Larry’s Party. Carol Shields
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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