Tropic of Orange

The world teeter-tottered. That was as near as Buzzworm could define it. Whoa. Maybe this twenty-four-hour attachment to the waves was doing it. Doing it to his brain. But, on a scale of reality to substance abuse, it was definitely the vision thing. Time stood still momentarily. Time stood still eternally. Whatever it was doing, it was standing. Just standing. Buzzworm was sure of that. Second hands on the watches never moved. Seconds on LCD displays neither. Twelve noon just standing there. It could be one watch might not be in sync, but not all the watches. Actually, watches weren’t the real tip-off: radio stations on every dial were holding their notes, their words, their voices, their dead air. Just holding. Howard Stern saying sex like seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeex forever but never getting to the x. Reminded Buzzworm of the sportscasters on Mexican radio doing the goooooooooooooooooooooal thing. Then there was some call-in cop talking about an assault with a deadly weapon and this individual, this individual, this individual, this individual, this individual like a broken record; coulda been an entire population of individuals. Jazz station had Miles blasting his piston at an eternal and breathless high C wanting to break your drums, your amps, your resolve. It kept on keeping on. Maybe Miles coulda done it anyway without time standing on it. Buzzworm didn’t know, but it filled his head and his chest with a long hurt. And then there were those stations with the dead air like a dead hum, a buzz: the eternal buzz.

Then it was back to normal-like. Baca Boyz calling their sisters, “Baby-girl! Nicole of Paramount got her a birthday today! Happy Birthday, baby-girl! And have we got some faxes today. You all faxin’ in your hellos. Got one here arriving now from La Puente! Another from West Covina! You all gonna get free passes to the Power event. Yeah, tell me about it!”

Buzzworm thought about Nicole of Paramount. Chicana with maroon-brown twenty-four-hour lipstick don’t come off even at Raging Waters. Even if she’s kissin’ a storm outside the Power event. Did she run with a girl crew? How old was she today? Did she know she got some extra eternal buzz minutes on her life for free today?

Buzzworm caught the news. You give us twenty-two minutes . . . First twenty-two minutes it was: spiked orange alert. Several oranges found to be laced with unidentified chemical. Possibly extra vitamins. Possibly alcohol. Possibly marijuana. Possibly Prozac. Public alerted to report and turn in any suspicious fruit. No reports of polluted orange juice, concentrates, or orange derivative products. Several Van Nuys supermarkets reportedly removing all fresh oranges from consumer stock. Sunkist and Dole orange reps to make public statement at 5:00 p.m. Pacific Daylight Time. FDA investigators, local Health Department inspectors, and FBI agents working around-the-clock.

But the talk shows were saying things like, “Fresh-squeezed orange juice. Some people have probably forgotten the taste of it. One orange every day, freshly squeezed, will clear up the complexion in one week. By the end of two weeks, your insecurities will be gone; you’ll be getting dates and going to parties.”

Next twenty-two minutes, the new update came in: spiked orange scare! Deaths of two Van Nuys residents traced to spiked oranges. Three hospitalized. Oranges now believed to be injected with a very lethal form of some unidentified chemical. Buzzworm shook his head. Maybe it wasn’t just Van Nuys. Maybe Margarita and the little homey had made it home the same way. But they weren’t the names on the news. ’Course they’d probably never be. They got under some other statistics. When the class action suit came ’round, they’d be left behind. Buzzworm stopped in his tracks and did what he rarely did—dropped the earphone from his ear. Class action his ass. Margarita’s words came back. One free naranja imported from Florida. He’d given it to that righteous little homey. Where did Margarita get her oranges? Where did any of the street vendors get their oranges? They had them piled in bags on shopping carts or in the backs of trucks. They were on every street corner, every freeway off-ramp, every intersection. A bunch of oranges got smuggled in and took a detour. Some detour. A dead end was what. And it wasn’t just Van Nuys.

But the talk shows were saying, “Joining Weight Watchers changed my life. I lost thirty pounds in one month. Now I’m a new person. I have lots of energy and renewed self-confidence. I just like myself better and feel happy now. And one of my own secrets is to have a tall glass of fresh orange juice every morning . . .” Do O.J. and be healthy, wealthy, and wise.

But, next twenty-two minutes it was: illegal orange scare. Chemical breakdown of spiked substance in oranges traced to cocaine. Highly concentrated liquid form. A single orange could be worth maybe one kilo.

Buzzworm started running. He was going to have to make the rounds quickly. Going to have to find all the Margaritas and the Margaritos on all the street corners and ramps in the city. Check out the distribution patterns on oranges.

Talk shows were still talking, “Fresh O.J. will end your problems with arthritis, give you a mental boost, increase your muscular surface naturally.”

But Buzzworm could already sense the consequences. The entire LAPD was lined up on either side of the Harbor Freeway readyin’ up to catch any homeless wantin’ to flee the canyon. They were all preoccupied with looking down on that situation like a bunch of buzzards. Meanwhile, every peddler in the orange business was seeing his merchandise confiscated at gunpoint. Some were slugging it out. Some knew the value of the merchandise and were finding ways to hide it. Oranges were being shoved under floors, into holes dug in the ground, under the hoods of cars and into ice cream carts, into every available crevice out of sight. Before Vons or Lucky could blink, their oranges disappeared. They went out the front by the bags and out the back by the crates. You mighta thought it was only gangs or druggies or the mafia going after them, but it was everybody, like it was a lottery. Housewives and yuppies, environmentalists and meat-eaters, hapkido masters and white guys in dreds with Nirvana T-shirts—all going for the spiked oranges. How badly did a person need a screwdriver? How badly a psychedelic orange? What were they thinking? Buzzworm wanted to know. Didn’t they hear about the two people dead? Others in critical condition? Didn’t they understand the addictive effects of drug use? Couldn’t they just say no? Couldn’t they dare to say no?

Maybe not. Talk shows were talking about, “You take orange peel and grind it up, add one tablespoon olive oil, one tablespoon Vaseline Intensive Care. Spread it over your shoulders, your body, everywhere. Then you bake yourself in the sun fifteen minutes. It’s an instant tan you women can wear with strapless dresses or you brawny men in tank tops.” Avoid ingesting; just use topically.

But it was already too late. You give us twenty-two minutes was coming in loud and clear: illegal alien orange scare. Like Margarita said, imported. But not from Florida. Rainforest Russian roulette oranges. Unidentified natural hallucinogen plus traces of rare tropical snake venom. You got high, saw God, and got killed.

Talk shows never stopped. “Scientists are reviewing evidence that regular doses of vitamin C during a human lifetime may directly affect genetic formation in areas of intelligence and physical strength.”

“But now that O.J. is out of the question, Tiffany, what do you suggest?”

“Well, fresh is best. You could go to tomatoes and pineapple, but here’s an insider tip: passion fruit. It’s always had more concentrated amounts of vitamin C, plus it has the benefit of soothing your nerves naturally.”

Next twenty-two minutes: Death oranges. Minute doses produce exquisite high. Exquisite death. DEA was now involved. Mexican government, too. Everybody down South being looked into.

Oranges went underground. The word was emphatic: All oranges were suspect. And deemed highly toxic. Waste companies hauled the rotting stuff by the tons to landfills. Environmental experts declared them toxic waste. Sniff the chalky fungus and you could be dead fast. The poison could leach into the water system. Fruit flies could spread it too. County Ag Inspector Richard Iizuka said it loud and clear: See an orange? Call 911.

Talk show Tiffany didn’t miss a beat: “That’s right. Passion fruit is all the rage. Minute Maid is selling it under the trade name, Passion™. Make the change now. Passion™.”

Buzzworm scratched his head. Looked like you could take out an entire industry in just twenty-two minutes flat. Nothing to it. Why should he be surprised? Put the crack industry in in ’bout the same amount of time. Problem was, was taking longer than twenty-two minutes to take it out.

He looked up, up at his palm trees catching the light, fluttering like tinsel, unlike any other trees. Called his city tinsel town. Wasn’t because of the palms, though. Palm trees looked like they were all bending, all stretching their necks in the same direction. Pointing. Trying to say something.

Buzzworm thought he’d seen everything. But lately things were going off in their own direction. And some people were looking down the barrel of a deadly party in the center of an orange. Looking for the eternal buzz.