There is no nonsense in running away. Leaving for only a moment, simply disappearing into a realm I didn’t understand, I was making a deliberate raid on my subconscious to reveal something I didn’t realize I needed. I needed to leave. I grabbed all I thought I’d need for a brief drive to cool off: truck keys, a water bottle, cigarettes, cell phone, gum and an orange. I’ll never know why I chose that orange; I haven’t eaten one in years. But out of all the fruit in my fridge that orange is what I decided will do during this dramatic exit; a decision that will confirm my struggle with my individual nature, my futile fight for naive desires. I threw all of the items into my bag and furiously drove off into a world whose secular rules are only but arbitrary to me.
It was a quiet Sunday evening: no traffic, around dinner time so all the runners and dog walkers were safely tucked away into warm homes nursing their pot roasts. Meanwhile this mad woman is screeching down the road with no concept of time or where to go. I was utterly mad with confusion, and after a few minutes of driving I pulled into an empty parking lot near a playground. How long I sat there, hands clenched around the wheel, I’ll never know. Staring into a dying brush that bordered the park, whose branches wore only but a few surviving crimsons leaves amidst that cold autumn day, the orange suddenly held an overwhelming presence. I reached into my bag to investigate the mysterious fruit.
It was extremely small, perhaps a mandarin. The flesh was rough and gave a little when I softly squeezed it; I could tell its demise was over due judging by the wrinkling that encircled the top where once stemmed a root. The orange looked so humble in my weak hands; my hands with no body of their own but the mound of fabric I was draped in to overt the cool weather. I placed it on my dashboard, directly in front of me, as if I was about to indulge in a conversation with this meek fruit. I leaned back into my seat carefully observing the orange. Time for a cigarette.
Why an orange? In fact, I hate oranges. They are far too tart, a pain to peel and always left the beds of my finger nails dry from its citrus juices. I am in no way an orange person. Being such a bright, tropical fruit it is not the usual choice of produce for the cold and cynical type. Happy people eat oranges. I’ve never seen a tough or poignant person eat an orange; maybe an apple for those of us who shed a cold eye on the world but not an orange. An orange emits a spirit that’s welcoming and exciting; like opening a present you’re unsure of the radiant flesh it contains. Apples, on the other hand, are predictable. You know what you’re getting yourself into when eating an apple and it requires no effort to devour. No, I am not an orange person.
Rain began to pierce my windshield and this orange remained perched on my dashboard. It held this disposition that appeared to be mocking my insecurity about the orange’s supposed prejudices in contrast with apples. Was it not I that chose this fruit? It didn’t very well hop into my purse impervious to my own hand. Perhaps my choice was not necessarily accidental. In a mad fit of rage I could have very well been unconsciously choosing a particular item that was so foreign to me; could my mind have been rationally aware that choosing an orange would throw off my equilibrium causing me to reconsider my sensitivity towards this trivial purpose I call a life? Possibly.
Maybe the act of choosing this orange was revealing a side of me I wanted to unmask. Maybe I don’t want to be an apple person anymore. Maybe I want to bask in the mystery and uncertainty of living in this absurd world; a world that will leave me twitching and whipping sweat from my forehead in excitement and anticipation. Perhaps the account with this orange was more of a confrontation with myself. My demand for rationality within an indifferent universe is ultimately fruitless like the expectations of one’s choice of fruit. The hopeless struggle to achieve something, anything, is not only an exemplar of my innate human condition, but a benign characteristic that need not be so complicated. Maybe by choosing this orange I was choosing to accept a world that is forever hostile; eating apples was my way of transcending reality to fill the void of the fear; the fear of existing.
The orange remained silent; its brilliant flesh radiated a sort of arrogance that caused me to dive into this mindful lunacy. I held no grudge against the modest fruit, my quest to clear my head was ultimately successful, but I felt belittled by an objects ability to remind me of my own personal judgment. An orange has gained a higher purpose, a sort of height that I’ve gained in my brief escape that is not necessarily validated by an even higher one. I had two choices: cope or revolt. To revolt would be eating the orange in all of its ambiguity; to cope would be to head back home in search for an apple. My theory on living may have changed that night and although the purpose of my decision is not apparent it still existed. For a brief moment, I had a compassionate perspective on the vagueness of this life; this life of apple and orange people.
