Читать книгу Larry’s Party - Carol Shields - Страница 8

Most of Larry’s friends have had half a dozen jobs in their lives, and quite a few of the guys have suffered spells of unemployment in between. But Larry’s been lucky. He’s worked at Flowerfolks for twelve years now, ever since he completed his Floral Arts Diploma back in ‘69.

Flowerfolks is a small chain with a reputation for friendly service and a quality product. Usually you can spot a Flowerfolks arrangement by its natural appearance. For instance, they don’t go in for bending stems into far-out shapes and positions, or for those Holly Hobby wreathes, et cetera, or weird combinations like, say, tulips and birds-of-paradise sticking out of the same arrangement. Even their Welcome-New-Baby floral offerings have a fresh earthy look to them. Larry says it makes him shudder just thinking about those styrofoam lamb shapes with pink and blue flowers poking out of their backs. Simplicity and integrity at a reasonable price – that’s what Flowerfolks has always stood for.

Well, that’s changed overnight.

All twelve Flowerfolks stores have been swallowed up by Flowercity, the California-based multinational. Suddenly there’s a new logo. Suddenly there are dyed carnations all over the place, whereas formerly they were carried reluctantly, on special order only. Suddenly the staff, even the guys, are wearing blue-and-white checked smocks with their names pinned to little round Peter-Pan collars. Half the floor area in the various outlets is given over now to artificial flowers, something Flowerfolks has always looked down on. As Vivian Bondurant says, “Why have something dead when you can have it alive?” A good question.

Vivian, the branch manager, gave notice two weeks after the Flowercity takeover. She dreads what she sees coming in the eighties, and, besides, she’s ready for a career change. “I’ve worked my tush off,” she told Larry, “building this place up, establishing a loyal clientele here in the West End, turning out a reliable product. I’ve definitely decided to go back to school. Social work – that’s where the jobs are going to be in the future. I was reading the other day about squirrels and I –”

“Squirrels?” Larry interrupts, scratching his chest through his checked smock. His wife’s washed it twice now, but it’s still stiff with sizing.

“Seventy-four percent of the nuts that a squirrel hides never get found. Amazing, isn’t it?”

“You mean –”

“I mean I’ve been hiding nuts, too, in a sense. Forever making little improvements in the business? Remembering people’s names. Following up after weddings. Sending those little anniversary reminders. Bringing in white balls from Toronto at Christmas when no other outlet in town would touch them. All that stuff.”

“And?”

“And where has it got me?”

“I thought you loved it here.”

“Like now they want daily time sheets. The whole ball of wax. Wouldn’t you think, if they kept up with modern management, that they’d have figured out that it’s people who matter! Computerized inventory. Good God! Not that there’s anything wrong with computers per se, but they want it just so. And I have to turn up every single day for work in this dumb schoolgirl get-up. A checked smock at my age. I mean!”

“What do you mean your age? You’re talking like you’re –”

“Like I’m thirty-eight years old. A mature woman. Ha! If I wanted to be Little Bo Peep I’d go work at Disneyland. It’s different for you, you’re –”

“I’m thirty-one.”

“A mere babe.”

“But social work, Viv! How do you know you’re going to like social work?”

“I don’t. I’ll probably hate it. Poor people, sick people. Omigod. But at least I’ll have my dignity. You know, doing something useful.”

“Hey, Viv, wait a minute. You’re the one who’s always saying how flowers are important. Remember your Chinese story –”

“Chinese story? What Chinese story?”

“You know – about the Chinaman who has two pennies –”

“Two yen, you mean.”

“And he spends one on a loaf of bread and the other to buy a flower.”

“Listen, Larry, I’ve got to tell you something. I hope it won’t hurt your feelings.”

“Go ahead. Shoot.”

“Look, you’re a sensitive guy, you really, truly are, but there’s something you’ve got to know, especially working in a business that’s ninety-nine percent customer relations.”

“I can take it. Just go ahead.”

“Well, look, you just can’t say Chinaman anymore. It sounds prejudiced. You have to say Chinese person.”

“Oh.”

“Saying Chinaman’s like saying Wop or Honky.”

“My old dad says Chink.”

“Exactly. There you have it. We’ve come a long way, baby.”

“I’ll remember.”

“You’ll have to, Larry. ‘Cause it looks like you’ll be in charge here when I go.”

“Me? Are you kidding?”

“It’s not for sure, but there’ve been these teensie-weensie hints from the head office, those bastards. Little inquiries, you know? Like is this Weller person reliable? Can he make decisions? What are his interpersonal skills? That kind of thing.”

“I can’t believe it. I never thought –”

“Like those squirrels I was mentioning earlier? You’ve been burying your nuts all along – nothing personal, pal – and now it’s time to go find a few. You deserve it, Larry. You’ll be a great boss. I’ve written a recommendation, as a matter of fact. A whole page, typed, single-spaced. He’s a great guy, I said, or words to that effect. With capital O-Original ideas. Does this man know how to make irises stand up or what? And he’s well organized, keeps a neat work table, doesn’t let the orders get backed up, doesn’t play royal highness with the trainees. Hey, what gives? You’re supposed to be looking happy. You’re going up the ladder, my laddie-boy. What’s the matter?”

“I just can’t,” Larry said, “imagine this place without you.”

Larry doesn’t talk much about his job, but he thinks about it a lot, and mostly he thinks he’s lucky. Work for him adds up to a whole lot more than the feel of ferns in his hands or the sight of sprigged baby’s breath gleaming through the glass of the cooler or even the green spongy cave of the store itself with its forest smells rising up to greet him when he comes in in the morning. How many people get to work in that kind of lushness, the air breaking out into fragrance and color all around you. The loose, light humidity of the place is part of being at work, a big part, but all these particularities are shaken loose by the good music of talk. He and Viv talk all day long. They’ve been talking for twelve years, an unceasing, seamless conversation.

There are always a couple of assistants around, but they come and go: Wendy, Kerri, Dawn, Sidney, Brenda, Lou-Anne, two or three Jennifers, a big fat guy called Tommy Enns, an endless procession of them, trainees from Red River College, young and confused, eager, stumbling, shrill or shy, it all depended. A new apprentice on an eight-week work stint tends to turn the place really hairy, at least at first, but Larry and Viv hold it steady and fluid with their voices, his, hers – talking, talking, all day the two of them talking.

While they stand at the bench “backing” bridal bouquets or improvising a winter arrangement to deliver to Victoria Hospital’s Palliative Care Unit or unpacking cedars (they come twenty bunches to a box) Larry and Viv discuss Michael Jackson’s stage style or Margaret Trudeau’s maternal instincts or lack thereof. Their fingers move and so do their mouths. Yammer, yammer. About economics they admit their ignorance, and their right to their ignorance. They talk about the penny shortage in the States, the danger of radon in basements, the inflated salaries of professional football players, and about the pros and cons of whooping cough shots – on this particular topic Viv managed to persuade Larry not to have his three-year-old son, Ryan, inoculated after all. The two of them reminisce about the time a guy walked in and ordered a dozen dead roses to send to his ex-wife, and how Vivian took the order, then calmly phoned the police.

They talk about the cost of air conditioners in the States versus the cost in Canada. About draft dodgers, whether they should be sent home. About pimples, whether to pop them or leave them alone. About mothers, their mood swings, their dumb sweetness. About Ronald Reagan, how good-hearted or stupid the man is. How hot it is outside, how rainy, how the back lane is blocked with snow. A whole decade has slid by, its weathers and transports and passing personalities, and all of it crystalized into the words that fly back and forth between Vivian Bondurant and Larry Weller. A million words, a zillion. Note for note, the biggest noise in Larry’s life is the noise that comes out of Viv Bondurant’s throat.

Her voice is a low, confidential rumble, but full of little runs and pauses. She knows how to build up to a story, and she knows exactly when it’s time to throw the ball into Larry’s court. “So what do you think, Lare?” What she brings him are bulletins from that layer of the world he seems doomed to miss, the anecdotes she gleans from CHOL’s call-in show or People Magazine exposés. She passes on, generously, with unstoppable authority, such things as cough remedies from somebody or other’s grandmother, the fact that Italians use mums only for funerals, or what can be said out loud these days and what’s verboten. Chinamen are now Chinese people. Indians are natives. And so on and so forth.

Certain topics between them are off limits. For instance, they never, never mention Larry’s wife, Dorrie; Viv, with her strong sense of intuition, probably suspects things aren’t working out too well in that department. On the other hand, she can be surprisingly upfront about herself, making a point, for instance, of keeping Larry up to date on her menstrual cycle. “It’s better you know when I’m having my rag days, kiddo, then you can keep out of my way.” In fact, she’s blessed with a remarkably even temperament, a woman whose running commentary on the world is underpinned by an easy acceptance of whatever comes her way. What she collects in her life is information, and it’s information too valuable not to be shared.

Larry’s grateful. He owes Viv a lot, and yet he hardly knows her. She and her husband, Hector, live quietly in a house in St. Vital. Hector’s older than Viv by a good fifteen years and he’s been married before – this slipped out one day when Viv was sorting through a box of holly at the store – and has fathered a couple of kids who grew up to be whiners and grabbers, which is why he doesn’t want to have any more, and that’s okay-José with Viv. Larry has only been to their house once, a Sunday morning a few years ago when he dropped off some screwed-up billing statements.

He’d never in his life seen such an airy house, everything dusted and polished and in perfect repair, and the pale beige drapes hanging with their pleats just so. Viv, wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater, made coffee which she served to Hector and Larry at a shining kitchen table. She was quieter than she was at the store, sitting back and letting the men get acquainted. Afterward, Hector showed Larry the basement where he repaired clocks.

This was his job, not just a hobby. Against one wall stood a long workbench for Hector’s tools. They were astonishingly beautiful, these tools, brass tipped with dark wooden handles and a look of antiquity about them. A metal lathe gleamed, handsome as a museum piece, clean, polished, ready to go. A square of pegboard held drill bits arranged in the shape of a harp. “Every last thing you see here is European,” Hector said proudly. “German, mostly. You can’t beat the Krauts for machinery.”

“Yeah,” murmured Larry, his eyes on the metal teeth of a miniature saw.

Twenty or thirty clocks stood about the room or hung on the walls, some of them disemboweled, and others tagged and ready to be picked up by their owners. Hector explained to Larry, pointing out their burnished edges, how to tell a French clock from an English clock, how certain clocks have a regulator mechanism that allows for the expansion or contraction of their pendulums, and the reasons for the transition of pocket watches to wrist watches. Larry ran his hand appreciatively over the frame of a plain round wall clock.

“That’s a Seth Thomas you’re looking at,” Hector said. “The real thing.”

“Ah,” said Larry, who had never heard of a Seth Thomas.

The two men stood together for a minute in respectful silence. The air was full of the loud busy sound of ticking, and then suddenly – Hector held up a finger to Larry; here it comes! – there was a brief concert of chimes and bongs; twelve noon. “That’s my hourly concert,” Hector said, and Larry could tell it was something he said often and each time with pleasure. “That’s all the music I need.”

Larry looked around, then, at the low-ceilinged room which was dark in the corners but whitely lit under the cone of a green work light. Here was the domain of a man who had his name and trade listed in the Yellow Pages. The pervasive tang of machine oil lay over his ticking, working kingdom, and there in the middle stood Hector Bondurant himself, with his arms folded across his stomach, tapping his elbows, beaming broadly, a monarch in his chosen sphere.

Larry felt a stab of irrational jealousy. For the briefest of moments he wanted to own this space, this spacious house with its neat drapes and its stern white coffee mugs, and he yearned for the daily descent down linoleum-clad stairs to this warm, snug hideaway and its waiting workbench covered with sorted parts and beautifully aligned tools. He wanted all these things, but most of all he wanted Hector’s work, his clockmaker’s hands and the intricate mechanical promise he coaxes from mere wood and metal.

In the same instant, lapping up against Larry’s instant desire to become a clockmaker, was his longing to work side by side with his father down at Air-Rider Coach Works, transforming metal sheets into mobile palaces. The miracle of it, making something out of nothing. The pleasure at the end of the day to see what you’d constructed with your own hands.

And then there was his wife, Dorrie, who sold cars at Manitoba Motors – he’d never thought much about Dorrie’s job, but now he wanted a portion of that too. Himself in a snappy sports jacket with “Call Me Larry” on his lapel button. The lingo, the come-on, the bargains teasingly offered and withdrawn, the intensity of the minute-by-minute shifts, the decisive moment, and the thrill: the final solemnity, of signing on the dotted line and pocketing a fat commission.

There’s no getting around it: the rhapsody of work hums between Larry’s ears, its variables and strategies, its implements and its tightly focused skills. Sometimes he tries to scare himself with thoughts of worklessness, the long, vacant mornings of the unemployed – how would that feel? – and the mingled boredom and sadness of being broke and without accomplishment, without any way to deal with time. In the end, anything’s better than nothing, even the working stiff’s daily grind. Some work is graceless, he knows that. Work can be dirty, noisy, dangerous, degrading, but it’s still work, and that’s what turns the gears of life. He understands this spare, singular fact better than he will ever be able to understand the unguessable secrets of love and happiness.

Years later, when his life was going badly, he came to see work as the only consolation for persisting in the world.

Before Dorrie got married she was a clerk-receptionist in the parts division of Manitoba Motors. The pay wasn’t great, but she had a reputation for getting along with the customers, always commiserating with them over the size of their repair bills, taking their side. They appreciated that. They nicknamed her Dorable. The head of auto parts, a man named Al Leonard, said she was the most efficient employee he’d ever seen. She had a knack for keeping track of details and for remembering what was where and which parts were out of stock. In those days she wore jeans to work and a thick sweater since it was always drafty, what with the door to the repairs garage opening and closing all day long. Besides, she was stuck behind the counter, so what did it matter if she went casual or dressy?

After Ryan was born, she stayed home for three months and earned the odd bit of money by making follow-up calls for repair service. The way it worked, Manitoba Motors sent her out a list of completed repairs once a week, and her job was to phone the clients and ask if they were satisfied with the work. A public relations kind of thing, making the customer feel valued and looked after. She got paid so much a call, and she was able to squeeze in maybe fifteen or so calls while Ryan napped in the afternoon. Even so, the pay was peanuts, and half the time no one was at home or else they chewed her out for disturbing them in the middle of the day.

She decided to go back to work full-time. Russell LaFleur, the head honcho, surprised her by asking if she’d ever thought of going on the sales floor. Times had changed. Women were out there buying their own vehicles now, single women with careers and money to spend on extras. Women valued the judgment of other women. They appreciated a woman’s point of view. When Dorrie pulls out the literature showing the cross-sections of engines, they stand at attention, taking in every word. Type of transmission, power brakes, cruise control – she ticks these items off on the tips of her nicely manicured fingers. She is deeply sympathetic when it comes to color and upholstery combinations, and she’s able to give complete concentration to seat comfort, leg room, the convenience of the glove compartment with its own little overhead light. “We all have to live within a budget,” she says, prefacing her pitch on fuel consumption, and giving a resigned shrug and a wrinkling of her small nose, signaling complicity. Hey, we’re in this together, we can work this out, these are the figures, trust me.

Right away she bought herself two perky little suits from a designer’s outlet she knows, a soft gray wool flannel and a brisk blue houndstooth check. Professional apparel, she calls it. An investment. Women working for other dealers in town go in for pant suits, but Dorrie sticks to skirts and coordinated pantyhose. After all, there are men customers out there too, and with them, as well as with women, she has an enviable sales completion record. At the end of every three-month sales period, Mr. LaFleur takes the whole gang out for a steak and beans dinner at The Loft. The high-commission sales staff get served steak, and those on the bottom of the chart get a plate of beans. It’s a riot, Dorrie tells Larry, but then she’s always on the steak-eating end of things. Twice she’s been salesperson of the month, and once, last April, she was tops in the city. For that she got a plaque with her name engraved on it and a weekend for two at the Hecla Island resort hotel. And she went straight out and bought a third suit, a raspberry linen blend, nice for summer, and a pair of high-heeled sandals.

She’d like another baby; she’d like to be a lady of leisure, so she says anyway, and she tells Larry she’s going to quit Manitoba Motors and give her aching feet a rest as soon as they’ve got enough money in the bank. But how much is enough, that’s the question. She can’t wait to move off Lipton Street with its rinkydink houses and busy traffic. She’s got her eye on the Linden Woods subdivision west of town, a double garage, en-suite bathrooms, a family room with fireplace and wet bar. And what she’d really like, even though it sounds crazy, is a spiral staircase with a wrought-iron railing. She and Larry saw one last Sunday at a real estate open house they attended, and she said afterwards that walking down that staircase with her hand on the rail felt exactly like being a movie star. “If we could live in a house like this,” she told Larry, “I’d never work another day in my life.”

Larry doesn’t want to move out of his house. He admits it’s no palace, but he’s just finished insulating the basement and he’s thinking about doing the roof. He’s installed a new garbage disposal unit too. He points this out to Dorrie, what he’s invested in terms of money and work.

“You just don’t want to leave your crazy yard,” she charges.

Sighing, shrugging, he acknowledges the truth of what she says.

He’s worked hard on the yard. It’s a small lot, thirty-foot frontage and ninety in depth, that’s all, but there’s nothing else like it in the city of Winnipeg, and probably not even in the province of Manitoba. Every inch of it is filled with hedges, and these hedges are planted in the intricate pattern of a maze. There’s a direct access route for the mailman, of course, but there’s also a sinuous alternate path that winds twice around the house with half a dozen false turning points.

Larry’s maze craze (as Dorrie calls it) started three and a half years ago when they got married and went to England for their honeymoon. The highlight of the trip was a tour through the famous Hampton Court maze outside London, and ever since then Larry’s been reading library books about mazes. And adapting his classic maze design so that it’s tailored to the size of the Lipton Street lot. He’s acquired nursery stock from a cut-rate greenhouse and learned just what shrubs work best in this climate and how to keep them alive during a long winter by burying the young shoots under heaps of leaves. Right now the hedges are thinly distributed and so short they can be easily overstepped; it’ll be another four or five years before the hedge walls get high enough for his liking, but meanwhile he’s nursing them along. The last thing he wants is to move to Linden Woods,where he’d have to start over and where the by-laws probably prohibit eccentric gardening.

Whereas anything goes in this neighborhood. The people around here are a mixed bag. His friend Bill Herschel, who lives two streets over, works full-time for the Manitoba Endangered Species Alert and sometimes gives Larry a hand on the weekend. The Gilshammers across the lane (he’s in cut-rate electronics; she works at a unisex hair salon) have just donated the raked leaves from their property. So have the two guys down the street. (Larry can’t remember their names offhand, but he knows they do stage carpentry for a theatre downtown, which he figures must be a pretty interesting line of work.) Lucy Warkenten, who’s got the upstairs apartment next door, doesn’t have any leaves to offer, but she takes a keen interest in Larry’s maze, and has walked through it half a dozen times, stepping along in her purple leather boots. (She’s a self-employed bookbinder working out of her apartment.) Beneath Lucy live the Lees with their three little kids. Ken Lee delivers pizzas for Bella Vista and gives Larry all his leaves and grass clippings, and plenty of advice on the subject of propagating shrubs, which must be planted in a shallow but wide trench so that the roots can spread out sideways and help anchor the branches against prevailing winds. The Grangers, Gord and Moira, live on the other side of Larry’s house. Moira’s a housewife, a semi-invalid, with an interest in spelling reform (she’d like to see the letter X eliminated), and Gord designs ergonomic work gloves, his most recent breakthrough featuring reduced padding at the finger joints so that the gloved hand can grasp objects more readily in cold weather. The good-hearted Grangers, too, have contributed their fall rakings to the survival of Larry Weller’s baby hedges, and now, with winter about to crash down, Larry’s and Dorrie’s yard looks like a series of Indian burial mounds with their mushroom of a house poking through.

In the dark November evenings people in this neighborhood tend to stay home with their families, enjoying their hamburger suppers and favorite TV shows. Generally speaking, the house lights go out along the street somewhere between ten o’clock and eleven-thirty. There are, Larry assumes, starbursts of sex or of hospitality or late-night comings and goings and probably even acts of violence, but nights in the neighborhood are quiet for the most part, and heavy with sleep. Under a depthless navy-blue sky, beneath a cold bone of a moon, this small segment of the world is renewing itself, restoring its emptied-out substance, getting ready for tomorrow. Ready to go back to work.

Working for Flowercity and married to Dorrie and living on Lipton Street, Larry had no idea that technology was about to bulldoze the job market. In the early eighties, that enchanted, stupid time, almost everyone had a job, or if they didn’t they expected they’d find one any minute. No one dreamed of the redundancies and dehirings and downsizings the end of the century would bring, where in a mean, lean, bottom-line world, a day’s work would become as rare and as exotic as the prized orchids Larry keeps swaddled in insulation at the back of the cool unit.

Larry, himself, was slow to wake up to the idea of work. At twelve he took over another kid’s paper route and lasted a week. During his final year of high school, hungry for money, longing for name-brand jeans and a leather jacket, he worked at a neighborhood McDonald’s, adding up orders, and ringing in cash, hating every minute of it. He didn’t like to think in those days that he’d have to spend the rest of his life working. But then he got lucky. He fell into the right line of work: flowers, plants.

And now, ever since Viv Bondurant’s left Flowercity, Larry’s been in charge down at the store, and that means getting up at six o’clock three mornings a week and driving out to Stems Inc., the wholesalers. They’re open for business at seven, and Larry likes to be in and out in half an hour. He’s got his standard orders, of course, his poms, daisies, roses, carnations, and so on, and then he likes to spend a few minutes looking around at what’s just come in from the flower brokers in Montreal. Stems has about 140 accounts, so it’s not surprising he bumps into some of the other florists around town, Sally Ullrich, Jim Carmody, and catches up on what’s new. Over in the corner there’s coffee going and a basket of donuts – a nice touch, Larry thinks, since he skips breakfast at home these days, and Dorrie’s too busy, anyway, getting Ryan ready for daycare, to stop and make coffee.

He’s got a lot of wedding orders coming up, so today he picks up a good supply of baby’s breath. He prefers the stuff from Peru, which is as pure a product as you can get. The wedding bulge across the North American continent is in June and July, but there’s a major blip in the city of Winnipeg, where winter weddings have come to the fore. That way newly married couples can get away for a tropical honeymoon. Larry does a nice bridal semi-cascade; average price $120. Brides want roses nine times out of ten. You can’t talk them out of it. They think flowers, and, bingo, roses come to mind. Roses are romantic, also generic. Winnipeg roses originate in southern Ontario, where they’ve got acres of them under glass.

The gingers get shipped to Manitoba from South Africa, freesia from Holland, and carnations from California. People think carnations are a cheapy flower, but it’s not true; sometimes, depending on weather fluctuations, they’re more expensive than roses, and they last a hell of a lot longer. Some nationalities hate carnations, that’s something to remember. Tree fern is trucked in from Florida in warmed vehicles. They’re always good for funeral baskets. You don’t see a lot of camellias anymore, that old corsage staple, but then Larry doesn’t do anything like the number of corsages he did when he started in the business back in the late sixties. To tell the truth, corsages were old-fashioned even then, relics from the thirties and forties. How’s a woman supposed to button her coat over a corsage? And what if it doesn’t match her outfit? – actually, there’s an old florist’s law that says a corsage is doomed to be the wrong color, something women have always known, just as they know there’s no way to secure a corsage without at least a small fuss, not to mention permanent damage to their silk blouses. If a customer absolutely insists on going the corsage route, Larry encourages them to think about a small wrist arrangement he’s perfected, which is sturdy, attractive, and comfortable to wear.

He’s happy to give advice about prolonging the life of cut flowers, but warns his customers that they mustn’t have unrealistic expectations. Flowers are fragile, flowers are needy. There are people who put their flowers in dirty vases. You can actually see the green scum line from the last bunch. Would you drink out of that vase? No way. You want to put your flowers in a disinfected container; that’s all the magic white powder in the little envelope is – a disinfectant. Of course you’ve already cut your flowers with a knife and on an angle before putting them in water. Don’t expect dafs to go more than three days, though, no matter what you do to them and for them.

Poinsettias will start selling in a week’s time; Larry gets his delivered from Carmen, Manitoba, just an hour away. Then it’s Valentine’s Day, then your Easter lilies – they come from Carmen too. Mother’s Day is crazy, the biggest day of the year, and right after that you’re into graduation tributes, retirements, and a spate of summer weddings. It’s a funny business with its ups and downs, but Larry’s grateful for the way the main holidays are strung out over the year. He’s always hearing about photo opportunities, but what about flower opportunities? They come and they go; they keep him buoyed up and alive and working, and he welcomes the noise of daily bustle in his life.

When Viv first left, she phoned the store occasionally to see how business was going. After a while, though, she stopped checking in. Larry’s heard somewhere that she dropped out of the social work program and was selling flowers in a corner of a Safeway in North Kildonan. He’s also heard that she’s pregnant and has quit work altogether. He hasn’t seen her for ages now, but he thinks of her at least once every day, and wonders what she’s doing at that very moment. He didn’t notice it happening at the time, but it must have been that they said goodbye to each other and really meant it, and maybe that’s the way it goes with friends you have from work.

Sometimes down at the store he’ll be holding a stemmed alstroemeria in his hand. More often than not, this will be the flamingo variety, his favorite, a rose color streaked with lavender, a floppy uneven head of fragile petals spread out to reveal a colony of tender stamen threads, their pinks, their golds. This flower, an herb really, started out as a seed way down in South America in Colombia. Some Spanish-speaking guy, as Larry imagines him, harvested the seed of this flower and someone else put it back into the earth, carefully, using his hands probably, to push the soil in place. They earned their daily bread doing that, fed their families, kept themselves alert. It’s South American rain that drenches the Colombian earth and foreign sunshine that falls on the first green shoots, and it all happens, it all works.

And what next? Larry supposes that Spanish-speaking laborers equipped with hoes arrive to beat back the weeds, but are they men or women who do this work? Maybe both, and maybe children, too, in that part of the world. Larry wonders what goes on in their heads when they perform this tedious and backbreaking work, and whether they have any idea when they pack the cut flowers into insulated boxes, laying the heads end to end, that these living things are about to be carried aboard enormous jet aircraft, handled gently, handled like the treasure they are, that they will be transported across international frontiers, sorted, sold, inspected, sold again, and that without noticeable wilting or fading – except to an expert eye – they will come to rest in the hands of a young Canadian male in an ordinary mid-continental florist establishment, bringing with them a spot of organic color in a white and frozen country (where the mercury has fallen overnight to twenty degrees below zero and where the windchill factor has risen steadily all day so that no living matter has any right to exist, but it does and here it is – this astonishing object he holds in his grasp).

Larry thinks how the alstroemeria head he cups in his hand has no memory and no gratitude toward those who delivered it to this moment. It toils not, neither does it spin. It’s sprouted, grown, bloomed, that’s all. But Larry, placing it beside a branch of rosy kangaroo paw from British Columbia and a spray of Dutch leather leaf and a spear or two of local bear grass, feels himself a fortunate man. He’s worried sick at the moment about the distance that’s grown between himself and his wife, about the night terrors that trouble his only child, about money, about broken or neglected friendships, about the pressure of too much silence, about whether his hedges will weather the winter, but he is, nevertheless, plugged into the planet. He’s part of the action, part of the world’s work, a cog in the great turning wheel of desire and intention.

The day will arrive in his life when work – devotion to work, work’s steady pressure and application – will be all that stands between himself and the bankruptcy of his soul. “At least you have your work,” his worried, kind-hearted friends will murmur, and if they don’t, if they forget the availability of this single consolation – well then, he’ll say it to himself: at least I have my –work.