Open the refrigerator door looking for the last orange. I know it was in there… saw Peter take one last night and noticed this morning that one was left. I don’t much like oranges; every time Peter buys them I tell him I won’t eat them. I’m just not a big fanatic for citrus fruits, and the act of peeling an orange seems to me to be just another exercise in frustration. But every now and again – which is a timeline quite similar to “once in a blue moon” – I feel like eating an orange. Not an orange-flavored Push Up or orange jelly beans or even orange juice, but the good old-fashioned orb itself.
Today is that “once in a blue moon” kind of day.
There it is. I can see the small orange globe peeking out from behind the two-liter Dr. Pepper bottle. Just as I extend my hand into the refrigerator to grasp the orange – you know, orange is a strange word … if you look at it long enough, it ceases to make sense as a semantic being and just starts to look like gibberish – the phone rings. I pull back and shut the door quickly … our machine is set to pick up on the second ring, and I’m expecting an important call.
“Hello,” I answer breathlessly after sliding across the hardwood floor to reach the phone.
“Hello. Is Peter there?”
“No, I’m sorry, he’s at work right now. May I take a message?”
“Is this Tammy?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Mark. Hi, howya’ doing?”
“Fine. Hey, I’m expecting a call on a job; can I have Peter call you when he gets home?”
“Sure. I’ll be here till seven-thirty. Good luck.”
“Thanks, I’ll have him call as soon as he walks in the door.”
“Thanks, bye.”
“Bye.”
I hang up the phone, realizing that my mouth is still salivating at the idea of eating a real-live orange. Walk back into the kitchen and pick up where I left off. I grab the orange and pull it out, casually glancing it over as I walk across the kitchen to the sink to peel it. No bruises, no soft spots, a tiny Sunkist sticker up near the crown. I try to peel the sticker off, but my serious lack of fingernails thwarts me, once again. The utensil drawer is right next to the sink; I open it and grab one of the new paring knives from beneath one of the new butter knives. Due to my incredibly short nails, this is how I have to peel an orange. I make a small incision up near the crown and follow it all the way around the smaller perimeter of the fruit, thus eliminating the top portion. It falls down into the sink, bouncing down the drain into the trash disposal.
I start to make another slice perpendicular to the aperture when the phone rings again. I set the orange and the knife carefully – but not slowly – on the cutting board nearby and grab a dishtowel. I run back into the living room. For some unknown reason, Peter and I decided we needed only one phone and that it should be set in the living room, close to our vintage Salvation Army couch. That must have been the same week we decided that Call Waiting was just a waste of money.
I reach the phone just as the machine clicks on.
“You have reached…”
“Hello?”
“We’re not here right now, but…”
“Hello?”
“…Leave a message and we’ll call you back as soon as we’re out of the shower. Thanks for nothing.” Beep-beep.
“Hello?”
No answer, only silence.
I place the receiver back in the cradle, trying to remember just why was it we wanted the machine to pick up after only two rings – not even two … a ring-and-a-half. Shaking my head and hoping like hell that wasn’t my employment agency trying to call, I return to the kitchen.
I manage two perpendicular slices before the phone starts ringing again.
Jesus Christ.
I make it to the phone this time before the machine has a chance to click on – of course, the orange and paring knife have now fallen into the sink rather than being placed on the cutting board, but I saved just enough time that way.
“Hello?”
“Tam.”
“Pete. What’s up?”
“Any calls?”
“Mark.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t sound too enthused. “Any others?”
“Nope … I thought you liked Mark.”
“Yeah, until he showed up at his door dressed as a She.”
“Oh, you and your fems.”
“So, whatchoo doing?”
“Waiting for a phone call … in fact, I gotta let you go.”
“Ooh, a boy?”
“A job, maybe.”
“Oh. Bye then.”
“Bye.”
I wonder if brain surgeons have these kinds of interruptions while performing delicate operations.
I retrieve the orange and knife from the impending jaws of the trash disposal and resume my delicate operation. One more perpendicular … and there! Ow! Fuck! The peel now has a stain of red near the crown and my index finger is now missing a millimeter of flesh. Damnit! I drop the orange and knife back in the sink and grasp my finger while performing a strange, yet somehow soothing dance upon the kitchen tiles. I have a traditional mantra for times such as these: “Owie owie owie fuck fuck fuck damn damn damn shit shit shit!” Over and over until the pain subsides just enough for me to immerse the injured digit in cold water.
I don’t even want the damn orange now. Damn citrus fruits … who’s stupid idea was it to make a food that you had to perform precise surgical techniques upon before consuming, anyway?
The phone rings.
Goddamnit!
“Hello!”
“Uh, Tammy Bosworth please … is she there?” She’s hesitant, no doubt responding to the anger in my greeting.
“This is she.”
“Oh. Um, this is Lisa …”
“Oh, hi … from the agency, sorry, right.”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Inhale. “I wanted an orange but I don’t have fingernails so I was using a knife to peel it and the phone kept ringing and I had to keep answering it and it was breaking my concentration and I was making the last incision and I lost control and I cut my finger and it hurts.” Inhale again.
She starts laughing, which starts me to laughing, which takes my mind off the pain, and all of a sudden my finger doesn’t hurt so much anymore.
“Is it a bad cut?” she asks between giggles.
“No … but it hurts. And I don’t even like oranges.”
“Well, I have some news that might make you feel a little bit better. They want you back for a second interview.” I could sense her smile on the other end of the line.
“Really?” Like a child just informed that she can stay up to watch the Wizard of Oz.
“Yep … you must’ve impressed the hell out of them. They selected you and two others from a field of over one-hundred applicants.”
“So, I’ve got a chance?”
“A real good chance from the looks of it. There are two available positions, both of them in your field of expertise.”
“Wow … I have a field of expertise. Cool.”
“Yep,” she laughs. “They want you to come in tomorrow at 8:30 for the interview. Don’t wear the same suit you wore to the first interview, take along a briefcase – for show – and … oh, pull your hair back.”
“Pull my hair back?”
“To keep it out of your eyes.”
“Oh, I got it cut short yesterday, so I guess it’s already out of my eyes.”
“Okay, that’ll work; just make sure it looks nice for the interview. And good luck to you I guess. You have the address?”
“Yea … thanks. Thanks a lot, Lisa.”
I slowly hang up the phone, not even thinking about my finger anymore.
Two hours later, I’m lounging on the vintage Salvation Army couch, flipping through the channels – with my good index finger, the other one lay prone wrapped in a Flintstones bandage – trying to get in as much daytime TV exposure as I can in what I’m sure will be the last few days of unemployed freedom, when the front door opens and in walks Peter.
He peeks around the corner. “How’s it goin’, Toots? You’re smiling … that’s good … good things are happening? Do you have a job?”
“They want me in for a second interview tomorrow morning.”
“Oh goodie! Maybe we’ll actually be able to pay the rent next month.” He skips out into the kitchen. “Think you’ve got a chance?” he asks from the inside of the refrigerator.
“There are three of us interviewing and two jobs available. Hey … did you know I have a field of expertise?”
“Really? How fascinating that must be for you. So I talked to Mark … I broke it off with Mark. Damn I’m hungry! Do we have anything to eat? He sounded sad. Oh, you washed the dishes, cool. Hey, do you know where that … um, hey, Tam … is there a particular reason you’re keeping a partially-peeled orange in the sink? You don’t like oranges, do you?”
