Sept. 02, 2003 - 7:45 p.m.
Dear Vincent,
In response to your dissertation on the weather I can respond with only one thing- a bit of fiction. There's logic behind that somewhere I daresay. In any case, here is a short story I wrote on a whim. I have a friend Mike who delivers flowers aside from his regular job in politics. I elaborated on his statement "Red roses means the guy messed up" and voila, the un revised story below. Critics call it 'cute' and 'silly.' (Critics of course would be Diane and Saskia...)
"Queen Anne's Lace, In Your Face"
Mike was a flower delivery boy for the only flower shop in town Steel Magnolias (Please Dont) handled the floral needs of every event in his small town from taking ups, to break ups, to make ups as well as junior prom, senior prom, home coming, funerals, bar and bah mitzvahs, and once a reincarnation celebration. Flower delivery was supposed to be a cake walk, thought Mike. All smiles, and 'Did he reallys?' Mike should have known it was anything but when his boss offered a starting salary of ten fifty an hour. Mike nervously eyed the bouquet resting on the seat next to him. Red roses, babys breath, and Queen Annes Lace- a stunning selection with lavish love implications to the untrained eye. Mike knew better. Mike knew that red roses meant a guy had messed up. Not only had that guy messed up, but hed messed up irreparably. Red roses, indicated that the guy wasnt even sleeping on the couch anymore.
He was sleeping at Great Aunt Jillians awaiting the arrival of the restraining order, his c.d. collection (every one fractured right down the middle), and his dogs dead decaying body. Red roses, meant that the guy had stood at the front door and invited in the apocalypse.
Women who got red roses were friggin power kegs, thought Mike, wincing and rubbing his upper arm where Mrs. Smith had beaten him with thorny stems from the roses. The furious red scratches were fading but he could still hear her shrieking,
'Tell him he can shove these where the sun dont shine --expletive, expletive--- how dare you even come here with those you little ---expletive--- when I ---expletive--- think of what that....' the memory of her abrasive voice trailed off just as she fell into a steady stream of incoherent swearing. It was odd, thought Mike, how some people could make anything sound insulting.
Today had been a five star day. Daises, daffodils, and other harmless blooms. Thered only been one incident. Ninety eight year old Miss Johnson couldnt be convinced that Mike wasnt the one whod sent her the flowers.
'Youre such a nice, thoughtful boy' she insisted wrapping her decrepit old arms around him. She hugged him for a long time. Miss Johnson was so tiny, Mike could look right down at the top of her head and white hair, meshed beneath a rain bonnet. Why is she wearing a rain bonnet? He wondered glancing up at a flawlessly blue sky. It wasnt until Mike heard the bouquet hit the ground with a rustle behind his back that Mike realized why the hug was lasting so long. With her head plopped against his chest and arms wrapped tightly around him, Miss Johnson had gone to sleep.
Mike rolled his eyes remembering. Theyd never gone over the protocol for handling such things in floral delivery class. What to do if you delivered the wrong bouquet had been allotted its own day. For how to handle a customer with flower related allergies thered been a guest speaker. Hell, there had been a two day seminar on how long you could leave the air conditioning on in your car during the summer while delivering begonias, but there was never anything on the stuff you actually had to handle. Like how to avoid being beaten with begonias. Mike grimaced remembering the formidable blow Miss Connery had delivered to his cheek with begonias. It still smarted from time to time. And here he was, the last delivery of the day, street address twenty seventy four. Please, please, thought Mike, let her be so depressed shes docile.
Grabbing the bouquet he ambled up the lawn (un mowed) and hesitated slightly before ringing the doorbell. By the time the door creaked open, Mike had what he hoped was a benevolent smile plastered on his face.
There stood a smallish woman in her mid twenties. A white bathrobe hung wrinkled off of her pointy shoulders and her unbelievably blond hair was lank and unwashed about a thin face. Her eyes were red rimmed, mouth quavery, and her face paper pale. Mike relaxed and smiled with real sympathy. Surely, this slip and shadow of a woman, more trick of light than substance would have mercy on him. She didnt even know he was alive he realized, she was thinking of Paul, (Mike had glimpsed the name on the card.) He held the flowers out and even managed to cheerfully spew,
'Special delivery!' She looked at him hopefully, her eyes a brim.
'Paul?' she asked tearfully, 'from Paul?' her voice cracking on his name and an unsteady smile breaking across her wan face.
'I believe so maam.' affirmed Mike smiling genuinely. Her face alight with joy, she involuntarily reached out to gather the roses to her and in doing so dropped the tissue shed been clenching in her left hand and the dog eared book shed been dangling in her right. By the time the book hit the floor of the foyer with a sharp SLAP her face was buried in the roses. The noise drew both she and Mikes attention. The book had landed shut, title up. Printed in bold black boxy letters on the front it said, “EXTRACTING THE U FROM US.”
A picture of an attractive yet fierce woman glared from the front cover. Beneath the picture was a caption proclaiming, “Winner of the Feminist and Self Empowerment Book of the Year Award.” A chill stretched itself along Mikes spine. Frantically Mike prayed, by all thats good and decent, dont let this set her off. But even as he prayed her face was hardening and she began to slowly, deliberately, dangerously pluck one stalk of Queen Annes Lace from the bouquet and speak coldly and slowly,
“There is a flower that looks exactly like Queen Annes Lace which is fatally poisonous on contact.” Mike wore his smile like armor, and tried to sound friendly, interested and blameless,
“Really. I didnt know that.” he said more flatly than hed intended. She flicked the stalk in his face.
“That,” she continued bitingly, “is what Paul was like…” she flicked another stalk and Mike could feel his smile falter. Annunciating admirably she finished, “…deadly on contact.” Flick.
Like a slow motion sequence in a movie, Mike saw her draw her arm back and prepare to wallop him with the bouquet. Instinctively, Mike closed his eyes and he prepared for the bouquet to connect with his face, or something worse. Then, a twinge of something rebelled within Mike and just before the blow connected he ducked. ‘Swish went the bouquet over his head. Mike sprang back up and intercepted the bouquet deftly on its way back. With a bound, he leapt over the hedge bouquet in hand. His sneakers never even touched the grass as he sprinted for the truck. He sped away at thirty miles over the speed limit. He quit of his way home, and dropped the roses off the South Street Bridge into the river below. Upon arriving home, he stamped on every flower in the garden and felt that all was right with the world.
(The end.)
'Weather' you leave the Clowns or not, I can offer you my steadfast reassurance that I am still your fan and friend. I am not the fair weather fan or friend type. From what I can discern, you've weathered the upheaval in the Clowns admirably- I expect that with or without them, you will still handle it admirably.
Here the weather is awfully indecisive. It rains and in the morning it's chilly while by the time the day fades to evening it's sticky and warm. The thin sweater which seemed so appropriate in the morning becomes the second skin I long to shirk by afternoon. I confess I am ready for cold. Ready to be able to slip into concentration without being distracted by the tantalizing things happening outside. And ready to be able to justify my brisk walk with the lament, "It's frigid."
And in other news, I've picked up a course in creative writing at the local community college. We've been listening to introductions, most of them slightly sad. Almost everyone starts with a disclaimer of sorts, "My name is thus and so, and I'm weird, put up with it." The tone of almost every introduction has been self deprecating. It's all a defense disguised under the pretense of being honest. I suppose it's the "I'll insult myself now and beat you to it" method. Today a blond girl read her introduction in a voice nothing less than defiant. The highlight of it all, was her opinion of men: "I'm sorry guys, but boys are nothing but an accessory. I'd much rather be getting my life in order then wasting my time by spending it with guys." Most of the guys in the class visibly shrank and quite a few people exchanged nervous glances. It was the classic feminist, I'm a tough girl, I don't need anyone but me proclamation. But I find there's never much honesty behind that attitude. Vincent, so tempted was I to turn around and ask, "Who hurt you?" I suppose everyone goes through the "I am a rock, I am an island" phase, but when you come right down to it, very few people really feel that way. I think that such a claim really only comes from the unconquerable fear of being alone. I'm wondering how long it will take for people to realize that the fear of being alone, or exiled is our first commonality.
"Its sometimes difficult to have the four seasons existing at the same time in ones heart." Well said Vincent. What can I do but heartily concur?
Meekly,
Meghan
what they said - what they will say
