Oranges
He said that something smelled like oranges; that there was an orange-like smell in the air; that the scent of oranges was following him all day. I looked around and asked whether he meant that the smell was coming from something on the street, like a local coffee shop, or a juice truck, or our office building. Admittedly, it was Christmas time, and Christmas time always smells like oranges, cardamom, and chocolate. But he shook his head and said, “No, that’s not it.” I was intrigued and kept looking around. We were standing on the street, right in front our office building. I noticed aging Jewish and Hispanic garmentos, rushing to deliver samples from one showroom to another, and young runner boys, pushing rails of clothes on snowy, splashy sidewalks, and lovely ladies, shopping around for gifts of cheap, perfectly seasonal, fabrics. I was dizzy from the speed of that dynamic Fashion District. I looked at my Master again, but he was just sipping his hot cocoa.
My Master’s eyes looked tired and worn out, but they were still beautiful. That is how you know that someone is alive, their eyes will tell you so. Apart from the two of us, people running around seemed like absent-minded, lifeless zombies. On the contrary, my Master was present, both spiritually and visually. He never went anywhere without his fashionable Americana clothes: selvaged denim pants with thick, red stitches on the bottom, a corduroy vest over a blue, button-up shirt, a Newsboy hat made from a check, plaid fabric, and a little bandana, tied up elegantly on his long neck. Perhaps his energy was slower and calmer, but his drive remained intact. At his mature age, his life-long dream was still alive, and I admired him. He was one of those few people who can enjoy everyday pleasures, like a cup of coffee in the morning — that very first cup, after which all other cups of coffee are just a faded memory of that first one. He enjoyed his train ride to the city, too. Every morning he arose from his restless sleep at 4:30 A.M., to leave his suburban house at 5:30 A.M., to get to the Port Authority Bus Terminal at 6:15 A.M. exact. Night adventures shared by my peers were no longer pleasurable to him.
My Master taught me the need of finding beauty in everyday existence. “I’m fascinated with day-to-day living and daily expression,” he said once upon a time. That was the lesson of the utmost importance. I was still just a young apprentice, fresh off the boat, trying to learn various trades to comprehend the world in its fullest. I understood the notion inherently because I, too, appreciate my daily routine, mundane tasks and errands, finding them even more enjoyable than big, important events, like birthdays or holidays. Big occasions can be overwhelming, and they sometimes leave me dissociated from my surroundings. In seemingly insignificant moments, one can feel some level of control and presence, at least in my opinion, and at least that is what I learned from my Master.
Unable to locate the source of the radiant, orange scent, my Master and I started walking. We were moving ahead with urgent haste, maneuvering through different obstacles on our way. The hurdles became garmentos, runners, pretty ladies, and Old New York (con-)artists. We were walking fast with an arctic wind blowing in our faces, numbing us speechless. As we were walking, the buildings grew taller, and the streets appeared wider. Suddenly, that dark, gloomy day turned into a starless night. The sky was in a shade of graphite, but luckily, the street lamps led the way. From the West Side, we finally crossed to the East and arrived at our destination. As we entered one of the tallest buildings I have ever seen in my entire life (it had no beginning or end, a literal skyscraper, which scared me and fascinated me, all at once), a broad-shouldered doorman opened the door for us. Another handsome concierge checked our IDs and let us go through, to the elevators. The elevator ride seemed like a million years, but we finally arrived on the eighteenth floor — exhausted, yet excited. We were greeted, once again, this time by two twin receptionists, identical but for their hair: one was a blonde, and another one was a brunette. After our identification was re-confirmed, we were lead through a long corridor and stopped by a massive brown door. The door opened to a large ballroom where we could look at the starless sky through a clear, glass ceiling. And that is how our Friday afternoon business appointment began.
My Master whispered to me, “I think that artistry is alive on different levels. And it is how you approach the subject, how you mix your colors, how you choose your fabrics, how you choose your weights, how you pull all the components together, is when the magic happens.” And then it hit me. I knew it was me all along. The orange scent was coming out of my breath and evaporating through my skin. The fact that the oranges would later turn into a bitter taste of a citrus peel — right after the dreamy holiday period would turn into early spring, and then a nauseating, dirty summer — did not matter to me at that moment. I knew that the love was coming.
