Fresh Flowers

Paul let out a disappointed sigh as he walked in the supermarket. He had forgotten that it was the first of the month, and newly resourceful shoppers were out and going about their business of forming the longest lines known to man outside of Disneyland. Looks like an ant colony, he thought. He still had to do what he came to do. Some schedules can’t be controlled.

He went over to the floral section and quickly chose what seemed to him like a nice enough bouquet of assorted flowers for $12.99, and hurried over to get in line so he could get out of that commercialist nightmare as soon as possible. The woman in front of him was rummaging through her purse for exact change. He was tired. The kids at the school had been a nightmare. To him, the worst part of being principal was the little assholes that would get sent to his office with a chip on the shoulder because dad was a drug addict or something, and then just take it out in the principal's office, as that was often the only authority figure to whom they could vent their rage in maddeningly indirect ways. Earlier that day, this fifth grader had spit on his office floor in response to being asked if everything was ok at home. Why do that? Surely one can express contempt for authority in a way that doesn’t involve a huge disgusting loogie on the office floor of a man who was only trying to help. Another kid (a fourth grader) was told that he couldn’t continue attacking his peers. His response to this was to look directly into Paul’s eyes, silently place his own hand in his mouth and started a squeal-like grunt as he bit with all the force his jaw would offer. How the hell is a sane adult to react when confronted with such behavior? It reminded him of Sartre's question: what is man to do when confronted with the totally absurd?

Paul was deep in pondering the existential mystery of the hand-biter when the clerk brought him back to earth by saying “hi” and asking how his day was. The woman ahead of him had apparently found the most exact combination of change at her disposal.

“So pretty!. For someone special?”

“My wife” he said as he nodded and brandished the wedding band on his left hand.

“I’m sure she’ll love them. That’ll be 13.62”

He paid and got to his car and drove the remaining 10 minutes home. He closed the door behind him as he entered the house and sighed, this time with relief. He took one step forward and felt the ground slide under his foot. He looked down to see the mess that had become his shoe and a small area of the floor.

“Jasper!” He yelled loud enough that wherever jasper was in the house he could hear. “You shit-leaking dog!”

    He walked into the kitchen to find the boxer cowering in the corner with his stubby tail as far under his body as it could reach. He looked guilty, and clearly knew what was going down. Mark felt bad about yelling and squatted to be closer to Jasper’s eye level as he patted his head and said quietly but sternly “You can’t shit on my floor, buddy. Shit in your area like you used to.” he said as he gestured toward the conglomeration of newspapers splayed on the kitchen floor a few feet away. He stood upright and gave Jasper a treat as an apology for yelling earlier. He was working on that. He cleaned up Jasper’s mess, his own shoe, grabbed the bouquet off the counter and walked over to the kitchen table where a similar bouquet sat in a plain clear vase. He had noticed they were browning around the edges at breakfast earlier that morning. He replaced it with the new bouquet and threw the old flowers in the trash. After making himself an omelet, he paced around the house aimlessly, eventually ending up watching some documentary about a biker gang on the History Channel.

    He perked up his head when he thought he heard a car come up the driveway. He waited alert until he heard the door open.

    “Hey Dad!” he heard a voice call from downstairs. Paul got up, turned off the TV. “Dad!” the voice intoned again.

    “Hey buddy!” Paul welcomed as he came down the stairs. “What a surprise!”

    “I was in the area and thought I’d pick up whatever mail’s accumulated for me and say ‘hi’ if you were home. How’s things? How those kids treatin’ ya?”

“Oh God,They act out in more bizarre ways everyday. One started eating his own hand in my office today.”

“No way!”

“I shit you not.”

“He thought it’d taste good?”

“Don’t think so. I think it was a demonstration of protest.”   

“Like those buddhist monks who set themselves on fire?”

“Kind of. Not so noble a cause. He was protesting the Don’t Slap Ashlee or Stephen or Fucking Anybody Act of 2016.”

“How dare you oppress his choice of expression. Tyrant!”

“While some compare me to Kim Jong Un or Assad, I like to think of myself as a classic Mussolini man. Old school.” He nodded his head swagfully as he drew out the words “old school”. “But enough about me. What about you? How’s classes?”

“They’re fine. Half my professors are brain-dead and too insecure to let me just skip class and do well on the tests, and the half that don’t care if I skip are the ones I actually have to show up to.”

“C’est la vie.”

They headed up the stairs. “So besides the martyrdom of having to go to classes you signed up for, how’s everything else?”

“It’s good. Hang with the guys, go to parties, hookup with girls.”

“Anyone special?”

“Just having fun. This one girl started sending me links to these websites that explain how to practice sexual magic to become more one with the universe or some shit. Total nonsense, but it’s definitely the sexiest turn-off ever.”

    They walked in the master bedroom.

    “Here we go.” Paul said as he grabbed the mail from his desk.

    “Bingo.”

    “So, any Catholic girls on the radar?

    “Haha, not exactly.”

    “Well, keep your eyes open for a good girl you might want to stick with. They can be rare, and only get more rare the older you get.”

    “Haha, sure Dad.” His laugh patronized slightly.

    Their mutual autopilot led them to the kitchen.

    “Want some venison? I got some from the market. I thought, when the hell was the last time I had some good, tough venison? The answer: a long time! So I got some. You want some?”

    “I’m good, thanks. Nice flowers.” Chris said noticing the bouquet on the table. “Who got those?”

    “I did.”

    “Who for?”

    Paul hesitated a moment, “Me.”

    “What? You’ve never been a flower guy. Seriously, who are they for?”

    Paul looked down, unsure what to say.

    “Dad! Are you canoodling with someone?”

    “No.”

    “Don’t try to tell me you got those for yourself. I’ll never believe it. Not your style to buy yourself flowers. Who’s the lucky lady?”

    “You’ve got it wrong.”

All the excitement that had been building in Chris rushed out like air from a punctured tire. He deflated visibly, and spoke more slowly.

    “Oh Dad...those aren’t for Mom are they?”

    Paul shrugged

    Chris tried to sound patient and not sad. “Dad, it’s been five years”

    “So? She’s still my wife.”

    “How?”

    “I made a vow kiddo.

    “A vow to who?”

    “The world, God, your mom, myself…” He paused as though he knew there was more but couldn’t think of them.

    “ You two weren’t happy. Everyone’s forgiven that vow. Mom, the government, society.”

    “Not everyone. Anyway, it doesn’t work that way.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Well that’s a nice sentiment, but I think that’s exactly how things work. People are meant to be together for certain stretches of their lives, and other people for other stretches.”

“So, everyone’s temporary. That sounds sad and lonely to me.”  

“Sad and lonely?” Chris swept the room with his eyes.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about kid.” He always called him “kid” when he was annoyed. “You’ll probably change your mind when you’re older.”

“Don’t pull that patronizing seniority shit on me Dad. I think I understand this a lot better than you do. Just look at where this sentimentality’s gotten you?” He gestured to the room around him, and by extension, the whole house and it’s emptiness.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Mark answered sharply, “You’ve never loved anything like I loved your mom. I hope you do someday. You act like I can just choose to take it all back. The truth is, I can’t be with another woman. I don’t know what to give them. Sarah has it all. You can spout you’re pseudo-Woody Allen bullshit about love and sex and all that but until you’ve loved someone like I have, your theories just don’t apply to me. I love her, Chris. I miss her, and if she ever decides to come home, I want her to have some fucking fresh flowers!”

He stopped and looked at his feet for a moment to collect himself. Chris was also looking down. Both were uncomfortable.

“I love you Dad.”

“I love you too.”

“I’m sorry how things worked out.”

“Don’t be.”

“Glad to have a guy like you on my team.”

“Thanks.”

Another uncomfortable silence.

“Well, I’d better go. Thanks for saving the mail.”

‘No problem, bud. Next time will be more fun, I promise.”

“No worries. Take it easy, Dad.”

“Take it easy Chris.”

As he heard the car pull away, Paul got a cigar from a cabinet in the living room and walked out to the front porch, lit up and watched the cars pass. The smoke blossomed gently into fragile patterns before receding to nothing. Things were quiet, peaceful. He straightened up for a familiar Ford Focus, and slumped back into his chair as it passed without slowing down.