The Summer I turned sixteen I got a job working in a little fruit and veggie store in bustling beach-side street, squeezed in between the greasy heat of the renowned Fish Monger - and a Real Estate agent, that for reasons I still can't fathom was home to an award winning giant goldfish that sat in the window display, attracting far more attention than the conventional three bedroom, two bathroom-er.
Settling into the eccentric microcosm of staff in the store, I met an aspiring policeman who worked the juice bar by day and volunteered as a chef at a homeless shelter at night, two wide-eyed yet dreamy sisters whose interest in all varieties of mushrooms never ceased to amaze me, a red-headed earth child with a passion for all things organic, New Zealand's answer to Kath and Kim embodied in one 'beauty school' queen and last but not least a senior who gained my respect the day I spotted a My Little Pony tattoo inked onto her shoulder.
It became a cyclic routine for me, wake up at 6am, ride down on my bike - basket full of beach gear for afterwards and begin cutting, stacking, juicing and selling fruit. First in would always be Grace, pulling up at 6:15 on the dot in her nippy little red car, hair and makeup effortlessly perfect and ready for a walk on the beach - she'll have an orange, pineapple and mango juice, but none of the frozen shit, the mango has to be fresh off the shelf, straight from the Rocklea Markets. Then a little later will be Matt, fresh from the surf and dripping salt water all down the back off his overturned wetsuit onto the floor - he'll have an acai smoothy without the muesli. Occasionally a visiting Brazilian surfer I befriended out past the break at Burleigh one morning will pop in, smiling shyly behind the stacks of pineapples, waiting for me to notice him before he comes in to place his order - a no.8 with extra blueberries please. The day would meander along, I would wander along stacking more fruit and rotating the tomatoes in the humidity. Occasionally Dave would come in with his daughter Tilly, paint splattered down her front from painting and a croissant from the bakery coveted in one hand, a no.2 and a no.7 for them. Just before I clocked off at two, my favourite customer Ray would arrive. Rugged looking and dry as a desert, he would walk on in, mismatching patterned clothes, typical of his perpetual bachelor lifestyle and order his special "no.8 with garlic and parsley," never forgetting to add his signature line "no legal advice" which clearly meant "no ice."
The happy chatter of customers and the fresh smell of fruit became such a routine for me, getting to know this eclectic bunch of locals and realising how so much as a tiny conversation can make someones day really impacted me over the eighteen months I stayed there and I dreaded having to leave my zesty world of not only exotic fruit and vegetables, but personalities.
I went down to the fruit store this weekend to pick my sister up, who now works there and as I pulled up I spotted the back of a a checkered pair of boar dshorts, coupled with a striped shirt heading off towards the Real Estate Agents, vibrant red juice in hand...I sure hope she didn't give him any legal advice.
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