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