Chapter 1: Tabula Rasa
Shock works that way. A person runs on automatic. I read that once. Like an old movie projection camera rolling in slow motion. Click, click, click. The film sticks. Celluloid melts. My fate-- part of the mangled frames. I never believed in fate until now.
"Wes, you make your fate," my father used to say.
Tabula rasa. Blank slate. Clean slate. Or Fate? Was it easier to blame Fate? Or easier yet to blame myself?
I recall some of what happened before, but like celluloid shredded in that projector's wheel beyond repair I wonder--who I am--really?
The day started uneventful. I opened the flower shop at 8:00 am by flipping the "We're Open" sign in the front window. A quiet end of the work week, and the neatly written delivery orders for the day all organized-- waiting for me to pull out from today's delivery box.
Saturday.
Deliver to, deliver when and
deliver what.
All written in black or blue
ink.
I'm a 'flower designer'. Years ago, when I decided to go into the profession, the regulars at local bar my dad frequented teased me with cliché homosexual barbs-- "Hey, gay boy. Wanna twist my tulip?" To my father, it was no joke. Hell, my father asked me, "What are you-- some fag? Only pansies play with the flowers all day," or "do you have to wear that smock after work, too?"
I saw it another way altogether.
This profession orders my life. I feel calm and centered arranging flowers. Little stress except on Valentine's and Mother's Day. For the most part, clientele are thoughtful and kind. After all, aren't they thinking of others when they buy? I love this job. I don't make much. But my aspirations are modest-- to own my own shop one day. Let those who believe that only gay men work in flower shops be damned. Besides, every floral designer wears a smock-- it's practical.
It's beauty. It's nature. It's trying to improve on beauty and nature. There are days I wonder, will this woman receiving this centerpiece think I've improved on the simple beauty or will she think it's a travesty? Is it silly to even try to improve on what God made?
Why stop there? How silly was it to even try to change my father's mind?
Then there are other days. The days I'd think about quitting the flower design business. The creative half of my life calls. Playing guitar in a rock band isn't respectable employment. At least it doesn't make respectable income. The world is filled with talented washed up old musicians. I'm not old yet, but hey, some of the guys in the band are. They've dreamed that same old dream. That same dangling golden carrot of fame that keeps me chasing too. But Mac's Place, the local dive, or what ever trumped up place the recent manager has us play, wouldn't pay the mortgage. While live entertainment is refreshing next to dead floral recipients and jumping on stage better than waiting on family members of the dearly departed, I can't exist on the few measly dollars paid on weekends playing with the band.
Designing wreaths and funeral baskets during the day-- playing my Gibson at night, my dad had another word for a guy who does this: "bum."
I read over the orders and started working. Alan will come in about 9:30 to deliver flowers then water the green house. I dislike Alan. He's the only one who works here or ever worked here that I've disliked. Actually, I like about everyone. But for Alan, the male slut, I make an exception. I don't like his casual attitude toward women. He's a user. I've watched him seduce one nice girl after another then throw them aside like old newspapers-- the one too many came after he broke my sister Karen's heart.
He'll never change.
I had plenty of time to design the thirteen orders on the board-- with a funeral at 11:00 and a couple of the orders asking for morning delivery. I noticed one asked for last delivery of the day; I'd taken it. I can't remember when. Sometimes orders get as jumbled in my head as my scratchy handwriting on the forms.
I walked out the back room door down the well worn stairs to the walk-in cooler. The chill made welcome goose bumps on my arms. The hot summer morning fell away inside. I stood a moment and wrapped my arms around myself in one big hug-- just feeling alive. I thought, hey, maybe this is kind of a gay thing to do, but I needed to shake off the feeling I've had since the moment I got out of bed that morning. The kind of feeling that makes a person think this is trouble. That this day is not gonna be good. I tried to put a name to this feeling-- to this day-- as I stood crisp and chilled inside the cooler, but a name wouldn't come. Instead I bent and pulled three bunches of the baker fern from the large waxed box at my feet. I gathered seven yellow glads, a bunch of bronze mums, eight or so mixed carnations and pushed the feeling from my mind.
Hands full, I walked back up the steps happy I didn't need to fill out any of the cards. My boss always bitches about my handwriting. The boss wrote them for me the day before mumbling-- "I hired you because you're a good, fast designer, but I sure wished I'd known you wrote like a second grader."
Proved I'm not a fag. Now, if I was gay, I'd have neat and flowery handwriting-- not chicken scratch.
Today I planned to be a good, fast designer. I planned to leave work early and enjoy what was left of the nice hot July day... cool lake water, hot sand, a few Millers, relax.
Saturdays at the flower shop were generally a bust. Most afternoons, we employees closed the doors early without missing a single call. I hoped today's the same. I always called the local funeral homes first and made sure no one important died. When I'd tell my friends I did this, they'd tell me it sounds crass, but I explained, that's the way the business works.
I was on the phone taking an order when Alan pulled up in the shop's Michigan, cancer ridden, Ford van. Brakes announcing his arrival from half way down the block. The boss needed to invest in new brake shoes. The over used delivery truck had been resuscitated too many times over. Alan lovingly referred to the van as his Long Tall Sally. I think she's about the only girl in a hundred mile radius that he hasn't tried to screw.
Alan stumbled up the steps. Jeez this guy never quits partying. Alan smelled of a special blend of Old Spice and Aqua Velva, completely out of place on the flower room floor. He deludes himself into thinking that splashing around, aftershave after one of his regular benders, covers stale cigarette smoke, pot and whiskey.
I finished taking the order long before Alan schlepped up the steps.
"Late night again," I observed.
"It was fantastic, wow. You should been there, wow. The music was so loud I can still feel the vibration in my brain, man. Wow..."
God. Did he consciously punctuate his sentences with "wow" or was he really that fucking dense?
"Anyhow, did you know that the weirdest thing happened there last night," Alan said eyes shut, rubbing his forehead. "Wow, me and Sid were sittin' at the bar between the bands sets. We were talkin' to this dude...I can't remember his name. Anyhow he asks me, 'Don't you work at that flower shop?' and I say, 'You mean Keller's Greenhouse?' and he answers, 'Yeah, I thought I saw you today when I ordered flowers. You're supposed to deliver them to my mom tomorrow.' I said, 'Wow.'"
"What the fuck's weird about that?" I studied Alan. His eyes still shut-- a confused look on his face, then a bit of clarity-- remembering.
"It's not what he said, it was how he said it. The way he acted," he hesitated, waiting for the words to come. "After the guy went back to his table, he kept staring at us all night long. Sid said he even followed him into the John. I think he is some pervert or something."
"Wish I was there," I said. Oh Hell, why even try to hide the sarcasm in my voice? I sighed and added, "Sounds like I missed a lot of fun."
