Daisies
The day we met, I was wearing black. Of course I wore black back then more often then I do now. I still wear black. But back then it was just black. Boots, jeans, shirt, jacket. Done. Makes dressing easier, that’s for sure, but it’s not really the kind of attire you would expect someone to wear at a flower shop. And that is where I work.
Alexander’s Flowers is on Newark Avenue in Jersey City. It’s a busy street. There’s crime, sure, but in the daytime it’s pretty uh... well, yeah. It’s pretty. You get a good feeling like something groovy is going on here. Some sort of invisible, positive force that keeps most people in good spirits. The women here strut like runway models on sidewalks turned catwalks with bouquets of fried chicken wrappers strewn about. To me, they’re just clones, though. It's not really my bag. Not my scene. Neon leggings. Fedoras. Faded tees from the 90's. They're all gorgeous and the worst thing is they know it.
Anyway, I walk into work at 11am, same as everyday. Only this day it's Friday. I am a bit more chipper since the weekend is only seven hours away. When my boss, Mr. Alexander, recites the only joke he knows-that I wear too much black for a flower shop- I give him a smile today. A little smile. Normally I don’t smile but shit, it’s Friday, right? I even make a joke to him.
"Come on, Mr. A. I got some white, see?" pointing to the black and white Vibrators pin I wore that day on my lapel. He raises his eyebrows and closes his eyes. Lifts his hands up above his shoulders.
Fridays.
I shuffle past the immense flower pots and carefully maneuver myself by the cacti plants I will soon have to rearrange. I clock in on an ancient computer behind the desk just to the left of the front entrance. I get to my tasks for the day while Mr. A works the numbers in the back room. I'm the hands-on guy, you could say. I start unpacking immense boxes of soil, re-arranging pots, checking the phone messages, and sweeping out the trapped dirt where the wall meets the grey, concrete floor. There isn't a whole lotta room to move but I get it done.
Mr. A doesn't allow music to be played in here, and that’s fine with me. Not to say I don’t love music, but I know the silence allows me to sort out all of the shit in my head. I'm sweeping away, thinking about last night's news brief: four kids shot outside their middle school in Harlem. An ugly world. Otherwise, the only sounds in here are the brief conversations between me and Mr. A and the customers, and those are somewhat rare. Though sometimes I pretend the flowers are talking to me, telling me they're thirsty. I get up to water them.
As I fill up the watering pot from the back sink, Mr. A calls me into his office. Says he wants me to throw out whatever hasn’t sold and is starting to go bad. As I make my watering run, I look over all of the flowers. There are a few here and there that I toss into the wastebasket. But for the most part, the demand is high enough on many of the flowers that we constantly order in new seeds and get the customers what they want. It's April, the flowers are out. People are gonna want flowers in April.
There is only one flower whose sales constantly fall flat: the white daisies. I can see that their centers are starting to brown out slightly, and that the tips are curling inwards towards their thinning stems. They have about five or six days before they're totally dead, but I use my assistant-managerial judgment (that's what Mr. A calls it) and decide to toss them.
Eight bouquets of unsold white daisies. Why the hell does Mr. A keep ordering them? I never went to business school or anything, but even I know the idea of supply and demand. He's the boss, I suppose. If he wants to throw out his money, that's his decision.
As I lift up the lid to the trash can, someone is honking his horn and shouting, "Hey!" I turn around. A man on a baby blue Vespa pulls to the curb and shuts off his engine. He picks up his pace towards me as he removes his white, open-face helmet. I look him over. He's got some tight looking blue-jeans and a good deal of black scruff hanging from his face. I never understood people who didn't shave.
He asks me if I'm throwing out the daisies, and I tell him that I am. He tells me he'll give me ten bucks for the bouquets as he is already opening up his wallet. I make sure Mr. A isn't peering in through the window, and we make our exchange.
"What's your name?" the scooter-man asks me.
"Jason. Nice to meet you," I say sticking out my hand, though I'm peering down at his white boat shoes. He tells me his name is Ricky. Then he notices my Vibrators pin and it's just, WHAM. We hit it off. Tells me his favorite records of 1977 and we get into a playful argument. He says he loves the Pistols, I say they're overrated, but that I really love The Jam. "That mod shit's great," I say. It's a point I know the two of us will agree on since he's driving a scooter. He tells me he's in a bar rock band called the Nukes. [I check them out later that night on myspace, not really my style but it's alright.]
Then he talks to me about flowers. He says it's a waste for "beauty" to get thrown out like that. I remember the way he said "beauty", briefly looking for the word before he finally said it. He wants to know if he can come by next week and pick up anything else that's garbage-bound. I tell him that's just fine. He puts the bouquets in his backpack, making sure they won't get smushed, and speeds away.
It's warming up inside, so I take off my jacket and hang it on the dark-brown coat stand. I realize that the wooden stand is covered in dust and then I remember that Friday is my day to clean. I walk back behind the computer desk, and I notice something. It's nothing, really, but the late-April sun is piercing through the dirty windows and is spotlighting the floating particles of dust. They just float there and move about like a tiny ballet performance. Most people just erase over all that with a bottle of Windex and wood cleaner, and I suppose that includes myself. I stare at it a bit more before I grab the cleaning supplies from the back closet.
When all the windows are clean and the shelves are dusted I take a step back just to make sure I did a good job. I can't say that my work at the flower shop is difficult because it's not. I might as well make sure I do a good job. I give it a little inspection and then I realize, and I know this is going to sound stupid, that I work in a flower shop, and I just glare at all of the color that surrounds me.
Roses. Roses so rich I feel an urge to blend them up and paint my walls with them. "Red walls could work," I mumble to myself. My walls have been white since the day I moved into my apartment. And the carnations. They're so much more fluffy-looking then I remember, almost like a strawberry pastry. And these sunflowers have never been so vibrant until this moment.
But I'm not used to any of this. I tell Mr. A that I am going out to get some coffee. "Fine, my boy," he says like he's my grandfather or something. I grab my jacket and head out.
I'm walking a few blocks to get to the deli I always go to. There are two delis on the way, but I always go to the same Arab guys everyday. This is my second cup of coffee today. And shit, there's a homeless guy standing outside. He's gonna hold the door for me. I know the routine: he holds the door, I walk in, get my coffee, walk out and he asks for some change. It's just a guilt trip, really. I hate guilt trips. I never asked him to hold the door, so why should I pay him? I only got a few quarters for my coffee anyway. That and a twenty. I'm gonna give him my twenty? No way.
Yeah, he holds the door. I'm waiting at the counter now. The two Arabs are laughing. I don't doubt that it's about me. I'm a bit impatient, but they stop laughing and one of them, the one with the glasses says, "Back again, buddy? What I can get you?" What I can get you. God. I ask for another cup of coffee. "You just like it black, yes? Same as your clothes? No milk and sugar?" He asks me the questions in machine-gun-like succession so that "milk and sugar" sound like one word: milknsugar.
You see, anyone who has ever been somewhere again and again knows the feeling of pride when an order-taker finally recognizes you enough to know exactly what you like and how you like it. So just like that, I'm smiling again. "Black, that's right," I say. "I'm plenty sweet enough." The three of us have a good laugh. I fish for my 75 cents, but my old wallet is filled with little bits of crust and is a bit sweaty, so the coins just adhere to the old leather. I give it another shake.
"Hey, boss. Don't worry about it," says the other Arab.
"Really?" I ask in amazement. These are the same two guys that charge me ten cents for a fucking set of matches. I've never known them to give anything out for free. I need confirmation. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, of course!" he says. "You have good weekend." I tell him that I hope that they both have good weekends, and flash them a peace sign. They return with the same gesture.
I walk outside, and I'm thinking about what just happened. I get half way down the block before it hits me. I pivot on the heel of my boots. He's still there just looking at his shoes. Never said a word. That, too, is a first. I hustle back towards him and give a good shake of my wallet and hand the homeless man all of my change.
"God bless you, my brother," he says as if something has been taken away from him. It can't be easy. April nights are still freezing.
"Hey," I tell him. "You have a good weekend." I walk back to the shop sipping my hot, black coffee.
I get back to work at the shop. Some weekly regulars come in, and I try and remember what they want. Tulips, right? Oh, daffodils. I'm sorry. But they're not offended. "That's OK!" they tell me all cheery-like. Still, I make a mental Post-It note. Next time, remember that they buy daffodils. Mr. A has been watching the whole transaction take place. When they leave, he says that I look more "uppity" today. I tell him I'm in a good mood. It's Friday.
The hours press forward steadily, and before I realize what’s happening, it’s six 'o clock. Time to clock out. "You did a wonderful job today, Jason," Mr. A tells me.
"Thank you Mr. A," I say, reaching for my black leather jacket. I turn around and walk towards him. I'm looking right at him and I watch his slight, almost smug smile melt into an expression of complete puzzlement. His eyes are twice as wide now. And then I realize why. I'm coming in for a hug.
I have worked for Mr. A for two years. Never have I hugged him nor any other boss I have ever worked for. Never. But I hug Mr. A, and after one second, he hugs me and gives me a few pats on the back.
"See you Monday, Mr. A."
So that night I'm lying on my bed drinking my third cup of coffee. I'm reading the Iggy Pop biography, but I'm just letting the words pass through me. I'm not absorbing any of the text. This day has been too crazy for me in its own sort of everyday, routine way, you know? I'm contemplating going to the bar down the street when my friend texts me and asks if I want to go out to the lower east side. It's Morrissey Night at Sway Lounge, he reminds me.
As all of my friends know, I normally stay confined to my twelve-block-radius in Jersey City. But I'm feeling adventurous, and the coffee is making me restless so I tell him that I'll go. He even sweetens the deal and says that the first drink is on him. I throw my peacoat over my leather jacket and head out the door.
It's cool outside, but not nearly as cool as it was last week. There won't be many days left where I'll get to wear this peacoat. I love my peacoat. I walk past men and women all dressed up. Many of them are smoking cigarettes. The neighborhood is more alive on Friday night then any other time of the week, and it reminds me of some sort of lavish event from the 1970s that we are all excited to attend. I've got the Jam playing on my iPod.
But when I get to the entrance of the PATH train, I feel a wave of heat. It's frustration sweeping over me. Friday night is terrible for the PATH train. It's about as reliable as a dead-beat dad, and hotter down there than piss on a summer sidewalk.
The mother. Fucking. PATH train.
I am sure there are few things in life that I hate more, but right now, nothing comes to mind. Reggaeton, maybe. I contemplate just turning around and getting drunk locally, but I promised my friend I'd show, and I haven't seen him in a long while. So I take a deep breath, and make my way down the stairs. The goddamn card machine makes me swipe my Metrocard three times before it registers. I'm off to a bad start.
I have to take off my coat and my leather jacket as I wait for the 33rd street train. A train bound for the World Trade Center arrives rather quickly. Just my luck, it's not the one I need. I'm sitting on the wooden benches. "They'd make pretty good torture devices," I think to myself, what with its dividers basically cutting off blood circulation to my ass. I grind my teeth and stare at a few rats racing along the train rails. To my right is a black girl sitting on her boyfriend's lap. It looks like they are trying to devour each others' faces. Christ, they are practically fucking in public. I pick up my coat and my jacket and walk down the platform.
I spend the next eight minutes just walking back and forth avoiding gum on the floor. Goddamn land mines are what they are. I switch my music to Bauhaus and furiously rip Bubblicious from my heel. These posters advertising PATH train courtesy are so aggravating. I don't even want to say what I would do if somebody didn't hold the train door for me because the fucking poster told them not to. Over the music, I hear the obnoxiously loud horn. This time, it is my train. I will soon be on Spring Street soon getting loaded. But as the train slows down to a scraping stop, I can already see it: the most brilliant blur of white I have ever witnessed. The doors open, and I step in.
There, hanging from each of the overhead bars, are hundreds of white daisies.
Some are on the floor, and a few are resting on the seats. A couple of college girls are seated with the daisies in their hair. It was all Ricky. This is exactly what he wanted. And somehow, in undoubtedly the most creative way possible, he had transformed the PATH train, a place so devoid of beauty and serenity into a remarkable, subterranean garden of white.
I sit down in my seat. My neck swivels to check out the cars to my left and right. They, too, have daisies strung all around. I glance at the passengers. They're just smiling and laughing like they're in kindergarten again. This is one of the best spectacles I have ever seen. That is, of course, until at the next stop, you step on the train and sit directly across from me.
You are wearing your rectangular glasses. When you see me, your eyebrows lift up above the frames. You smile and quickly look down at the ground when our eyes meet. I bring my head down towards my shoulders to get a better look at you, and you finally look back up at me, like we're playing tag with our eyes. You ask me what I'm listening to. Up until that point, I had always hated that question. Now I don't mind.
"Bauhaus,” I say.
"Really? Is everything OK?" you ask, half smiling. I cannot believe you know who Bauhaus is. Girls your age...our age...don't typically listen to Bauhaus.
"Everything is great, actually," I say. I stand up and grab one of Ricky's daisies from the bar and hand it to you. You just smile and look down at your feet again.
"My name is Jason," I say. "What's yours?"
And so now you know why I laughed-why I still laugh just to think about it-when I recall how your picked your head up, held your daisy to your little, triangular nose, and told me in such a sweet and honest tone, "It's Lily."
