The Story of Her Holding an Orange (7 page)

At this point, you probably think I’m a fucking moron. Hey, I agree with you. Instead of staying at home, locked up and with a baseball bat in my hands, I decided to embark on this journey alone and with nothing but a couple of bucks in my pocket. I was simply calling for trouble. You have to try and understand my state of mind at the time, though. I was completely emotionally and mentally drained and reached the point of simply not giving a fuck. Or, at least, I thought so.

I got back on my bike and started pedaling. A few minutes later, I heard the laughter again. I immediately assumed the worst. Since I didn’t know whether the noise was coming from ahead or behind me, I decided to keep going. Luckily, the fog cleared out a bit and visibility went up. A mile or so later, I saw a figure on a bench some hundred feet ahead. At that moment, a much louder, sinister laughter broke out, echoing through the area. I tried telling myself that it was just a biker who sat down to rest, but both you and I know that I wouldn’t be writing this if that were the case. 

As I approached the laughing man, I could see more clearly that he was no biker. He wore something black. A few pedal strokes later it became obvious that the man was wearing a suit. A black suit, in a very old-fashioned style. As shivers started climbing up my spine, I sped up. I switched to the highest gear and started pedaling Armstrong style. I never took my eyes off of him, though. I noticed that the man had a top hat on, but no cane, which gave me just a tiny bit of relief; perhaps it’s just a random person walking, I lied to myself. When I got very close to him, I saw that his hands were lying empty in his lap, and there was no phone, newspaper, or any other entertainment around him that could possibly make him laugh. He was looking straight ahead of him, paying no attention to me.

As I biked past him, he started laughing very loudly again. His eyes remained focused on a spot straight ahead of him, and I wasn’t sure why he was laughing, but I had a terrible feeling it was related to me. Not wanting to find out what this man’s deal was, I kept on pedaling. When I got a good distance ahead, I turned around and saw that he hadn’t moved an inch and was still staring somewhere in the distance. 

I finally made it to Hyannis, cursing at myself for the stupidity of my actions. My plan was to get on a bus that would take me back to Provincetown, since 50 miles biked was more than enough for me. However, when I made it to the bus stop, I was in for an unpleasant surprise. The only two bike racks on the bus were already taken. The driver, who I assume had to deal with these situations before, denied my several pleas to let me inside the bus with the bike. He stated some policy violations and told me that if I biked to a mid-point between the two towns, I could catch another bus that’d take me home. This meant that I’d have to go back on the bike trail, at night at that. Since my brilliant plan was to take only a few bucks with me, neither a hotel nor a cab were options. Spending the night roaming around the unfamiliar city or biking back through the foggy road were the only two things I could do. Again, I’m a fucking moron, but I convinced myself that the man on the trail was perfectly normal and probably wouldn’t be there when I returned. I decided to bike. 

When I entered the bike path, my heartbeat involuntarily sped up. I just felt… uneasy. Knowing that I’d reached a point of no return, I shook my head and kept plowing through the fog. A mile or two on the road, I noticed something on the ground ahead. This was strange since the trail maintenance crew was more than diligent when cleaning the trash, and you could hardly see any garbage, especially on the path itself. I slowed down. The thing on the ground was a GI Joe action figure. It looked nearly new. I figured that some kid had dropped it while biking with his dad. I sat back on my bike and kept going. Another mile or so, I noticed something else lying on the ground. At that point, I knew something was wrong. No parent would let his or her kid litter that much. Getting closer to the thing, I recognized what it was. A basketball. Not just any basketball, a chess-themed basketball.

Now, when I was a kid, basketball was my whole life. I played it, watched it, practiced it, you know, lived it, basically. I was out-of-this-world excited when my city organized a basketball tournament. I gathered the best team I could find and had many sleepless nights replaying all possible scenarios in my head. When the game day arrived, we were notified that only two teams in our category had showed up, which meant that we’d be getting awards and gifts whether we won or lost. Apparently, my team wasn’t as good as I dreamt it to be, so we got our asses kicked. Nice thing was, though, that we got to go to the sports store and choose an item up to a certain price. All of my friends chose jerseys, shoes, etc. My attention, however, was caught by a unique chessboard basketball. The ball had 64 squares on it, 32 black and 32 white. I’ve never seen something like that before, so at risk of being made fun of by my teammates, I chose that as my reward. The funny thing is, that ball was god-awfully designed, because playing with it for more than a few minutes would give me headaches. I guess that pattern was just not meant for a basketball. Since it was basically useless, and I still got made fun of for it, I decided to get rid of the ball. One day, on my way home, as I was crossing a bridge, I kicked it as hard as I could into the river and watched it float away.

Twelve years later, I was holding the exact same ball in my hands, five thousand miles away from that bridge. 

Sometimes, when I’m under a great deal of stress (or fear), my legs start shaking. Well, at that moment, my legs wouldn’t move. My arms gave up too, so I dropped the ball and watched it roll off the trail. Realizing that I could be in serious danger, I forced myself to start moving. Remember how I said that I had reached the point of not giving a fuck? Well, apparently, finding the ball that my 15-year-old self had abandoned on the other side of the globe more than a decade ago did wonders. When I got back on the bike, my apathy was replaced by anger. I was furious. I wanted to hurt the people who were fucking with my life. I wanted to scream. Instead of all that, I started biking, using my anger to drive the pedals as hard as I could. 

After a mile or so, I spotted another object on the path. When I got close, I realized it was just a piece of wet newspaper. Not believing in coincidences, I stopped and looked at it. It was a newspaper from the college town I played basketball in. On the front page were my picture and an article telling about my life. If finding the ball and a GI Joe figure (which I now assumed was a toy from my childhood that I didn’t remember) wasn’t enough, the newspaper article lying on the trail confirmed that this whole thing was about me.

I decided that I wouldn’t stop for anything again. Pedaling like a maniac, I passed by several more objects. 

An Iron Maiden shirt I bought for their concert in New Jersey 7 years ago.

A picture of my family in a broken picture frame.

A Bart Simpson keychain I used to carry around in elementary school.

At that point, I wasn’t sure if my pulse was going wild because of the fear or cycling so fast. Probably a combination of both. And the faster I’d pedal, the more often I’d stumble upon objects. I wasn’t even paying attention to them as I just wanted to get the fuck out of this foggy trail. Then, I saw a dead cat lying on the ground. It awfully resembled my kitten Pipi that I owned back when I was a kid. As I approached to look at the poor animal and see if, by some crazy fucking miracle, it was my kitty, I heard laughter again. Only this time, it was a young girl laughing. I looked up and saw a woman sitting on the bench not more than ten feet away from me. She wore a white dress. There was no doubt.

It was Rose.

For the second time that day, my legs nearly quit working. I don’t know what I expected, really. Did I think it was just a coincidence that my childhood memories were spread across the bike trail? Did I not think it was related to the fucking woman with the orange? I don’t know. But still, seeing Rose sitting there sent a wave of fear into my body. And then, the fear inside me was replaced by anger once again. I wanted to end this. I wanted to know why she was ruining my life. I wanted answers, and I was going to get them.

With bravery fueled by frustration, I walked slowly towards Rose. She was still calmly sitting on the bench, smiling with those damn bright red lips and looking at me with her head tilted to the side. I faltered slightly as she came into clear view and I could see that she hadn’t aged at all in the ten years I hadn’t seen her. Even that couldn’t stop me, though.

“Sit,” Rose ordered in my native language.

“No,” I answered firmly, wanting to let her know that, this time, I wasn’t fucking around.

“You’ve been a very stubborn boy, Milos.”

I snapped. 

“What in the fuck do you want from me?!” I screamed. The knot of fear and anger in my chest was expanding. “What possible reason can there be for all this shit? You’re ruining my life!” 

“No need to yell, Milos,” she answered, smiling, unfazed. 

“No, there is a need to yell! Do you realize what you’ve done to me? My life is being ruined by you crazy fucks.”

“I only want you to take it,” she said, picking up an orange that was resting next to her on the bench. “All of this could have been avoided if you would have just taken it.”

“First, tell me what it means, then maybe I’ll take it,” I replied. “And tell me who that man is.”

“I can’t tell you just yet,” Rose said. The contrast between her adult, almost formal phrasing and the childish voice she spoke in was eerie. 

“Well, fuck you and your fucking orange, I’m not taking shit. And next time I see you, you’re getting arrested. I’ve had enough of this,” I said, turning around to go get my bike.

Rose lost her smile. Her head snapped upright, and she spoke with an adult voice. “It’s not your decision to make.”

“Yeah? And what are you going to do about it? More oranges?” I demanded. “I’m not joking, the next time you try shit like this, you’re going to jail.”

She started laughing, but it was definitely not an amused laugh. It was cold and mocking, as if I’d said something incredibly simple-minded.

“You think the police can help? Or your friends?” she said derisively. I did think the police could help, but the amount of confidence in her voice had me suddenly worried. 

“What in the world are you two? A cult?”

She laughed again. “No.”

“Then what?”

“You have much to learn about us,” she said, “but only after you take it.”

“If the police can’t help, then I’ll call other people for help. I’ll call a pr-” she cut me off.

“A priest? You think he can help?” She smiled widely, and then laughed again. “Why don’t you call your little priest when you get home?” 

By this time, I was almost certain I was dealing with something supernatural. I have always relied on logical, scientific answers to this strange world, and they had never failed me before, but I’d never experienced anything like this before either. Even though it was ridiculous, I was starting to think I was talking to some kind of demon. 

I had no idea what Rose meant by your priest, but I wasn’t going to get any answers from her. The night had slowly started settling in, and I wasn’t going to get stuck on the trail with this possibly ageless demon. I got back on my bike and pedaled away from Rose, who never moved from the bench. 

I got on the bus at the last moment and was a complete wreck during the ride home. When I got to my house, I opened a big bottle of Jack Daniels, sat in my chair, and tried to analyze it all. Nothing made sense, but I had a feeling that I should know about this priest she was talking about. I am far from a religious man, and the last time I was in a church was when I got baptized at the age of six back in Montenegro. I assumed that the priest who performed the baptism was the one Rose was talking about, so I gave my dad a call and asked him to go to the church and see if the man was still there.

NINE

The Baptism

I was baptized in Montenegro in a church called Ostrog. I am in no way a believer, but this church is truly amazing. During the Turkish occupation, my people tore the original Ostrog apart and carried it rock by rock to the top of the mountain to ensure that no Turkish soldier got to it. They then rebuilt the church at the top, making it a true miracle of architecture. If there is one place on earth where I feel something “spiritual,” it’s there. 

When I was six, my dad decided to baptize me. Neither of my parents are or were particularly religious, but baptizing kids was a tradition in the Balkans, and my dad is a traditional guy. I remember him having to call ahead and schedule the baptism because of the extremely high demand for that particular ceremony. There were so many people trying to baptize their kids, I had to do it with several others in one take. I just wanted to get through it as soon as possible.

When we arrived at the church, there was already a line of kids waiting to get in and be washed clean from the sin of their ancestors. Finally, the priest, Father Srdjan, started letting us in. However, when my turn to walk in came, the priest stopped me.

“You, you can’t go in,” he said, grabbing and holding me by my shoulder. I didn’t know what to say to that, but my dad quickly jumped in.

“What’s the problem, Father Srdjan?” asked my dad, laying his hand on my other shoulder. I guess you could say I was being held by two fathers.

“I know you, my son,” Father Srdjan said to my dad. “I baptized you long time ago, when my beard wasn’t as grey as it is now.”

Indeed, this same man did baptize my dad some twenty years ago. He had been the priest of this church for many years.

“But your son can’t go in there,” continued the father, pointing at the baptizing chapel. 

“Why not?” Dad asked in a surprisingly respectful tone.

“I shouldn’t tell you. It is better if you have him baptized elsewhere.”