The Sunday Night Orange Story Hour

An origin story of a storytelling story.

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:04

Welcome to Dispatches from Kent. Conditions remain inconclusive. By the time the Sunday night orange story hour became a regular occurrence in Kent, most people assumed it had always existed. That was not true. It was actually a relatively new occurrence, one that began with oranges. For many years, oranges in Kent were sold by Baron Holt, who kept a wooden cart near the edge of the square. Baron was methodical. He stacked his oranges carefully, wiped them with a cloth, and spoke very little. People trusted him. His prices were fair and rarely changed, which mattered to those who preferred stability in small things. And then Calixa Ruin arrived with a second cart. Calixa set up across the square, close enough to be irritating to Baron. Her oranges were similar in size and color, though she did not bother arranging them. She sold them for less. Baron watched her from a distance. She seemed utterly uninterested in his oranges, or him for that matter. He crossed the square that afternoon. I sell oranges, he said. Calixa looked at his cart and then at her own. So do I. I mean I'm the orange seller, Baron said. People come to me for their orange needs. They always have and they always will. Calixa considered this. That seems unlikely. Baron was frustrated. The ministry told him that Calixa had a perfect right to sell oranges just as he did. Baron narrowed his eyes and said, This cannot stand. Something must be done. The price lowering began. Baron shaved a few pennies off his price. Calixa followed. He lowered the price again, quickly followed by Calixa. The square filled with watchers as prices continued to drop. Eventually both sellers were paying people to take their oranges, and the amounts climbing steadily as though daring the other to stop. At its height, a man brought a chair and rang a small bell whenever the offer increased. Another man began chalking numbers on a board. One evening, long after the crowd had drifted away, Baron walked over to Calixa's cart. His pockets were empty, his shoulders sagged. I'm out of coins, he said, but I'll tell you something. Calixa leaned against her cart. Go on. Baron hesitated and then spoke. He told her about a morning years earlier when he had opened his cart too early before the sun had reached the square. He said the oranges looked unfamiliar in the dim light, as if they belonged to someone else. He remembered thinking, briefly, that if he walked away then, no one would ever know he had sold oranges at all. When he finished, he shrugged. That's all. Calixa smiled. That was a good story, she said. She reached into her cart and handed him an orange. Here. Baron took it without comment. The next evening, Calixa crossed the square. Your story reminded me of something, she said. Baron waited. She told him about a time when she had moved so often she sometimes unpacked a cart, only to realize she had already sold the same oranges in another town. Good story, Baron said. He handed her an orange. They continued. Some nights the stories were longer, some nights they were small, nearly forgettable. Each time an orange changed hands. Sometimes it was the same one. Sometimes a fresh orange appeared, though no one could say when the decision had been made to allow this. People began to linger. One night a boy stepped forward. Can I tell a story for an orange? he asked. Caliksa and Baron looked at each other. Why not? Baron said. The boy told a story about a cat and mouse who became friends and traveled the world in a hot air balloon. He received an orange and sat down carefully, as if holding something fragile. From then on, it was understood. On Sunday nights people gathered. They stood, they spoke, they listened. Oranges were exchanged for stories, new ones for new voices. A notice eventually appeared on the public board, referring to the gatherings as citrus narration exercises. No one in Kent had paid actual money for an orange ever since. Barron left the orange business and began selling eggs he got from Calixa's new chicken farm. Some Sundays you could see them sitting next to each other in lawn chairs, listening to the Sunday night orange stories, like proud parents watching children at a recital. What had begun as a business standoff quietly reclassified itself as a tradition, which in Kent was the closest thing to a resolution. This is your correspondent eating an orange received for this very dispatch. Conditions remain inconclusive.