Still working at the flower shop

He was working there much longer than he’d expected to. It started as an after school   job for spending money in his junior year at Brownswell.  A high school gig, dragging flowerpots around the store, pushing the big urns filled with decorative flowers that were out on the sidewalk inside for the night.


He delivered roses to wives whose husbands wouldn’t be home till late, rang up sales on small beds of posies for terraces. Urban flower gardens for the rich. Now he’d finished high school and here he was, six years later, still in the shop. Now he dragged these urns out in the morning, too, and put them inside at night. There was the occasional temptation to leave them on the street and see what the city would do to them by the morning.


His schoolmates, some of them even people he called friends, had matriculated at various colleges; they had desk jobs as “associates” and “trainees.” He still consulted  over terrace gardens, sometimes at penthouses with room for a couple of trees and hedges on the property. The boy who worked part time in the afternoons, made most of the deliveries of the roses, now, while he managed the store.


He made up most of the bouquets for the boy to deliver. He was good at putting together the colors, fluffing the arrangements with greenery. The bouquets and rooftop gardens gave him pleasure. School had never been that kind of fun.


He worried that in another six years he’d still be making floral arrangements, handing them over to a boy half his age to deliver around the neighborhood. Then he worried that he wouldn’t.



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