Burning Orange

Bright orange stands out strikingly against a cloudy, melancholy sky. As that is a fact that cannot be argued with, even by good taste, Stacy Scott’s frumpy orange dress was inarguably striking. This was the thought that possessed a scruffy but thoughtful man, with the grime and bearing of a mechanic, as he glanced up from his cigarette. He caught sight of a plump and wobbling woman stomping down the hill towards his garage. He took a quick puff on his cigarette before he huddled over it protectively, as if waiting for a violent wind to pass.

Stacy Scott had a peculiar nose; the sort that droops or hardens with a corresponding emotion. As this was so, Stacy could never hide her emotions, even though she was a fierce and practiced liar. And when she tramped past Jay Patrick, the young mechanic, he could tell that despondency had come over her. Her forehead was creased and worried, and her nose drooped so much that Jay thought it soggy and ready to slide off.

“Morning, Stacy,”

“Good afternoon, Jay. It’s well past midday. You know...an itch is the most humiliating pain,” said Stacy, taking Jay’s greeting as an excuse to ramble, “It’s not at all staunch like an ache, or heroic like a bruise, but just downright annoying.”

Jay was used to meeting Stacy in this state of mind. She managed, through some impressive feat of control, to be the gracious host or the honoured guest at any event. But Jacob was just another person and not a personage, and this was just an ordinary street and not a boulevard. Stacy had an immaculate grasp of the concept of time and place.

“Something troubling you then?” asked Jay, disturbed but resigned.

“Always. I’m a troubled woman,” Stacy had stopped completely in her determined march and was looking thoughtfully around.

To Jay, it was obvious that she was paying him very little attention and was rather wrapped up in her own musings.

“Do you ever have those mornings where you wake up irritated?” she continued, “When your skin feels dry and itchy and nothing will take your mind off of it? I do.” A reply that was little more than a grunt of affirmation, an acknowledgement that someone was listening, was all that was needed. And she stared at Jay until he gave that necessary grunt.

“I feel like the whole world is looking at me...studying me...and that I can’t look back.”

Jacob assumed that this was because of the glare from the dress but was, of course, silent.

“It bothers me so much. I can’t think. I can’t dream. And I can’t appreciate those things that I love. I love cloudy days you know.”

She moved off slowly, still thoughtful, and then she looked back.

“You have a nice day, Jay,” she said, smiling.

“You too, Stacy.”

He dropped his cigarette in the gutter, still burning, and stepped inside his shop.

Jay’s garage used to be a dairy and a coffee shop. When Jay purchased the two square buildings there had been a wall dividing the garage. It was now wide and open but cluttered with spare tyres, parts, and semi-refurbished cars. Jay was not an especially tidy man, but he prided himself on being professional. And so his garage was usually kept respectable. Old shelves from the dairy were now teeming with various metal oddities, and the once-coffee-shop counter was a small, private corner where Jay could sleep and relax when he wasn’t tinkering.

There was no upstairs floor to the garage, which meant that Jay had to rent an apartment several blocks over, on the outskirts of the city. It was a clean, nostalgic apartment, belonging to a period of gracefulness from an age now forgotten. His landlord, Mr Jules Scott, father of the young Stacy, was a reasonable man. Jay enjoyed his job and had found a home. For the moment he was happy where he was.

A passerby might have expected to look into Jay’s garage and see some amount of sleek, modern cars with customised parts, as expensive cars were worshipped in that part of town. But Jay’s garage was different. Not so wholly unique in that only obscure and novel cars were fixed, but he was often busy fixing “grandmother cars”, as he called them. As a result he got to know the elder community, and his contemporaries were mostly foreign to him. But he didn’t mind. Friends were of less importance to Jay than peace of mind. Some called this selfish, some called it romantic, others even called it misguided, but Jay just called it, “the way God made me.”

Jay saw a strange thing on the way home from the garage. Normally he would be thoroughly occupied by a cigarette, or he would be busy mulling over some deep but unimportant idea. However, today was cloudy, and eerie, and the neighbourhood took on a surreal atmosphere. The trees were uncharacteristically quiet, and footsteps became lonely and evanescent. And so taking this in, Jay spied a very strange thing. Mrs Stevens was a middle-aged widow and her car, one he fixed regularly and knew intimately, was parked in the driveway of Mr Sanchez, a respectable bachelor.  Leaving the more lurid presumptions to those who cared, Jay noticed instead that the car was orange. Mrs Stevens’ car was grey when Jay had last fixed it, and every time before that. He didn’t stop walking even though he took a second glance just to be sure. He put it down to a decision of bad taste.

Stacy was out on that meagre patch of lawn that sometimes, though hardly ever, passed for a front yard to the apartment block. She was hanging clothes and humming, a definite improvement over her earlier mood. Jay gave a casual greeting and waited on the lawn where he finished his cigarette. Stacy, being a woman of stout and limitless energy, finished her washing before Jay’s cigarette burnt out and she strolled over to him with the basket clasped in her hands.

“Oh, go on through. You know dad doesn’t mind the smoke,” said Stacy.

“I know. But it’s only polite. And there’s Mrs Beau across the hall from me. That old bitch can’t stand smoke and makes a racket whenever I go past her door with a cigarette. She can screech loud enough to put a dying cat to shame.”

“Oh go on. She’s a sweet thing. She bakes us cookies every Monday - these big round chocolate biscuits with this strange and wonderful taste.”

Jay laughed, “If only I would be so lucky. I might forgive some screeching for some biscuits.”

“What have you got planned for this evening?”

“I plan to have more than one beer, and would love to say I’m going to read a good book, but I’m in the mood for some Call of Duty.”

Stacy made a sound that was half a snort, and half a giggle, “That sounds too strange. Beer, books and Call of Duty all mashed into one sentence.”

The cigarette disappeared under Jay’s work boots.

“Well I’ll be off. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Jay started, and then stopped, “Say, do you know Mrs Stevens over on Fifth?”

“Sure. Everyone knows her. She basically lives in the bingo hall. Or at least she did.”

“What do you mean? I saw the strangest thing too.”

“Oh? What’s that? Well I mean that she isn’t the moping widow anymore. All of a sudden she dyed her hair orange, got her car painted orange, and started seeing new people. People say that it’s nice she’s back to her old self. But I knew her old self, and I think she has completely lost it.”

“Well I know that her car is orange. I saw it parked in Emanuel’s driveway.”

Stacy let loose a loud and obnoxious and thoroughly irritating laugh, “Silly woman. That figures really. Anyway...goodnight.”

Jay’s apartment only had three steps. These three steps led from a quiet, lonely car park to the back door. Jay had fallen in love with these steps, in part because there wasn’t much in his life to fall in love with. He loved the way autumn leaves fell, in browns and yellows with a rare leaf of orange, onto this step and lay there like old Christmas decorations never put away. They were broad, wide steps, and Jay could sit on them comfortably, and he often did, while puffing at a cigarette or sipping on a beer. He would lounge. He would crouch. And he would pace. He would relax and he would contemplate. Jay had lived much of the past three years on those three steps.

Nothing was more important to Jay than romance. He knew that he found it hard to feel that wriggly emotion often called love. He also knew that he didn’t mind dying alone. He didn’t want commitment. He just wanted candle lights and roses, creamy skin and scarlet lips. However, he never chased after girls. He hated to let people down and he didn’t want to destroy an innocent girl’s great capacity for love when he couldn’t feel it himself. So he just sat on his lonely, quiet steps, dreamed of romance and a melancholy life, and hid it all under the abrasive exterior of a mechanic.

Once, when Jay was young, he read a story by Ray Bradbury that, to him, forged a lifetime of melancholy romance and passionate dreams into the one image that was a rose dipped in flaming alcohol. This fascinated Jay for months after he read the story, but he never considered trying to create the image. But when his father brought home several glowing roses he couldn’t keep the idea from his mind. He took one of the roses, when no one was home, and he stole his father’s whiskey and lighter. He soaked the rose and lit it. The rose burnt quickly and withered, first to shades of brown and then to black. That idea he had envisioned was no more romantic than a burnt hand. But he was still a romantic, just a realistic one.

Jay went to sleep early that night for no particular reason. He had that first beer and started up the computer, but fell swiftly to sleep. He dreamt of a calm ocean which swelled and started to pound loudly until Jay awoke in a flurry of sheets. Someone was banging at his door and shouting. Jay figured it to be Stacy after shaking the blur from his eyes. It was 4 am.

“Jay, are you in there? Wake up!”

“What is it?”

“It’s Stacy. The police just called the apartment. Your garage burnt down.”

“What?” Jay opened the door, “What are you talking about? When did this happen?”

“Oh Jay I’m so sorry. This is terrible. They just called.”

“Wait, why the police and not the fire guys?”

“They said it was lit deliberately.”

Jay sunk into the door frame but found no security there, “Shit. Can you drive me down? I didn’t bring a car from the garage.”

“Sure.”

The drive to the garage was short and silent. Jay was tired, angry and altogether disbelieving. When Stacy’s maroon hatchback pulled up at the police barricades Jay was no longer disbelieving or tired but twice as angry. His garage was more or less intact but it was blackened and swathed in smoke. The cars inside were destroyed and all his spare parts were burnt and ruined.

“What the fuck happened?” he shouted to the smouldering mess. Stacy tried to answer but was interrupted by a moustachioed fire-fighter.

“Looks like someone set fire to this garage. We found petrol and alcohol traces sprayed all over the place. Are you the owner?

“Damn right I am. Do they know who did it? If I get hold of that prick I will kick his teeth in.”

“You will have to ask the police. They are coordinating with the arson investigator. Just stay away from the building.”

Jay stood for a moment absorbing the catastrophe and then stormed over to a policeman.

“Hey who set fire to my garage? Did you find that son of a bitch?”

The policeman was casual, “I take it you’re the owner? Well we found who did it. We think. There were two other fires tonight. We found an older woman wandering around shit drunk and smelling of smoke – a Mrs Stevens I believe.” The cop flipped close the notebook that he had be scribbling in and wandered off.

Jay turned to Stacy.

“Shit. That crazy bitch set my house on fire. Why?” Jay ran his hands through his hair.

Stacy remained silent but put a lonely arm around Jay. Her nose was drooped and despondent.

“Can you drive me home? I will sort this mess out when I wake up properly.”

When Jay woke up he had a terrible head ache and smelled of smoke. He couldn’t decide what to do. He had insurance but it would still be a brutal blow. He would have to find another job. He determined to go to the police station and confront the culprit who burnt his life, and his mood, black. But he had no car. He bumped into Stacy in the hall.

“Hey. Thanks for the help last night. Could I borrow your car for today?”

Stacy was obliging even though Jay’s request was abrupt. Jay didn’t end up going to the station but instead went to the bar. He was told, while half drunk, by the friend of a cop, that the lady who burnt down his garage had had a mental breakdown. Apparently, in keeping with her new vibrant self, she had lost it when Mr Sanchez rejected her advances and had proceeded to get drunk and burn down buildings just to “spice up her life”. The orange fixation had been an outlet for her instability.

Jay didn’t care anymore. The alcohol had inspired him to lead a new life. One that was romantic and foolhardy. He wanted to be free. So he drove back to his apartment. He stormed into the hall and searched around until he found Stacy. He more or less swept her up in his arms and clumsily planted a kiss on her round lips.

Stacy was not shocked, “Oh piss off. You’re drunk!”

Jay got down on one knee and garbled out a string of words which he clarified seconds later, “Will you marry me?”

“Oh shut up.” Stacy hauled Jay to his room and threw him on the bed.

“It’s cruel of you to joke with me like that.”

Jay fell asleep. When he woke up he was sober and began to remember what he had done. He took a shower and got dressed into his best suit. He picked a few flowers from that measly front yard and knelt down in that same yard.

He screamed at the top of his lungs, “Stacy! Stacy! Get out here right now!”

Stacy came stomping out with a horrified look on her face, “Oh what the hell are you going to do now.”

Jay gave a massive grin, “I’m all sobered up. I have just realised that you are my flaming rose. But you are that rose that won’t burn my hand or remind me that life is miserable. I want you to be my wife, Stacy Scott.”

Stacy’s eyes widened but her nose lifted almost imperceptibly. She smiled. “I am so very confused but if you feel that way, Jay, I guess that I will have to say yes.”

Jay laughed and almost dragged Stacy off to the church to marry her right then. But he was stopped by both Stacy and her father. Jay married Stacy later that year. He discovered in her an orange, a flame, which would not burn or scar him.