The Juice Man

The first time I went to the Juice Man, I was having a pretty lousy day. I had argued with my boss about being late for work since I had an appointment. It wasn't even really anything important, just a haircut, but I was trying to put my foot down, since we never got a day or even a lunch hour off. I told him I was going to be late one day, and he flipped. It was one of the first really hot days of the year, and I was warm and thirsty. I was rushing back to work and getting onto the T, when I saw a little fresh-squeezed juice stand inside the station. I've always been a fan of juices, smoothies, you name it. So I went over and was trying to decide what I wanted, when the Juice Man suggested, "Try our Mango-Peach-Orange. It's the special today. The mangoes are very fresh, excellent." So I tried it. "I put a twist of lemon in for you," he said, sagely. I nodded. He put a little umbrella in the juice for me. I laughed. "To your health!" he declared as I tried the juice. It was excellent. Amazing. I thanked him, paid him, and was on my way.

I sat on the train drinking my juice. I felt so much better. I could almost feel all the vitamins from the fresh fruit juice getting into all my cells and doing their restorative work. I felt more awake, rehydrated, refreshed. Then it hit me: I would quit my job. I was perfectly qualified to do any number of things, I could always go back to school, I didn't need to spend another summer slaving away in an office without air conditioning. So I quit.

The next time I visited the Juice Man, I had the Papaya-Mango-Orange. His assistant asked me how it tasted and waited until I had a sip and saw that I was satisfied before he would let me walk away with the juice. Such attention to detail! No one walks away unhappy from the Juice Man. I got on the train and sipped my juice, which was icy cold and delicious. I could feel my stomach's knots unraveling. I looked around the train, and it was as if I were seeing more clearly than before, seeing things I wouldn't have noticed normally. Instead of burying my face in a book, I looked around at the other passengers, at the expressions on their faces, of delight, or exhaustion, or excitement, or indifference. I saw the way the sunlight started creeping into the subway car as the train went above ground to cross the river. Suddenly I noticed a symbol. It was the Egyptian eye, three of them, lined up in a row, across from me. One on a woman's necklace, one on a man's bag, and another one on a woman's shirt: three third eyes. I decided this meant I should trust my instincts.

I determine that the juice from the Juice Man has magical powers. Restorative, cleansing, third-eye-opening powers. I go home and tell my fiance about the juice and its powers. He wants me to take him to the Juice Man so we can have juice together. I promise to do so. He is such a beautiful man, my fiance. He explains about how it would be too much if we could use our intuitive higher consciousness all the time, we would be overwhelmed with information, but sometimes it opens just a little and we can take in a symbol and process it later. He believes me about the juice.

I try to tell a few other people about the juice, but they scoff. "What's in it, coke?" one friend says. "What's in it, ginseng?" says another. No, no, I explain, nothing but fresh fruit. Very fresh, absolutely fabulous fruit in wonderful combinations. Anything you like. If you don't know what you want, the Juice Man will tell you what you need. He uses only fresh fruit, nothing else. Not even frozen fruit. And he tells you jokes and stories as you wait in line, because he hand peels and cuts each individual fruit right as you order the juice, so it takes some time. You have to wait for juice that good.

I become obsessed with the Juice Man. I go there every day, sometimes more than once a day, even though it's not on the way to anywhere I would normally go. If I miss a day, I get upset. "Today I had Apple-Celery-Carrot," I tell my sister. "It made my headache go away." She doesn't care. "Today I had Orange-Banana-Pear," I tell my co-worker, "and my hands stopped hurting!" She looks at me as if I am crazy. Oh, the delightful combinations of fruit and vegetables I get from the Juice Man are astounding. Apple-Orange-Mango! Grape-Blueberry-Banana! Kiwi-Lemon-Orange! Lemon-Lime-Apple! The possibilities are endless. Anything that is slightly wrong, the juice will fix! Are you feeling sad? Have some Papaya-Lemon-Orange! I watch the Juice Man look at people, decide what they need, and give it to them. A woman stands in line, sniffling, coughing, hunched over. The Juice Man prescribes lemon. I am a big fan of lemons, I find them to be very uplifting. He tells her, "You need lemon. You have a cold; lemon fix you right up. Vitamin C." And he is right! It is pure science, pure magic, pure intuition. He knows if someone has a stomach ache and gives her something with papaya. "To your health!" he toasts customers as they take their first sip of juice. They smile. Their problems are solved. The Juice Man is a beatific Buddha, dispensing the advice, the fruit, the touch of kindness that people need in their diets, in their days.

The Juice Man is married. He wears a wedding ring. I imagine his wife is very happy, with clear skin and glowing eyes and no digestive problems. I picture them with children raised on diets of juice, happy, intelligent, charming. The Juice Man is a large man, tall. Not too fat, and not too skinny, but robust. He looks energetic, but calm. He is happy as he peels mangoes. How many of us could be happy peeling mangoes in a subway station all day? The Juice Man is. One time while we were chatting, as I waited for my juice, I told him I used to live in New York; it turns out he once did, too. He looks at me, smiles. "You did the right thing, moving here," he told me.

Photo by Jeffry Pike
Copyright © 2001 The President and Fellows of Harvard College.
All rights reserved. Comments. Last modified Thu, Sep 20, 2001.