The Ogre’s Oranges

“There is a fifth dimension beyond that

which is known to man...

and it lies between the pit of man’s fears,

and the summit of his knowledge...

this is the dimension of imagination...”   Rod Serling

When I was eleven years old,

one of my routes home from elementary school 

took me by an old house with a tin roof and a screened-in cabana with several citrus trees in the front yard. The branches were so laden down with oranges that it gave new meaning to condensed orange juice.

Because I had a taste for a juicy orange

after school one day,

my taste for the forbidden fruit

lead me to the ogre's house.

It was the one with the tin roof

and screened in cabana

and several orange trees clustered with

the biggest, juiciest looking oranges

that would make any Florida boy lick his chops.

As I neared the yard

the black car normally parked

at the back of the house was gone.

So as I softly laid my bicycle down,

I looked up and down the road,

and quickly surveyed the surrounding houses.

Thinking that the coast was clear, I

reached for the fattest-looking orange

that I could find.

As soon as my fingers

softly touched the skin of the fruit,

a bodiless voice bellowed

from within the cabana.

"What are you doing?"

Quickly, my hand fell to my side.

I was rattled to the core.

Somebody was home!

Before I could thaw my tongue out to speak,

the same ominous voice yelled out.

"You pick that orange and

I’ll call the police!”

He threatened. 

"Now, you get on out of here

before I call the police!”

He growled in a low raspy voice.

I shot out of there faster

than any rocket off the Cape.

If the story ended there

the lesson learned that fateful day

would have been sufficient.

On the following day

while on duty as a safety patrol

at a busy road crossing,

that missing black car appeared

inside the school zone!

The grill with its large

shiny metallic fangs

gave the appearance of

a dark savage beast

flashing its teeth at its prey -- me,

an already repentant would-be orange thief.

As the dark four-wheeled creature

slowly rolled in front of me,

it made its visible presence known.

It took on the shape of a fragile old man

with a wretched facial expression of an ogre.

As he scowled at me with his piercing dark eyes,

the ogre bored a hole right through my

safety patrol badge of honor...

Drenched in guilt,

I felt ashamed for trying to steal an orange.

His demeanor was so hideous,

it reminded me of

the wicked Witch of the West,

riding around on a broomstick

intimidating and terrorizing the countryside.

"I'll get you my pretty and your little dog, too!” Thank God I didn't have a dog!

I was terrified.

Now he knew where to find me!

Turning over in my mind,

as if it were an engine

running in the red,

were his haunting words to me

and my greatest fear, 

"I'll call the police; he knows where to find me!" 

My day was ruined; my life was ruined...

He reappeared the next day

inside the school zone;

he was traveling slightly faster

than a snail on hot pavement.

With my heart pounding,

I pretended not to notice him

passing by in his dark steed.

For the third consecutive day,

he passed by me daring me

to look into his glaring eyes.

I dreaded my duty,

the ogre, and

his toothy beast.

Oh, how I wished that I hated oranges!

By the fourth morning,

he must have wearied of the chase.

For in-the-zone or out-of-the-zone,

I never laid eyes upon him again.

Ever so often, I would muster up the courage

to ride past the scene of the averted crime.

Once I caught a glimpse of the toothy black beast 

stabled in the backyard.

The ogre was probably watching from his cabana...

There was still more fruit

dangling from those overproducing trees.

More than one ogre could possibly eat

and more that fell without hands,

a mixture of brown and orange

huddled together in slow decay

on the ground.

I could picture that old ogre

using the cabana

like some kind of duck blind,

to catch some other unsuspecting boy

wanting to partake of the forbidden fruit.

Lurking in the shadows

somewhere in that cabana

an ogre stood vigil,

patiently waiting

to feast upon another boy's fear

when caught orange-handed.

"Enter the twilight zone."

My hands kept to the handlebars.

A 1950 black two-door Dodge Desoto,
just like the toothy beast in my story.