffitied bathroom stalls, a bar-bathroom-Pollock: Latrinalia /

VI.

Coming-to was brutal. I wanted to go back to dreamland. I was weak, sweaty, shaky and had little control over my legs and arms. My left arm throbbed with a pain concentrated in my upper bicep. My right arm, however, was weak and limp. My hands vibrated; I could have sworn I saw them—heard them—buzzing.   

The employees at the clinic brought me a plastic bottle of orange juice, Tropicana, classic.  They made it clear it was pertinent I finish it. The first sip brought memories back like stomach bile of a night, or more like a morning after, sophomore year of college, gin and juice, only gin and juice.  Gin, oddly, fails to trigger my stomach. 

I remember wanting to return to my dream-state. I made little effort to stay awake. I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to return to an after, one characterized by corporeal freedom—freedom of movement. I wanted to sleep and dream— 

VII.

Shock orange powder ballooning on lightsky-blue; fluffy clouds backdrop this sunburst pigment / Oysters and mimosas slurped, yet savored for their saltiness, their tartness, their citrine top- and over-notes / Fruits savored, soft cheeses spread, knife gliding / Pumping gas in red, mid-calf snakeskin heeled boots; denim cut-offs; a sequined, see-through ivory top; cowboy hat / Bacchanalian scenes wherein we are nymphs, bathing—unwatched / Citrus flavored rolling papers—spark, light, pull / Bodies grinding, connecting, lights flashing, vision glitching: ecstasy / Campfires and campsites, only ours, beachside /

VIII.

Eventually, I started to feel better. The sweat that made my legs slick to the touch—Maddie can attest to this amphibian slime-like slickness, she was there with a caring hand on my calf while my head hung between my knees—was evaporating given the breeze. With the coming of the wind and the going of the orange juice, I felt myself regain energy.   

I know what normal feels like. This is it.  

After some needling, and some lecturing on eating, the slow stream of juice finally pushed my blood pressure to an acceptable, albeit low, level, and I was released to the beautiful day that lay beyond the vaccination clinic walls. My legs held me steady. Maddie and I walked out laughing, the day: absurdist.  

IX.

When we reached the car, Patricia and Kayla were in the back seat where we had left them, and between them two oranges and three clementines, huddled around the mouth of the woven, circle-shaped basket bag: spilling abundance.  

X.

Ominous, omnipresent, and seemingly omniscient, the oranges would later meet their prospective demise. They would be torn and shared amongst the girls in the rain-beaten-blue house on Main Street. Giggled over, talked over, the orange carpels would be passed like topics of conversation, worries, joys, and hand rolled joints.  

About the author

Rosalinda Valeri is a 23-year-old living in Philadelphia, where they can be found working in the vintage scene. When they aren’t working, Rosa enjoys writing, thrifting, expensive food and cocktails, and the sun when available. Their work, “disappearing act of a secret,” has appeared in the Gandy Dancer. You can reach them via Instagram or Twitter at @rososus.