The Meaning of Orange

The Meaning of Orange

Daniel Thompson

A buzzer rings somewhere outside. Proximate noon tips over the eaves, putting the room in the path of the sun for the rest of the day. Curt thinks often of building a wall, some kind of fortification or deterrent to block off the outside world, but all that would do is keep him in, which is exactly what he wants.

Trees posture defiantly, higher than any wall or authority to cut them down.

A slant of light falls across his face. He doesn’t draw the blinds because that would admit defeat. Enduring the rays of ultraviolet crossing incomprehensible distances of space with the capability to burn, singe and sear flesh. The fact that he can’t look at it reminds him of God, a being so powerful that if we were to see it, he would go blind.

He reaches out, smearing grease from his cheek into his eye with the swipe of a careless hand. Three nights a week he passes out in the purple chair by the window. The rest of the time he wakes up in his room on the second floor laid out atop the bed as if all he was was his clothes.

Shutting his eyes against the pain, he brings his hands back down to a neutral position, flexing in and out of fists. The first in a series of rituals to be performed in a certain order: combing and then gelling his hair while it is still wet, smooth in the back, high in the front. Waiting for it to dry and then going over it again with the spray. Noting the time on the clock with an erasable pen and then flipping the cushion on his chair to the previous day’s side before leaving the house. Checking and rechecking the door to make sure it’s locked, using the rear entrance so as to avoid the front altogether, crowded with topiaries and hedges making even the garden path inaccessible, to where it comes out at the gate, pausing to make sure the way is clear before proceeding.

Shoes scuffing crab-wise, sidestepping cracks, bubblegum, dog doodie before falling into his stride. Indecisively taking one step back for every two steps forward so it appears as if he is walking in the direction he just came as much as the way he is going. The tuft of bangs spiked up in the front, bounces in rhythm to his steps giving the impression that he is not only moving both forward and back but also sideways.

He shuffles to the end of the block where the crossing guard is holding her big red lollipop sign. Though her job is to be impartial, she has been known to favor even a single pedestrian over a queue of idling cars. Smiling to everyone indiscriminately, Curt included, who returns her smile like a face reflected in water, not wanting to be seen, much less recognized as he conveys himself to the far end of the school field. Standing sentinel along the perimeter fence, partially hidden, but by no means invisible in a windbreak of trees.

Within seconds he is approached by a small herd of adolescents, picking him out by his incongruous style; white track shoes, straight-legged jeans, yellow UNLV sweater and Orlando Magic starter jacket. Not just excessively dressed, but palpably uncomfortable, if not to himself, then to anyone who can see him; a man who is not only unaware of how out of date his clothes are, but of how he feels with them on, perspiring for a number of reasons not all of them heat related.

“Hey Curbie. Gotta smoke?” says a boy, standing out from the group.

“Yeah, how many you want?” sez Curt.

“Six.”

“Three dollars.”

The kid collects fifty cents from each of his friends and hands it over to Curt who takes the money first then deposits the cigarettes in the kid’s free hand.

“Got any weed, Curb?” asks another of the boys.

“Noooo. I don’t sell drugs, only cigarettes.”

“You know you can make a lot more money selling dope than these.”

“But it’s illegal.”

“So is selling cigarettes to minors.”

“Barely.”

The kid snickers to his friends as they walk away.

Curt watches the little ones gathered in clusters playing games, breaking off from the group to chase one other, trampling white clover blossoms and tumbling in the soft grass. He might be a man out for a walk, a delivery person, somebody’s dad, but to eager eyes seeking their afternoon fix he is almost sure to have an extra cigarette, especially if they know him as Curt, Curbie, or hurtin’ Curt.

He moves on to four more points of sale during the remainder of the 45-minute break. He’ll be back after school and later on in the park.

On Fridays he visits the high schools and alternates between middle schools the rest of the week. Spending his free time at the zoo, mainly outside the primate grove, home to a family of mountain gorillas fathered and lorded over by ‘Max’ the silverback, who has been living at the zoo since Curt was a child. Max is not territorial with Curt. He tolerates him as a stranger in a strange land, two hominid species diverged down different evolutionary lines. One with a clutch of bananas, the other with his cigarettes, BigMac™, fries and shake, each searching the other’s souls and smells for signs of kinship.

On the way home he meets the balloon man. He’s there on the corner in his usual spot. Curt runs up a little agitated. He knows what he wants this time.

Today there are white, yellow, orange and a kind of turquoisey blue; colours that wouldn’t be out of place at a car dealership or corporate event, advertising neutrality, professionalism, function over form.

Apart from their colour, the balloons are divided into two categories: translucent and solid, which have something to do with the meaning and significance of the balloon. The solid ones are more straight forward and can be summed up in a word or two; health, sex, money, power, new car, good job and things like that. The translucent ones have more subtle and complex meanings and usually come with morals or koans. He sticks with the solid-coloured ones. This time Curt is looking for a money balloon, something that will bring him more of that in his life. Although it is said that you don’t find the balloon, it finds you, Curt feels that it is he who seeks out the balloon on these days, when he feels close to meaning, as if it were only a mm, or so, away; on the other side of a thin membrane.

“What do you have?” Curt says.

The Balloon man knows that this isn’t a question directed at him, he is merely the intermediary, giving his customers what is already theirs by right. “There’s the balloon of second chance, the turquoise one there beside you, the balloon of pray tell, yellow, that’s a truth one, I have another kind of truth one too, the white one over there, it’s for giving away, you want one for you?”

“Yes.”

“I think the best you could do is orange…”

“Ugh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like orange.”

“I had a lot more earlier; red and indigo, but those were clearly meant for someone else. I’m surprised this one is left. I think it’s a sign. People very rarely get balloons that aren’t meant for them. They’ll sit here unbought until the right person comes along. It’s a very good one symbolizing diplomacy in the way of influencing outcomes. It’s lucky that you came by when you did.”

“The green one’s no good?”

“It’s just for a reciprocal favour, it’s also a giving one, you give it and you get something back, or you give it because you’ve received something from somebody.”

“What about second chances.”

“Sure, go ahead, but it’s only good for the rest of the day. I’d suggest getting one like this in the morning when it’s more likely that you’ll have a chance to use it. You’d better hurry up though. It looks like we have another customer.”

A little girl rolls up on her bike avidly eyeing the balloons. Curt goes a little red, the pressure of making a choice weighing heavily on him now. He jerks his arm out toward the orange one mouthing the word and making the sound ‘…nge’.

“Good choice. I hope it works out,’ handing it to him by its long jute string. “Don’t let it go. Birds eat them and sometimes die. I’d feel bad if that happened. I have to guarantee my balloons, that also means getting them where they need to go.”

“You make all these balloons yourself?”

“No, they’re made by another person, or rather they’re just made.”

“How many are there?”

“Only as many as will sell at a time. They’re like jobs, a job doesn’t disappear just because someone doesn’t fill it right away.”

“I don’t have a job.”

“Perhaps that’s not the right analogy, you might think of them more as opportunities instead, like a second chance or an opinion, everyone’s got one of those, but they’re very subjective, that’s why a balloon that’s right for you won’t go to someone else.”

“I don’t believe in opportunities.”

“Perhaps you could just use some luck.”

“Yes, yes, that’s sorta what I was looking for.”

“Come back tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll have something. Just think very hard when you go home tonight and ask for some luck or guidance. That’s how this one works. The thought will turn into an intention and become a…”

“Okay, okay. I get it,” Curt says, turning in the direction of home.

The little girl rushes forward, already pointing at the white balloon.

“Is this one for you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, may I suggest the turquoise one. It’s good for a second chance, you may need one if you’ve been in any trouble lately or are planning to do so.”

“Ohhh, well, it’s pretty too, but I like white.”

The only problem with the Balloon Man’s prophecies is that they’re almost always good. No one wants to buy a balloon that’s going to make them unhappy, but the Balloon Man is your friend and he’ll tell you the truth, even if it’s hard. Every day he goes to his supplier and selects from the balloons that have sprung up overnight; just enough for that day and no more. The people who buy them are usually in a good mood already or are going to give them to somebody which will put them in a good mood, the recipient or the giver, or both, so his news is generally positive, the red ones can be tricky though.

Once in his possession, Curt wastes no time in getting his balloon home. A lot can happen between acquiring your balloon and getting it to where you need to go. People with balloons behave much like those in need of a fix. Hurrying from place to place, furtively inhaling the contents of their balloons in secret out of the way places, preferably a bathroom or closet.

Sometimes he gets high first, but it interferes with the balloon’s efficacy. This is probably the reason why they hadn’t worked before. There is no guarantee with the balloons. They’re more of an aide, bringing one closer to their goal, dream, vision, whatever. Curt likes to pair the intention with a number. He has great faith in the power of numbers, much more than words. He has a specific one in mind, 120,000, the number of hairs on the average head. A number has to have personal significance he feels, something that means something to him. He doesn’t know many other numbers with special meanings, none higher at least. There are numbers that are lower, but not a lot that are higher. Millions and billions have no significance for him. These, for the most part, represent things that he cannot see. He lives in a world of physical objects, things that he can buy, sell, find and lose, if it weren’t for these attributes he would be even more lost. No, one hundred and twenty thousand is a good number.

He sits and breathes for a minute, thoughtfully running his fingers through his hair, imagining that he were coming closer and closer to this figure with every pass of his hand.