Dear Gallon of Orange Juice,

Just last Sunday I picked you up from your brightly lit case at Bowery Whole Foods. Why I picked you, only God can say. Had I not picked you, your fate surely would have traced a different course. Just last Sunday, I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Liev Schrieber, the Brando of our generation, and we together eyed the rows and columns of fresh squeezed juice, a tropical spreadsheet. His hand, which is also the Brando's hand of our generation, reached out and plucked your citrus brother from his place while I grabbed your handle and threw you, callously, on top of a bunch of asparagus I had picked up next to The Soprano's Will Janowitz.

And so off you went with me, while Liev, cradling your brother in his arms, strolled without you to buy some organic strawberries. Don't be cross with me, my gallon. Be happy your twin is resting in a $20,000 Sub Zero fridge, waking up to Naomi Watts in some flimsy nightie, and bringing him to her lips for a long cool drink. You, on the other hand, have me to contend with, ridden with halitosis and no starlets. Your only friends in our rattling jalopy of a fridge is a tub of brackish mayonnaise and a tallboy.

It's no wonder, therefore, that you are becoming less and less present by the day. You were fully there on Sunday afternoon and by Sunday night, you had ebbed and retreated. Do not go gently, dear Orange Juice, for though you may perish, as soon as April 7th in fact, your brother is somewhere in the GI tract of one of the greatest actors of our generation.


Joshua David Stein