Orange

“Hey guys,” I said to Steve, Mark, and Bruce when I walked up to them at the 244. Clones, every one of them – white t-shirt, tight Levi’s, black cowboy boots, 2-inch-thick black leather belt with am embossed silver buckle, handlebar moustache, buzzed hair. And a Corona in the right hand, thumb dangling out of the right pocket of the jeans. With a lime popping out the top.

Into their circle there I came – smooth-faced, long blonde hair. Khaki shorts. With pleats, for crying out loud.. And white tennis shoes with pink laces. Not to mention the shirt.

“How do you guys like my new black shirt?” I said. If only my voice would drop an octave when I was nervous. But no, Truman Capote saddled forth instead.

“What’re you talking about, buddy? Your shirt’s orange.” Steve, Mark, and Bruce looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.

The joke fell flat. Okay, damage control time.

“Sure … but isn’t orange the new black?”

Dead silence. They looked at each other, eyes wide.

“Okay, then,” Mark said, after fifteen seconds that seemed like an hour. “Over here, buddy. Lemme buy you a Corona. With a lime.”