text: The juicer sat down and looked at the crates of citrus before him. Boxes of oranges, grapefruits, and limes had been neatly arranged on the floor of the rectangular room. He walked in and sat down in the giant seashell chair, breathing deeply and surrendering to its aura. He noted the crates. He noted the floor. For a moment, he let himself be swallowed up by the shell’s enormity, feeling the weight of each muscle and limb push against its coldness. It was seven o’clock that morning and he had already started searching for salvation. The day’s work had begun while he was still asleep. At five o’clock that morning, a delivery truck had delivered sixty boxes to the small shop, (thirty orange, twenty grapefruit, and ten boxes of blood orange). They were counted, unloaded, stacked, and then counted again before the truck disappeared into the night. The seashell chair waited for its company in the dark room while a single streetlight shone through the window and cast a shadow on the immaculate floor. Even the Sergeant, who walked by and peered in each day would notice the chair’s brass legs gleaming in the predawn light, reviewing in his mind the day when the juicer had come to him for advice about insuring it as a relic. Every day began at seven o’clock when the juicer entered the shop, sat down, and then weighed the crates. He calculated the exact number of fruits they contained from a constant he had derived years ago. The daily orders varied little. He knew, for instance, that 30 bottles were due to the elementary school by nine o’clock; that Miss Q would arrive somewhere between ten and twelve with dog in hand for a weekly subscription of three bottles; and that the Sergeant would appear--in fact, probably had already appeared--for one bottle before ending his night shift. He should have sold the business by now, but the temptation of his product extended far and wide. His business card was still embossed in black, stating only his title, address, and hours, which hadn’t changed for the past thirty years. By 7:15, he had sliced the first orange. One by one, they descended the metal chute and stopped on the cutting board. A line of citrus formed, patiently bumping forward, and was sliced before wobbling into the enormous metallic bowl that covered the table. He smiled as he tossed each halved orange into the bowl. After the oranges, it was time for the grapefruit. The first few always felt clunky, but after a dozen or so, his work descended into that familiar, rhythmic patter he craved. The collection of halved oranges, grapefruits, and limes grew, piling on top of each other, ready to be pressed by 7:30 at the latest. The shop smelled thick with an aroma that became the juicer’s uniform. It came and passed in heavy swaths as you walked by the front door, beckoning you with the tantalizing pursuit of citrus. A sign above the door said all it needed to say: *Let’s Get Juicy*. He stepped back for a moment to admire the tower of rinds growing in front of him. It rippled out at its base and covered the entire table in a bright canvas of color. He smiled, puffing his cigar in approval. The metallic bowl seemed to have disappeared, swallowed up by a mound of grapefruits that were growing all over the room and it quickly became difficult to distinguish the man from the fruit--both occupied one space in their rounded joviality. Those who walked by and peered into the enormous window were greeted by the tower of rinds and the image of a man at work. Once the mound had grown sufficiently, the juicer chopped a few limes. He tossed them on top of the pile and walked over to the machine on the nearby table, flicking its switch as it buzzed and then settled into focus. He proceeded to juice in silent fury, translating fruit to rind and rind to pile. He looked out onto the boulevard to watch the foot traffic by the subway entrance and watched pedestrians come and go. Looking into the shop window, the Sergeant, who always arrived before his order was ready, stood calmly and sighed to himself. He watched the juicer continue in his characteristic rhythm, lifting the machine’s clamshell, placing a halved citrus underneath it, and pressing down with both hands as the foamy liquid appeared. Just last year, his friend could open the machine with one hand--time had afflicted him since. The juice bubbled and frothed in the bowl, turning a variety of shades before settling on one hue. The juicer then siphoned it into the glass bottles he had lined up on the table. From outside, the clinking of glass was inaudible, forcing the Sergeant to complete it in his imagination. As he juiced each halved fruit, the juicer tossed its rind on the floor, painting his image in shades of white, gold, and pink. By now, the daily crowd had formed to watch, spending their mornings in the Juice District to watch the pile of rinds growing by the man’s feet and rippling out like exploded clouds sunken on top of the ocean. They watched him lift the clamshell, secure the citrus, and juice slowly while calmly puffing his cigar, which had grown a horn of ash that he refused to tap. He pretended not to notice them and continued to work in silence as his audience grew. And they watched. Greedily, in fact, as they translated between the juicer and the fruit, between the chair and the metallic bowl, between the cigar and the horn of ash in a frenzy of consumption that refused to abet. The Sergeant could have watched for hours--in fact, he once had, observing a sea of rinds gather at the juicer’s feet and ripple out across every inch of the shop’s floor, one by one filling the bowl and the seashell chair and then covering it entirely. He remembered that aroma escaping through an open window, cutting into the putridity of the city. By the end of that day, the only empty space remaining was a small patch where the juicer stood, the outline of a man who beckoned with his machine in silent fury. Some time passed. The crowd outside knew that come ten o’clock, the juicer would stop, having measured his time in the length it took to finish two cigars, pick up the first few bottles of juice from his heavy worktable, and ritualistically bring them outside for them to enjoy with *Good morning, good morning, very well, thank you*. This time, they watched the ash on the second cigar fall to the floor. The juicer interrupted the process to marvel at the mess at his feet. He looked from corner to corner, admiring the waves of rinds that had inundated the entire store. He looked at the seashell chair and saw a glimmer, a glint of the past reflected back onto him. Two minutes before he was due to arrive, the Sergeant slammed the door and startled the juicer who had fallen into his deep rhythm. He grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the store. He motioned at the ceiling, but by now, the flames had begun tugging at the walls, cascading over the shop’s roof until it squeezed in on itself, taking the pine boxes and the machine and the metallic bowl in one giant helping of smoke. The crowd had scattered backwards and now the two men watched, mesmerized by the absoluteness of it all. It was the most pleasing a fire had ever smelled, they concluded, as they greedily inhaled. \*\*\* Since then, the juicer has streamlined his operation, citing old age, but remaining as we remember him, seated in the seashell chair--the only thing to survive the fire--a man so engrossed in his work to the point of danger.