Problem Tree

Gold with a few green stragglers, the short tree under my fire escape was almost ready for my neighbor’s art project. Once the leaves were gone he planned to affix small yellow, orange and red envelopes, mirroring fall colors, filled with the problems of strangers. “Not a giving tree,” he said to me bouncing up and down slowly on the balls of his feet, “a problems and complaints tree.” I couldn’t help but smile even though I knew this was a serious art project. “A whining tree,” I suggested.

Grant, my neighbor, had a man-bun, a new fashion where even men with hair that was just shaggy, rather than long, scooped up the top part into a ballerina’s bun. He also smoked, another must-have accessory of the downtown New York City hipster. I kept my back to him, resentful of the poisons he forced on me, second-hand. “How do you think it looks?” he asked, taking out a box with the empty envelopes ready to go. “I don’t know,” I said. “Until you put the cigarette out, I’m not turning around.”

He laughed and laughed, a combination of guffawing and shallow high-pitched chuckling, as if he was calibrating something inside himself. “OK, OK,” he said. When I couldn’t smell the cigarette poison anymore, I slowly turned around. “You know,” he said, “we’re outside—it’s all diluted outside.” I shook my head and felt my irritability rising. “Not true,” I launched in, ready to debate, “if you’re in close proximity, it doesn’t matter whether you’re outside or inside. It’s equally poisonous.”

Grant was ignoring me now and riffling through the envelope box. “Actually, these have problems in them already,” he said. “I have two boxes now—one full of problems waiting to be picked off the tree, once it’s bare, and another, empty, waiting to be filled by additional problems.”

“Sealed or unsealed? If the idea is for people to pick problems, do they pick the problems seen or unseen?” I asked. I didn’t mind exchanging my long-term problems for another person’s, as long, of course, as it wasn’t a terminal illness, horrible disability or psychological malfunction worse than I already suffered from. Basically, I was looking to exchange with someone who was just having trouble finding the right hairdo, or a person who couldn’t afford the $5,000 “it” jacket.

“I think it would be better for everyone to pick at random, unseen,” he said. I laughed and moved away from the sealed-up problems.

“And I was so close to being able to have foresight in my life, almost got to choose the perfect problem for myself!” I said.  Grant didn’t find that overly funny. He looked at me with an implacable face and then smirked. He thought of this project as a serious psychological study, I guess. “Well, it won’t be long now,” I said. “Another couple weeks and the tree should be free of all leaves and ready for problems dressed up in fall colors. Since it’s going to be in fall colors, maybe a lot of people won’t even notice that it’s small envelopes instead of leaves, and they’ll just walk past.”

Grant didn’t seem concerned. He was one of those types who assumed people would be interested in everything he did. The idea that he would be disregarded was beyond his belief. “No, they’ll notice,” he said. Problems will be blowing in the breeze.”

“You mean ‘in the wind,’ like the song,” I said, laughing. Grant didn’t laugh. “Yeah, sort of,” he said. His man-bun needed tidying, so Grant patted it repeatedly and sighed, as though the burden of maintaining a proper man-bun while readying an obscure art project was too much to ask of one person. “I think it will be well received,” he said.

A few weeks later, after a windy rainstorm, the tree was bare, so Grant brought in a few friends more burly than himself to affix the envelopes with a hammer. Each envelope was secured to a large nail with durable string and then the nails were hammered into the tree.  The envelopes were red, orange, yellow and brown, and really looked a little like droopy autumn leaves from a distance after they all were in place.

Grant was having the equivalent of an art gallery opening that night. He had invited everyone he was connected to on Facebook and Twitter to come by and pick off problems. “The only question is whether there will be enough problems for everyone,” he said.

I laughed as he looked mystically upward as if he had just made a divine proclamation. He didn’t seem to hear me. “Yeah, well, I guess some people will just have to do their best to get by without problems,” I said.

At first the problem tree had only passive visitors—people who lived in the neighborhood curious to see why there were multicolored envelopes hanging from bare tree boughs. But by the end of the tree’s “opening night,” a few had begun to pick off problems. The surprise came when a girl with a polka dot umbrella, a miniskirt, and what looked like combat boots, pulled one of the golden envelopes down and then reached into her purse for a pad and pen. After scribbling for a minute or two and re-reading whatever she had scribbled, the girl pushed back her long dark bangs, walked over to Grant and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, is it OK to leave problems, or do we just have to take them?” she asked. “You don’t even have to buy more envelopes, see?” she said, stuffing her scribbled up piece of paper into the same golden envelope she had taken from.

Grant spent a good minute patting his man-bun and looking upward. “Well, I don’t see why not, but we won’t be making any progress that way—the problem tree will never be emptied. It’ll turn into an ongoing project—old problems getting taken and new problems being added. “OK, well, I guess, if it’s important to you. Maybe you’ll be one of the few,” he sniffed.

I couldn’t resist jumping in then: “Actually, she probably has the right idea. It’ll be more interactive and interesting that way.”

“It’s possible,” Grant allowed. “Like I said, we’ll see.” He turned away from me and took out one of his cigarettes, cupping his hand over it to light it without the wind interfering. I turned away and began walking in the other direction. “What a disgusting habit!” I said loudly before holding my breath and leaving.

It didn’t take long for the tree to catch on—it seemed that anything free—even problems—moved fast in New York. I wished the envelopes weren’t sealed so you could shop for your problems. I hated the idea of having to choose a problem unseen. I also couldn’t decide which of my own problems to give away. I mainly had resentment and anger to give away, more than problems.

I resented the bicycle riders who rode the wrong way on streets, ran stoplights and then were babied with public service announcements about how we all should be concerned for their safety. I also resented smokers, as I mentioned. I was tired of having to run around them, or even cross the street, to avoid being downwind of their cancer smoke. “Have you heard the news? Smoking causes cancer, emphysema, and heart disease, and even causes your teeth to rot,” I longed to tell them. But of course they had heard the news. They just believed it wouldn’t happen to them, or that they were “living in the moment.” Or better yet, this response: “Well, there are just so many ways to get cancer.” That was a classic smoker line.

I wondered if resentment and anger counted as problems I could pass on to an unsuspecting art project participant. I also had anxiety to give away. The next day I finally decided to chance it at the problem tree. Instead of exchanging my anxiety and anger, I thought it would be more humane to choose an easier problem to pass on. So, I was offering up my lack of closet space. Now, I just had to hope I wasn’t exchanging my lack of closet space for a rare disease or the problem of being pursued by a psychopath. After all, when you gave away a minor problem, you never knew what—how much worse—you were going to get in return.

I was standing under the problem tree, glowering up at it, my resentment again the issue—resenting this time that I felt compelled to participate in an art project. I didn’t like to not do something I said I’d do—and even encouraged—so now I was stuck on a cold day looking up at orange, gold and brown envelopes fluttering in the breeze, each one promising a chance at bad karma—being so unappreciative of one of my own problems that I end up with a much bigger one. I had never taken the time before to savor my problems. Now, I felt regret that I had to choose one to give away.

“You’re thinking about it too much,” Grant said, sneaking up on me from behind. “Be in the moment; it’s not about choosing—just tear one off.” I smiled, but my heart wasn’t in it. It seemed like just another depressing chore, rather than an exciting artistic experiment. Why would you want to give your problems to someone else?

“Well, I was thinking of my closet space problem, and I never have enough quarters when I go to the laundromat. Does that count as a problem?” I asked. “Or how about how much I loathe smoking?” I wondered that out loud as two girls, who looked like they were in high school, lit up near me. “Or how about how I lack the willpower to dust properly and weed out the old clothes in my closet?” Grant wasn’t listening to me anymore. In one hand was his lit cigarette, which he puffed on about once a minute, and in his other hand was his phone, which he was scrolling through looking at text messages or e-mails, head averted. “I think you just have to choose a new problem,” he said finally. “Then, whatever your own problem is, will become apparent.”

Already a few others had snapped problem-filled envelopes from the tree—almost with glee. I was the only one hesitating. I guess I was taking it too seriously, I told myself. So, I treated it like buying shoes and decided to just go by color. Gold goes with everything, I said to myself, so I snapped off a low-hanging branch with a gold envelope: “My roommate steals from me, but just small things—little fold-up umbrellas, cigarette lighters, hand towels, books. But I’m afraid to say anything because she’s my favorite roommate ever. I’d rather live with a thief whose company I enjoy than with an honest person I don’t like.”

This problem giver didn’t register any resentment as far as I could tell. The simple fact of anyone—let alone someone I trusted enough to live with—stealing from me would have created such resentment that I couldn’t have gone on living with that person. And yet somehow the problem giver didn’t seem to care. She (or he?) seemed more troubled that she continues to like this person and doesn’t want to have to ask him or her to move out.

“What a waste of an excuse to get rid of someone!” I said out loud. Grant turned around and laughed. “What? What are you talking about?” I considered lying to save his impression of me as a nice person, but ended up not bothering. “Well, this problem giver says her (or is it his?) roommate is probably stealing stuff, and instead of using that to get the roommate out of the apartment, the problem giver is looking for ways to keep the thief in spite of the stealing. She figures it’s a shame to lose a roommate you like just because he’s stealing stuff,” I said. Grant kept laughing at me and shuffling around his pack of cigarettes—even though he knew I detested being around smoking. As if he were doing it to spite me. “She’s a people person, I guess. She doesn’t like to cut out people from her life over small stuff,” he suggested.

I decided no longer to look at him. “’Small stuff?’ What are you talking about? He’s stealing from her—and he isn’t a stranger off the street. He’s her roommate.”

“But she likes this roommate—you can’t under-estimate that,” Grant said, fishing around in his pockets for his lighter. I was ready to get rid of him just for the smoking, so a roommate letting stealing go didn’t make sense to me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snapped. I decided to turn my back to him again, like I so often did during our conversations, to avoid his poison exhalations. “Well, anyway, so now what do I do with this thing?” I said snapping the golden envelope in the air.

I still needed to come up with a problem of my own to “share”—to pass along to a poor unsuspecting stranger. That’s what you get for being open minded enough to participate in a weird outdoor art project. I tucked the stranger with the thieving roommate into my purse and began obsessing over which problem to force onto someone else.

At home that night, the disarray of broken was stunning. The shades no longer could be pulled up and down because the pulley had long since broken. The small lamp with the cute miniature shade in the bedroom (on the windowsill I used as a nightstand) was broken for unknown reasons.  I had dropped it while making the bed last week, and though the landing had been soft, the cord had gotten muddled somehow, and now it wouldn’t work. The outlet closest to the lamp no longer worked, either, because when the previous lamp broke, a fuse was blown and I didn’t like tampering with the fuse box, so it remained blown.

A cabinet over the stove was missing, and had been missing for about five years, when it nearly toppled on my head. My landlord’s son said he’d get me a new one, but never did, and since I wasn’t using the cabinet for much, I just let it go. The bedroom window no longer locked for reasons unknown to me, but I was on the second floor, and an intruder would have to drag a ladder into an alley and then precariously balance it, so I was taking my chances (knock wood). The soap dish was gone from above the tub in the bathroom. Two times the landlord attempted to affix it, and two times for unknown reasons I had come home to a shattered soap dish lying in pieces in the basin of the tub. How did that happen?

The light on the ceiling in the kitchen was out, and had been out for years. I kept having the bulb replaced only to find it burn out just a month later, so I figured something was screwy with the wiring, and it was safer to just ignore.

The oven and stove didn’t work, but that was by choice. After returning from a business trip and finding a note from my cat sitter that my orange tabby Springles had turned the stove on (I guess she was getting tired of cold meals or it could have been her toys and food, which I left on top of the stove), I was so scared, I got the gas turned off. I wasn’t using it anyway, so why bother? The white paint looked like curdled milk in an upper corner of the apartment due to water damage after a leak sprung through the floorboards of the apartment above mine. The leak was gone (hopefully), but the water stain remained.

I sat in the disarray like the owner of an avant-garde one-of-a-kind dysfunction capsule. Who else had this particular mix of disrepair? It was the home living equivalent of a fingerprint—it was my disrepair print. The rent was stabilized and hadn’t been raised since I moved in ten years ago, so combined with the subconscious affinity I must have felt for the disrepair and dust (easily taken care of on my own—if I weren’t inert), I lounged on the couch considering my anxiety, and, now, the problems I could share. Was disrepair my problem, or just a symptom of a problem?

I was surrounded by long-time Village dwellers—people who had lived in this building for 30 or 40 years, and due to rent stabilization, only paid a few hundred dollars a month, while I paid $1,650. Should I resent these people—another thing broken in my life? As far as I knew, they weren’t even stealing from me, and I wanted them gone. I felt I was paying their share for them (so maybe they were stealing from me). I could hear NPR on from the room across the hall, which its owner kept ajar at all times, and If I listened slightly more closely, I could hear the Hare Krishnas down the hall ringing a bell and chanting. Grant’s apartment wasn’t in the few-hundred dollar range of old-time stabilization, but he was about $500 behind me, and unlike the old timers in the building, he didn’t have to endure a bathtub in the kitchen.

He was probably still tending to his problem tree, cigarette in hand, gazing up at the branches weighed down with the submissions of strangers. Puffing cancerous smoke at those who paused to hang a problem—as if they needed another problem like incidental poisoning.

No need to speculate when you have a problem tree under your window. I pushed the shade back just enough so I could look down without anyone seeing me—I wasn’t in the mood to be cajoled into coming down “for a few.” Grant wasn’t smoking, but was shaking the envelopes and unhooking some of them and holding them up to the street light, as if he could see through the sealed paper to the problems beneath. He then grabbed a red envelope, and with a letter opener in his pocket, delicately pried it open. He concentrated intently and then began laughing, and not even soft, embarrassed laughing, but loud, careless laughter. It wasn’t that late at night, but I guess he thought that, as the master of the problem tree, people would assume he was securing the envelopes rather than prying. Grant had come prepared. He had a glue stick that he used to reseal the envelopes, so, he must have assumed, no one would notice that they had been opened. It seemed no different to me than reading another person’s mail, or even a private diary entry. I opened my window and stuck my head out, prepared to resist coming down to “talk it out” with him. “Hey, hey,” I yelled as if I were trying to shoo away an unwanted stray animal. “Hey, there, Grant!”

He looked up and smiled. “Yeah, what’s going on?” Always so casual and in the moment. Smoothing his man-bun. “You’re opening private messages,” I shouted down. “Not private, intended to be shared by whomever happens to choose them,” Grant said. “Right, ‘whomever happens to choose them,’ not you, prying with your gratuitous inspections,” I said. He probably thought I was joking because he just kept smiling, and even started laughing. “Have you figured out what your problem is yet?” he asked.

I had to control myself from also laughing, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “Well, I think my main problem is intrusions like yours into places they don’t belong—having the people who live around you overstepping. I’m not as nice as my problem-giver,” I said. “I don’t think it’s OK to steal from a person you live with, or near, just because you’re friends and like each other. I feel like you’re violating the people who stuffed their problems in the sealed envelopes and were naïve enough to participate in your art project. It’s disrespectful.”

Grant shuffled his pack of cigarettes, and drawing one out and lighting it, blew smoke generously into the air, to spite me, I thought. I turned away and let him address the back of my head. “Nobody here seems to mind except you,” he said.

“Some of them—maybe even a lot of them—probably do mind, but they’re too embarrassed to say anything, or they just haven’t figured out yet what you’re doing,” I said.

“That’s your presumption,” he said.

I turned then and shut the window to the apartment and drew the shade down, not wanting to see Grant’s arrogant perusal of others’ problems—as if he was window shopping for problems while the rest of us were forced to choose sight unseen. The sounds of dog claws scratching the ceiling and clomping human feet sounded as the man who lived above me got home. The chiming of the Hare Krishna bells down the hall was at it again, and the man across the hall was blaring a jazz show on his radio. I thought I could even smell Grant’s cigarette smoke sneaking in through my windowpane.

Maybe my problem was insulation—if only the windows were better insulated and there was no smoke from friends’ or strangers’ cigarettes that could pass through—no incidental poisonings from others. And the door frame could be insulated, too, though I wasn’t sure how. Maybe I could find a cloth towel to shove around the corners and underneath to make the noise from my neighbors less noticeable. I grabbed my phone and began shuffling through the white noise options in an app I had recently added. Would I prefer to pretend I was at the beach, on a train, on a camping trip with crickets, lying under an industrial strength fan, or locked inside a vacuum (one option was a whooshing air sound)? The vacuum was appealing, but I chose the beach for now. With the waves up at full throttle I could barely hear the voices outside, and couldn’t hear at all the Hare Krishna bells.

Next, I retrieved the plastic Ziplock bag of flesh-colored foam earplugs that I kept by my bedside. I rolled them up and squeezed them as deep inside my ears as possible. The waves sounded muffled now, but I kept them as fail-safe aural barriers to others. My problem-giver could live with a thief she liked, but I wouldn’t have it. Even the idea of stealing the silence I owned, or stuffing my empty air full of cigarette smoke, would result in a sealing off, an enclosure against trespassers.

It seemed the only way to have the freedom to make everything just the way I wanted it was to seal everything off. As long as others could affect my environment, I wouldn’t be able to have everything exactly the way I wanted it. I felt they were stealing from me the ability to make things the way I wanted them to be. With this epiphany I rushed to the window to see if Grant was still there snooping through strangers’ problems, opened the window and yelled down sharp enough that he jumped and his lit cigarette fell to the pavement: “Hey, I figured out my problem—other people are interfering with the way I want things to be—they’re stealing the way I want things to be from me!”

Nobody was paying attention. Grant looked up, smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rising at the end of the word, “that makes sense.” He laughed and began picking up trash around the tree. I was being made fun of. I turned back inside my apartment and resumed the insulation. No need to open the window any longer, not even in summer. I had a strong window air conditioner, and it was too cold during the winter to open the window, and now I could see no reason to communicate to anyone on the other side anyway. I didn’t want to be laughed at, or have poison smoke blown at me, or have to see a poseur unsealing sealed-over problems and conducting inspections of his “art project.” I didn’t want to feel any more like I was being intruded on. “Intrusions,” I sniffed to myself.

The problem was I could still hear the murmurings of interest and excitement over that stupid tree, even after all the measures I’d taken not to. I would have to talk to the landlord about getting Grant and his project removed. Maybe the tree, which hadn’t grown too big, could be transplanted to a pretentious experimental art space somewhere nearby. A place friendly to smoking, smirking man-buns—who presume to know your problems.

“Yeah, the tree right under my window,” I told Lester, the super, as soon as he called me back. “Grant Edwards has this art project where he’s stringing envelopes from the branches and it’s causing a disturbance—it’s keeping me up at night.”

Lester said he couldn’t do anything because the tree was on public property, and Grant had gotten a permit for his project from the city, so I would have to live with it. I could complain to the city, but by the time they got around to reviewing the situation and making a decision, the project would be over. The problems hanging under my window, tended to by a man-bun hipster-poseur, would remain.

The problem was the problems were self-perpetuating. No sooner had one envelope been taken down, then another was tacked on. Apparently, there was enthusiasm for this project. The word must have spread, and there were endless participants. So, I decided to add my problem to one of the tree’s branches. The project wasn’t going anywhere, so I might as well get something out of it, I reasoned. “I’d like to find the best kind of insulation to seal myself into my apartment and into my peace. My problem is intrusions from others,” I wrote on the note inside my sealed envelope. “Where or how can I seal myself in better?”

It was raining slightly, and I had my dome umbrella out to catch even the tiniest droplet. Meanwhile, others at the problem tree were umbrella-less, with their hoods up, at best. They didn’t seem to care about getting cold mist on their faces, or their hair getting humidified. Even a few man-buns were letting the rain trickle into them. “Do you think I could exchange my problem of not being able to find an affordable apartment with someone else’s problem?” a twenty-something woman in glued-to-the-bone jeans asked a friend, who laughed. “That’s your biggest problem? Hey, I’m 31 and still single.” Then they both started laughing and reaching up to hold a potential problem for a second or two before reaching for another, as if just briefly holding the sealed envelope could transmit through their fingertips the best problem to choose. Even worse, there was a bantering, amorous couple also under the problem tree, exchanging kisses and nudging each other in baby talk as they looked up at the hanging envelopes. “No, that one,” the woman said. “Oh, no, the low hanging ones are the ones for you,” the man shot back. They laughed and laughed, though who knew why?

I sidestepped, like I once saw a crab sidestep on the beach. I wanted to evade detection, though anyone who was interested could see me standing right there. “Care to share?” I heard a loud voice chirp. I looked up to see the amorous couple. I tried to laugh casually. “Share what?” I asked.

“The problem you’re leaving behind,” the female half of the couple said. She was chubby but wearing the skin-tight jeans that were the fashion, along with a black close-fitting jacket with a hood with a fake fur trim. “I’m looking for ways to better insulate myself,” I said. She smiled, nodded and laughed. “Right!” she said. “I get that. These Village apartments are really drafty. We can’t seem to keep the wind out.” I smiled as kindly as I could and continued my sideways crab crawl. I sighed and looked up at the roofs of the nearby buildings hoping to indicate that the conversation was done.

I heard footsteps and the rustling of jackets while I kept my eyes fixed to the periphery and uppermost borders of the buildings. After a few minutes, I glanced carefully down—inconspicuously in case someone was still around—and saw the couple had moved on and I was alone again. It was about 9 pm, and the problem tree’s traffic had slowed. Sometimes a passerby would pause for a few seconds, or a couple would stop and make a few comments, or laugh to themselves, but other than those brief interruptions, it was pleasantly empty—for about 10 minutes.

A procession of cancerous smoke snailed around my head and then: “I thought you were trying to get rid of this.” It was Grant, of course, with his ever-present cigarette. I winced and turned my head. “I tried really hard, I called Lester—you probably heard—to get rid of it, but since you got a permit for it and no one else seems to have a problem with it, yada, yada, whatever, he says there’s nothing that can be done about it, I’ll just have to stick it out.”

Grant laughed and turned his head up, blowing his smoke up out of his mouth and nose like a whale blowing spray through its blowhole. “Poor thing, so sad,” he said. “Have you decided on your problem yet?” he asked. I wondered whether I should just ignore his question, or even walk away since that was the question that set me off the last time we talked, but thought it would only make him laugh at me again if I stomped off. “Insulation, to be apart from things that could hurt me, like that,” I said pointing to the smoke drifting up into the air. Grant smiled and sighed. “Well, it’s not that bad, is it?” he said. “Are you kidding?” I nearly shrieked. “Second-hand smoke is even worse than first-hand smoke. It causes cancer, heart disease, emphysema, and even limb loss—“ Grant had dissolved into laughter and was nearly doubled over in hysterics. “No, really, people loose limbs from it,” I shouted. “It causes constriction of the arteries—really I’m not making that up.”

“I believe you,” he said, continuing to puff. “But I don’t think that’s your problem.”

I kept sidling away, crab-style, sideways, just like one of those little animals skirting along the shore, just out of reach of the water, but close enough to slide back in if necessary. “Well, you’re right—I mean that’s only part of it—it’s bigger than that. It’s the Hare Krishna bells down the hall, the man with his dogs stomping around on top of me—above my apartment—the man across the hall with his forever open door and his pile of books pushing up against my doormat. It’s all the whistling and humming and people singing to themselves—I just can’t stand any of it. I try to be considerate, and it just seems that nobody reciprocates,” I said.

“They don’t because they don’t see it as being inconsiderate,” Grant said.

“Well, I can’t help it if people have bad manners,” I huffed. “I just have to try to protect myself from them.”

The man-bun was wispy that night with many stray hairs escaping. In fact, it was more the idea of a man-bun that night than an actual bun. Grant noticed me staring and winked. “What?” he asked. “Something wrong?”

“No, it’s just—just, why do you bother with that thing?” I asked pointing at the top of his head. He smiled and reached out to where my hand lay against my side and brushed over it lightly. “You don’t really care about that, do you?” he said, “Or about the smoking?” He had grabbed hold of my limp, cold, moist hand, and was pressing his fingertips into my palm. I tried to wriggle free, but couldn’t.

“What are you talking about?” I stammered, looking up at the tops of the buildings and turning my head to avoid the stench of cigarettes.

“Why you won’t spend time with me,” he said.

“We’re very different,” I said. “It’s hard—I don’t think we’re on the same schedule or like a lot of the same things. And the cigarettes—I really can’t tolerate them—I can’t spend time with anyone who would smoke around me.”

Grant dropped my hand and stepped a few paces back, looking up at his art project. The problem-filled envelopes were weighing down the small tree. “So, it turned out pretty good, didn’t it?” he said.

“I’m surprised anyone wanted to bother—people are so lazy and inarticulate, I’m surprised they were able to think of a problem and then write it down and tack it to the tree. If you hadn’t supplied the pens and paper and envelopes, I bet nobody would have bothered,” I said.

Grant and I both started laughing and surveying the weighed-down tree. “Are you sure you don’t want to try out my cappuccino maker?” he said, seeing an opening, I suppose. “Thanks for asking,” I said quickly, “but I have a lot to do before tomorrow—I have a morning meeting to prepare for, and I suppose you’ll be smoking, as usual.”

“Probably,” he said, “but I always leave the window open.”

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Floral Shop

peonyThe stairs always seemed inadequate to my weight. I wasn’t much more than 100 pounds at the time, but the wood would creak, and usually a shred or two would pop off on the side. “Myrtle, you need to get those stairs fixed,” I kept telling the florist. “Even if you don’t care if someone gets hurt, you could get sued—and lose money. I know you care about that.” Myrtle laughed in the hoarse way she did and smoothed back her thick silver pageboy hair cut. It was luxurious, nice-looking hair, which I always thought was unusual for a woman who just let it go gray. Other than the gray hair, in fact, she was still vibrant looking, if not young. She wore fitted jeans that showed off her figure and blouses that weren’t revealing, but were often in bright colors and tailored rather than a size too large or frumpy. “I’ll take my chances,” she said. “The stairs aren’t too high—if someone falls, I bet they won’t get hurt, at least not bad enough to sue me.”

I rolled my eyes and turned away from her and stuck my nose in the peonies that had just arrived. I wanted an assortment of white, light and dark pink for the vase on my desk in the office, but Myrtle wouldn’t allow it. “Why can’t we make our own bouquet with the peonies the way we can with the roses?” There were certain flowers that only came in ready-made bundles, while other flowers, like the roses, came both in ready-made bundles, as well as individual flowers that you could mix and match. “Well, they’re more expensive and I don’t get as many of them in,” she said. “I don’t want them being handled as much—the roses aren’t as expensive—I get them in bulk, so I can afford to have people picking through them, and have enough both for the pre-made bouquets and the solitaries.”

She wasn’t going to budge—I had been trying for years—so I settled on a bundle of three dark pink peonies. As I paid, I noticed a man loitering outside, peering in and then looking away when I looked back at him. He was short, maybe 5’4, and had mousy brown hair and eyes so small I couldn’t tell what color they were. “Who’s that, Myrtle?” I asked counting out my change because Myrtle often short-changed (accidentally, probably). “Oh, him, he’s nobody. Just some weirdo—maybe homeless or with something wrong with him—he stops by about once a day and goes away after I give him a flower. He had his hand out like he was asking for money and when I told him ‘no,’ he pointed at the flowers. So, at the end of the day, I give him a flower I would have to get rid of anyway.”

As I walked out the door, the man had seated himself crossed-legged on the sidewalk and was still staring intently inside the shop. Whenever anyone passed by, he gestured at the flowers on display outside the shop and murmured “please.” My apartment was just a few doors down from the floral shop. I tried envisioning where the flowers could go in the apartment if I didn’t take them to the office. My roommate was allergic to most flowers and my cat, Hogarth, wouldn’t leave flowers alone, sticking his nose in the vase and batting it with his paws. Plus, I had heard a lot of flowers were poisonous to cats. Gertrude, my roommate, was on the sofa with a hand upraised, painting her nails. Her brown hair had been ironed straight and highlighted to give the impression of being sun-kissed. But to me it had a harsh, bleached look. “Hey, what’s up?” she said not bothering to look at me. “Peonies,” I said. “But don’t worry, they won’t be anywhere around you. I’m taking them directly to my room.” Gertrude grunted and looked away from me. “I guess that’s OK, then,” she said. I picked a spot at the top of my bookcase so high even Hogarth couldn’t reach for the flowers. Avoid poisoning the cat and aggravating the allergies of the roommate. So many not to disturb with a few peonies. Now or never—the last week of May—if you haven’t gotten your peonies by now, you’ll have to wait until next year.

After the peonies were arranged up high, I ventured out to face Gertrude. I knew she wasn’t mad; I just didn’t feel like seeing or talking to anyone. I had a roommate for financial necessity but would have been infinitely happier with just Hogarth and the peonies. To keep things pleasant, I realized I had to interact with her a little, rather than just going straight to my room and closing the door, like my instincts told me to do. I plopped myself down on our red, faux velvet couch watching Gertrude as she blew on her nails to dry them. “So, what have you been up to today?” I asked.

She smiled socially, but not that interested. We were more elevator-sharers than roommates. Talking to her always felt the way making polite conversation in the elevator with strangers or new acquaintances feels. “Well, not much. Just work and I got take out on the way home from that new Italian place that opened up on Third Avenue last week. It’s pretty good.”

“Did you happen to see that strange guy at the florist’s down the street?” I asked. Gertrude was now just watching me sidelong with her eye corners as she flipped the channels on the TV from reality to show to reality show. “No, I didn’t notice,” she said. “Actually, I don’t know why you stop in there at all—you know I’m allergic to most flowers. If you have a roommate in a small apartment who’s told you like a hundred times she’s allergic to most flowers, why do you keep buying them? I can already feel my sinuses closing up.” She sniffed loudly to make her point.

So, she wasn’t that interested in her reality shows after all. She was skipping through the channels fast and looking at me from the corner of her eyes because she was pissed. “Well, they’re all the way in my room, up high on a shelf and I passed through here as fast as I could,” I said. “I don’t need to have them around all the time, but once in a while, I think it’s OK if I buy a few flowers. Up until now I’ve just bought the silk and polyester kind, so I thought it might be nice to have a few real ones for a change.”

Gertrude sniffled dramatically again and rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” With that she got up from the couch and stomped toward her room, slamming the door. And all because of a few peonies, imagine that. I wasn’t going to let Gertrude’s sinuses interfere with my love of peonies. I laughed at my silk flower attempts to replicate the real thing, stuffing the apartment full of cloth instead of forcing the point. My room was my own, and despite Gertrude’s discomfort, I intended to keep it fully stocked with genuine blossoms from then on. “Hey, Gertrude, I yelled angrily after her, unrestrained because I didn’t think she could hear me (I suspected she had her ear buds over her ears and was listening to music), “I’m decorating with real flowers from now on. I don’t care about your allergies. All the things you can’t tolerate aren’t worth enduring fake flowers for.”

The next day I decided to get more flowers—the peonies may not have had that much longer to go, so I needed another bouquet to take their place. Myrtle was up on a ladder, pointing out needed ceiling repairs to an assistant when I walked in. So, it gave me extra time to decide among the blooms in peace, wandering into every corner and sniffing around. I wondered whether I should double-down on peonies or look into another flower like maybe an orchid or a lily. Myrtle must have noticed my deliberation. “Variety is always nice,” she said. “Why don’t you try a different kind finally? How many times are you going to refill your vase with peonies?” I laughed but wondered if she was right. The peony season was so short—just about a month—so I wanted to fill my vase up with them as much as I could, until the vase couldn’t have any more peonies. “Well, the peonies won’t be around much longer. Don’t you think I should choose them while I still can—you know savoring the spring and all?” When I turned to look at Myrtle, she had descended from the ladder and now had her back to me instead, as she arranged flowers in the window and glowered at the same man I saw the day before, standing, palms outstretched in front of the shop. Begging for money and settling for day-old roses, it seemed. “I’ll make it a mix then,” I told Myrtle. “I’ll take three peonies, a few lavender and a couple lilacs and I’ll donate a tulip to that man always hanging around.”

Myrtle wrinkled up her short nose and laughed. “I wouldn’t waste my money. I just give him the stuff we’re done with at the end of the day. Really, don’t bother. He’s probably got mental problems—I don’t know even know what he does with the flowers. I think it’s part of his mental problems—like an obsessive compulsive—he compulsively collects flowers.”

It didn’t really matter to me what he did with the flowers. I just wanted to distract myself from the pressure to overlook the peonies. The homeless man had averted his eyes from us and was looking down at his hands. It looked like strangers had given him coins throughout the day, and he was cascading them from palm to palm, staring at the movement. It was his own experimental art show, right in his hands. It may have meant more to him than the money. The shapes, feelings and sound of the coins moving from hand to hand was apparently what mattered. I betted by the looks of it that he never would use the coins for anything other than the joy of playing with them as smooth metallic objects. “I don’t care what he does with the flowers, I’m still going to give him one or two—just because I want to,” I told Myrtle. She nodded and looked away, shuffling things around the checkout counter. “Whatever. Your money to waste.” Meanwhile I noticed the window display Myrtle had just put together—small animal sculptures of cats, birds and rabbits with flowers twined around their necks. “Myrtle, do you realize you have a predator in your window?” She looked up confused from her phone. “What are you talking about?” she snapped. “Well, cats eat birds and rabbits—in your window. You have two vegetarian animals and one animal that would like to eat the other two.” She finally laughed, but just a little—more like a guffaw than anything else. When she rang up my flowers—the final selection of three peonies, two orchids, a few lavender and a couple lilacs—she admitted that she hadn’t noticed the predator advertising flowers in her window. “Well, they’re all so cute, who would notice?” she asked.

I left Myrtle with the two of us laughing, and stepped onto a sidewalk newly smudged with rain—with dog poop smudged and stinking, and Myrtle’s onlooker grasping a few daffodils tightly in his left fist with his head turned up to the rain, mouth open, catching droplets. He didn’t lower his gaze to me, so I kept my flowers to myself, thinking if he didn’t notice me, then so much the better.

When I got back to my apartment, the door was partially open, which I hated—I liked my doors closed so as little outside noise could get in as possible. So, upon entering, I closed it without a thought. “Gertrude, are you here?” I asked wanting to be sure the open door wasn’t due to the presence of a workman or intruder. A melodramatic sniffle announced her presence. “Oh, you’re back,” she said in enhanced nasal tones, coming into the living room from her bedroom, in her usual at-home attire of yoga pants and sorority t-shirt. “And you’ve bought more of them! I was just keeping the door open to air the apartment out of all those allergens, and now you’ve got more!” I hated to be mean, but couldn’t help laughing. “Well, I have a room of my own, so I figured I may as well have flowers, as long as they stay in isolation there. It’s not like I’m finally getting the garden I always wanted. All I’m doing is making a place for a weekly bouquet from a florist’s shop.” Gertrude just kept sniffling ostentatiously as if the melodramatic sniffling exceeded all of her vocabulary. “It’s just—I mean—the thing is,” she stammered. “Pollen travels, the things I’m allergic to don’t stay where you put them. They’re in your room, but they’re going to reach me wherever I go in the apartment. Things you’re allergic to like pollen follow and stick to you when you’re in a small apartment. You can’t just hide it in your room and think it won’t ruin my sinuses.”

“Well, I’ll put them on the side of my tall bookcase closest to the window and keep the window open a little whenever I’m home. Maybe that’ll help.” Gertrude looked away and then back at me rolling her eyes. “Whatever, do what you need to.” Well, I knew I didn’t need to; I just didn’t want to live without a piece of the garden I was missing. I felt bad bringing discomfort to a person I had to share space with, and realized I was disrupting the peace of my home, but that slice of garden was something I felt entitled to—I couldn’t have the whole, so the flowers around the edges at least were meant to be mine.

The next morning I awoke to a sound I couldn’t place—it wasn’t just the typical clomping around the apartment that Gertrude did early in the morning as she assembled her things for the gym. The door to my room didn’t open at first, and so I figured for a second that Gertrude had put a chair or another piece of furniture up against my door to prevent it from being open. But when I pushed a little harder, I heard a scurrying back of feet. “OK, OK, I’m moving, just give me a minute,” Gertrude said panting. I had caught her in the middle of taping some sort of tarp in front of my door, to seal in allergens from the flowers, I guessed. “Don’t worry, you’ll still be able to get in and out of your room. I just thought having this extra shield might help.” I laughed and pushed through the plastic tarp. “Well, do you think it might provide a noise barrier? I wouldn’t mind that.” Gertrude looked disappointed, gazing down and then around the room as if thinking of something that would really upset me this time, since the idea of being symbolically sealed in my room didn’t seem too bad to me.

She also had purchased three “air purifying” fans, and handed me the receipt. “I talked to my allergist today, and he recommended I purchase those,” Gertrude said, sweeping her hand at two thin, though tall, freestanding fans. “So, since I had to get them all because you refuse to stop buying flowers, I thought you should pay for them.”

“Sure—depending on how expensive they were. How much?” I asked trying not to be offensive by laughing again.

“They were each $300,” she said. Gertrude was now the one who laughed, stroking her dry, bleached hair and tapping her fingernails on a nearby wall sconce. “When do you think I could have that?” Of course she knew I wouldn’t pay it. “That’s a rip off,” I said. “I think I saw the same thing for sale at Kmart for about $50. Maybe whenever you move out I’ll think about reimbursing you for that, but I don’t think it’s worth that much money—and I don’t think having flowers in my room with the door shut most of the time should be doing anything to your allergies. I think it’s all in your head.”

She looked up—at God, I guess it was supposed to be—but since we were on the third floor of a six-story apartment building it ended up being two men in their 20s always in workout clothes. “I just can’t believe this,” she ranted. “My doctor even wrote me a note about how I need the air purifiers so I can submit it to my insurance company.”

I decided at that point to get out of the apartment and take a walk. The stairs leading downstairs to our “lobby” looked damp, and an old man who lived upstairs, who had been living there since the 1950s, mumbled to me, looking down from the next floor up. He only had a few teeth left, which seemed to affect his speech so that I could never understand him. “What? What was that?” I asked. “Watch it,” I thought I heard him say. As I slid my fingers along the banister, I smelled paint, and my fingertips were tinged in white. “Oh, shit!” I shreaked, my voice echoing up and down the stairwell. On the sidewalk I looked for one of those short Mexican men who stand outside the shops with a hose washing away the dog poop from the cement outside the shops’ entranceways. But none were around.

When I got to Myrtle’s shop, the homeless-looking man who coveted—and then seemed to hoard—flowers was sitting cross legged at the edge of the sidewalk, his rear end practically hanging off the edge into the street. He was looking down at the pavement where five wilting white roses were laid side by side. He also had a few books with him making me wonder whether he was collecting all these flowers as keepsakes, feeling like it was his duty to preserve the flowers Myrtle otherwise would have thrown out. I thought maybe he was doing that trick where you press flowers inside a book to preserve them. Myrtle was on her stepladder again arranging the latest flowers twined from aft to aft of the ceiling. I didn’t want to spook her off her ladder, so I opened the door as noisily as possible and cleared my throat a few times. She turned around slowly and half-smiled. “You’re back. Did they die already?”

“No, not yet,” I laughed. “Actually, I just need to use your sink. This senile old man in our building painted the banister on our stairwell and I touched it. Now I have paint all over my fingers.” I moved toward the sink at the back of the shop without even waiting for Myrtle to respond. “The truth is,” I said through the running water, “the flowers are not only still alive, but tormenting my roommate.”

“She has a phobia of flowers?” Myrtle asked. I wondered myself if maybe that was the case more than allergies because I had never heard of anyone having a generalized case of flower allergies, but I passed along Gertrude’s story. “No, actually, she claims she’s allergic to all flowers. I was trying to be nice about it, but I’ve given up. She got to the point where she wouldn’t even be nice about me having flowers in my room on occasion. So, now, guess what I’m doing? I’m constantly having flowers.”

“It’s good for business,” said Myrtle with a half-smile. “But why would she continue living with an allergy tormentor?”

I wasn’t sure I cared whether or not she moved out. In fact, I kind of hoped I propelled her out of the apartment. I was tired of her already. “Now, Gertrude, don’t make me bring in the daffodils,” I dreamed of taunting. “Well, so be it if she moves out,” I said. “I have some money saved up, and I can go a few months or more without a roommate. I never like having one anyway. On top of everything else, she bought an air purifier she now expects me to pay for. She deserves more than just daffodils, she deserves tulips, lilies, orchids, lavender—and just for spite—lilacs and daisies.”

Myrtle laughed, but had her head cocked a little. “Huh, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard of anyone buying someone flowers out of spite.”

“Well, technically, I’m buying it for my own enjoyment, but at the same time, I think I’m buying it to upset Gertrude,” I said.

“Well, whatever,” said Myrtle. “I don’t care why you’re buying the flowers, that’s for sure. Like I said, good for business.”

We had gravitated to the hydrangeas, with our noses nearly burrowing into the bouquets, when we heard a strange squeaking sound. The little squirrel of a man who had taken up residence outside Myrtle’s shop was running his right index finger up and down the glass. Myrtle shook her head, tossing her hair back. “Oh, no, that’s where I draw the line,” she said, knocking on the glass where the finger traced. “Don’t touch my windows—I don’t want any smudge marks—and you’ll scare the customers away.” He smiled, showing teeth that were yellowish with the two top teeth gapped. He had stopped squeaking his finger along the glass but was still standing there, just smiling and staring. “Why don’t you just call the police?” I asked. “Isn’t what he’s doing considered loitering?” Myrtle didn’t say anything, but grumbled. “Oh, I don’t know,” she eventually said under her breath.

All the while Myrtle picked through the bundles of flowers, making a small pile on the counter where the register stood. “Don’t tell me you’re giving those to that man,” I said. She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, what else am I going to do with them?”

“Why not donate them to the hospital? That might be a nice thing to do,” I said. Myrtle furrowed her eyebrows and smoothed her helmet of hair. “Don’t they have enough flowers already? Look, I feel bad for him—whoever he is. He just sits there all day and the flowers seem to mean something to him—God knows what, but who cares?”

I was irritable and didn’t want to see Myrtle giving carefully chosen flowers to the bum. I felt sorry for him, too, but other than passing him a stray flower here and there, I thought he should be ignored. I laughed to leave things pleasant and headed out the door. Myrtle, as always, was quickly diverted to something else, scrutinizing whether the Georgia O’Keefe prints on her wall were hung perfectly straight. “See you later,” I said over my shoulder as she fixed her eyes into a bright stamen.

I decided to put the homeless flower-mongerer permanently in my peripheral vision, making my eyes go out of focus whenever he inched in. The problem was when I heard him, too. “Why won’t you? Yes?” he said, reaching up, grazing the bottom of my pants with the stem of a calla lily. “Why don’t you?” I smiled and laughed. “That’s OK, thanks, but I’m all set,” I said. In the past it always seemed that he asked for flowers, but now that he was amassing a collection, he seemed to want to give them away. “Free,” he said. “Free, no problem.” I pulled away the hem of my pants from the edge of his hands and looked away. “No thanks,” I said, quickening my step.

I thought a walk in Washington Square Park might be a good cleanser to the flower-mongerer experience. The sidewalks on the way there were full of sidesteppers, people who jutted out knees and elbows at me on foot and bicycle, and scooter, even. Sometimes, ridiculously, a child—somewhat cute—would scoot by and then a few seconds later—not at all cute—would come the parent scooting. Usually they skimmed the outskirts of my clothing or feet, never bothering to excuse themselves. They assumed I would excuse them, but instead I scowled or made a human-animalistic growl in exasperation. And the smokers blew back their leftovers at me and some facing each other looked up at the sky and blew their smoke upwards as if to be polite. But why should it matter if smoke gets blown in your face if you’re already smoking yourself? “Oh, just swallow each other’s smoke already,” I snapped, though nobody listened. “You’re already poisoning yourself. Who cares if your friends add additional poison?”

The afternoon garbage run was underway. Garbage in the city is an all-day event, unlike the suburbs where you just see the garbage trucks in the early morning. I jogged forward to be in front of the stink rather than behind it. It always seemed—between the toxic smoke and the dump trucks—that I was always downwind of discomfort. I noticed the cigarettes getting crushed underfoot, along with gum and the stray dogwood petals falling from trees. I didn’t understand why it was acceptable to crush cigarettes on the sidewalk and then just leave them there. People frowned on throwing litter on the sidewalk, so why didn’t cigarettes count as litter? The crushed petals didn’t deserve to lie among a butt’s ashes.

“I told you 9 o’clock, so where were you?” a fat blond, with oversize sunglasses and a flowered dress with no waist, complained to what appeared to be her skinny, sharp-faced husband. “I waited here for over an hour,” she whined. She was tall on top of being fat and had to stoop to avoid a magnolia tree bough. Nevertheless, a few petals fluttered to the ground grazed by the top of her ponytail. She spun around and angrily slapped the branch back.

I was walking behind the angry branch pusher, so I held back, trying to stay more toward the magnolias than her. The children and adults on scooters were still there, but as I got onto the periphery of the park, skateboarders were added. I felt like an orange cone or hurtle placed in their path—a challenge for them to skirt.

The beds of flowers along the edge of the park were filled with tulips, but they were just temporary tenants, like a flowerbed timeshare. After they died, what looked like overgrown weeds would take over and then by the middle of July there would be mounds of long-stemmed daisies. They would look dry and close to the beginning of the wilting process, but would end up enduring through August.

A child who looked about four was running toward the remaining daffodils and pulling at their stems. The mother’s back was turned talking to a companion. She would glance back at her daughter stampeding the daffodils’ bed and then back toward her companion to resume the conversation. I longed to scold the child, but didn’t since it’s considered socially unacceptable to yell at other people’s children. Part of the privilege of having children was the freedom to yell at them. “Iris, no!” the mother said. “We have to get going. We’re going to be late.” She finally walked over to the child, scooped her up and carried her off.

The amazing thing was, while the children now and then stampeded the flowerbeds, the dogs were mostly well behaved—even the ones left off leash were better trained than the children to stay off the daffodils’ territory. “Such a sophisticated dog,” I said admiringly to what looked like a golden doodle. I talked directly to the dog, overlooking the owner, who was typically the human-dog-human translator. Couldn’t I just talk directly to a dog once in a while? “I like that you respect the garden. If only more children were like you,” I said to the golden doodle.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the park, people who looked like volunteers were clearing and raking the dirt of a garden that had been covered over with port-o-potties while nearby construction was taking place. Released from latrine duty, the ground was being readied for a planting of some kind.

“What are you planting?” I asked. “What kind of garden?” The volunteers looked at me, but none answered. They were mostly women who looked in their fifties or sixties. Their hair was short and either mousy brown, gray or white, and they were nearly all wearing baggy pants with t-shirts that said “Park Conservancy” on the back. I asked again: “What type of garden is this?” They continued for another few minutes raking with their backs to me, and then a short, chubby sixty-something with short gray and white hair turned slowly. “We don’t know. We’re just clearing it.” I laughed, wondering how you could labor with no concern as to what would grow in the plot you were readying. “Maybe you’ll be lucky, and they’ll be perennials,” I said laughing. They were ignoring me again, so even the one who had turned to answer my question earlier didn’t bother to look up.

On the way home I passed by tons of dandelions and those weeds where you blow and the fuzz gets scattered. I started counting these “flowers” to pass the time back to my apartment, and to keep from losing my temper thinking about Gertrude. I thought about picking the dandelions and white fuzzy weed flowers to present to her, but didn’t want to make any special effort—though that added assault to her allergies would have been funny. I also watched and purposely stepped on the cracks in the sidewalks. I figured a weed eradicator had probably been used to get rid of the dandelions that grow in the cracks, and I felt resentful. Why can’t dandelions be considered a serendipitous garden? They weren’t wildflowers, too?

I watched the flowers rimming the trees and found the “please curb your dog” signs mostly observed, but found a couple beagles on leashes sniffing suspiciously at a mixed bed of daffodils and tulips.

As I ambled away from the park and back toward my apartment, there were no longer dandelions or flowers with fuzzy white tops. In their place were carefully cultivated mini-gardens surrounding the trees with the warnings to dogs. But then again maybe we should at least let the dogs pee someplace nearby. If that’s the way they mark their territory, then it’s like they’re sending love to the flowers—a love that might kill them, but still. I was wondering what kind of accommodations could be made to allow dogs to mark the flowers without killing them when I saw Myrtle coming toward me.

She was dressed the same as always—the fitted jeans, a bright turquoise fitted button-down top and, since it was a warm day, brown Birkenstock sandals, her pink-pedicured, pale toes sticking out. Her thick bobbed gray hair swung back and forth with her fast stride, a barrette of some sort held the top strands from billowing in her face. She was carrying an empty vase tucked into her left elbow. Her red handbag was slung over her right shoulder. She nodded and smiled slightly when she saw me. “What’s the vase for?” I asked. “I’m donating it to the park,” she said. “Apparently, they’re creating a potted border to one of the flower beds they’re clearing and they said they might like a wide vase like this—I ‘ve got a ton of them.” The volunteers must have considered this confidential information because they didn’t share any of this with me when I asked.

“That’s weird,” I said. “I was just over there and asked them what they were clearing the bed for, and they just said they didn’t know.”

“Well,” said Myrtle, “They probably don’t. They’re just volunteers for the day—they just do whatever park management tells them. They’re not the ones making the plans.” Something about this bothered me. “If I were them, I’d be insulted—toiling away at a flower bed for hours and no one thinking I’d like to know the plan,” I said.

“Well, think about it—you’ve seen these people—do you really think most of them have any better way to spend their time? They don’t care—they’re just excited for something to do, whatever it is,” Myrtle said. “By the way, did you say something about your roommate being allergic to flowers? I could have sworn you keep telling me that.”

“Yeah, that’s right—Gertrude at least says she can’t be around any flowers. Why do you ask?”

“Because just before I left to come over here, I saw her parading down the street with her arms full of flowers,” Myrtle said. I had a suspicion of what was going on, but didn’t want to sound crazy, so I just laughed. “Well, that’s Gertrude for you, always up to something weird,” I said.

The rest of my walk home wasn’t as leisurely. I felt the flowers I had lined my small space with were being pulled away from me. I stopped seeing the plantings around trees, wondering why they suddenly dwindled, and then stopped altogether the closer I got to home. In fact, I saw no flowers of any kind except a young woman carrying a box out of an office building with a small green plant tucked inside. It had the look of a move-out box on her last day on the job. I then passed by the building where I used to work and saw people one after another passing through the automated security gates in the lobby. They reminded me of bees coming and going through the opening of a beehive. Every four or five of these people paused on the sidewalk outside to light a cigarette. I turned away to avoid taking in their smoke leftovers—carcinogen leftovers, actually.

The air seemed fresher locked up indoors. Sprawling indoor gardens were starting to make more sense than outdoor ones. “What a disgusting habit!” I said out loud as I passed by the smokers, turning my head and fanning my hand in front of my nose. They ignored me, figuring probably that I was just talking to someone on my cell phone. I also made the “tsk, tsk” sound and shook my head at some of them. They always ignored me, but I kept hoping at least one would see me and feel ashamed to be smoking. At the very least, shouldn’t they keep their smoke to themselves?

Every light holed me up on the way back to my apartment. I didn’t try to walk without the benefit of the red light, even when no cars were coming because I had a bad feeling I would turn my head for a split second and get slammed. Bicycles sped around me, running lights, skirting my heels, and I always seemed to be just in front of or just behind someone, as if I were part of a parade of marching circus animals. If I stopped short, the person behind me would crash into my back and I would bump hard into the person at the tips of my toes. I would be harassed forward if I kept going straight, so I veered off onto another street. It would take longer getting home, but at least I wouldn’t be part of the crowd. That crowd was too conjoined for me—I didn’t want to be one of its middle dominoes.

The rest of the way home, I ran around people blowing toxic smoke back at me (cigarettes again and the occasional cigar), sidestepped even on the sidewalk bicycle riders interspersed with scooters and a wad of still-sticky bright pink gum. I ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch loosened by a recent storm.

There was something soft, malleable and broken into bits I began feeling about five blocks from my apartment. I couldn’t tell what it was at first under my feet. It looked like shreds of bright pink, red, yellow, orange, purple and blue paper. I thought it was some kind of confetti or the remnants of a child’s art project. It was sticking to the bottom of my rubber-soled sandals. I picked up my foot and it looked like smudges or soft chunks of blood. But when I looked closer, I could see it wasn’t that either. I ran the outside of my index finger along the edge of these soft blots of red. They were flower petals, but most were not in tact—they were the shreds of petals. “And they’re just the colors I love!” I said out loud, though no one was listening. “The same colors I like to choose for my own flowers.”

The density of petals on the sidewalk grew thicker as I moved closer to Myrtle’s shop and my apartment. Other people were curious about it, too, and some were bent over picking up a petal and holding it to the light to inspect it. “Isn’t that weird?” I heard one older woman say to her husband. “I wonder if some trees in bloom got cut down near here so the petals blew over.”

As I walked further up I saw Myrtle outside her store talking to a few of the other shop owners in the neighborhood. She was laughing and shaking her head and pointing to a spot on the sidewalk where an old beach towel and a bottle of water had been left. “I’m telling you, you should have seen him go,” she said between peals of laughter. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Like what?” I said gently, trying to push my way into the circle of people she presided over. “Like what?”

“That weirdo who’s always sitting outside here,” she said, pointing to the spot where the beach towel and water bottle lay. “He just got up all of a sudden—with all these flowers—and started marching up and down the block shredding them, shredding them, I’m telling you.”

“Shredding what?” I said. Myrtle looked at me like I was dumb or being facetious. “Shredding what? Shredding flowers—look around you—they’re everywhere. All those flowers I brought him that I was going to get rid of anyway and gave him—he shredded them. Oh, and your roommate, that ditz helped him out, I should tell you.”

“Gertrude? What could she do?” I said. “Well,” Mytrle said, flipping her hair and acting like she was re-telling a story on a comedy show, “She gave him a ton of flowers to shred. They didn’t all come from the end-of-day flowers I gave him—nope, they weren’t all end-of-the-day flowers at all.”

I had a sinking feeling, but at the same time, I wasn’t all that surprised—as if I just should have known better. Gertrude wasn’t such a nice person that she wouldn’t get back at me for carving out a garden in my room—with the door kept closed, no less. I saw her then coming up the sidewalk, in her home-on-the-couch look—yoga pants, t-shirt, dry, bleached hair pulled into a pony tail and long acrylic nails curled under into her palm. She was smiling, but looking down. I kept walking toward her, but she kept looking down and then up toward the roofs of buildings, that same smile remaining and then moving to more of a half smile or nervous smirk. “Gertrude,” I said as I got closer to her, “Gertrude.” She finally looked directly at me, squinting like the sun was in her eyes, though it had become cloudy. “Oh, I didn’t see you,” she said. “I was just taking the trash out, and thought I’d get rid of some things—“

“Like my flowers!” I said. “You gave that bum my flowers!” Gertrude looked off again at the tops of the buildings and then down at our feet. Eventually she looked sidelong at me. “Actually, I just threw them out—in the dumpster, here, she said, gesturing behind at the small white dumpster with garbage cans inside, which our building used. “He must have fished them out of there.” This made me even angrier than if she had bequeathed the flowers to the beggar. The thoughtless dumping of the flowers was far worse. “Well, the thing is, I asked you this morning to get rid of them, and then if you weren’t, to get me the humidifier my doctor recommended, and then I didn’t see you until just now, so I didn’t know what to do. My throat was starting to get sore,” Gertrude whined.

I couldn’t stand looking at her anymore, and thought a donation of her furniture and keepsakes to the dumpster, or maybe directly to the flower beggar, would be a good idea. He had resumed his post among the shredded flowers, yet among the bounty of his shredded collection, he asked for more. The people who had congregated to marvel at the petal-covered sidewalk had dispersed, and Myrtle was back inside her shop. The beggar sat cross-legged opposite with that hand of his still extended to those who passed within or without.

I forgot Gertrude for a moment and stomped over to the flower beggar. “Stop asking for flowers!” I nearly screamed at him with passersby turning around for a second, probably thinking I was his fellow mentally ill homeless person. “Why are you asking for them anyway? I felt bad for you at first. But it looks like all you want is to shred them, so why should anyone help you?” He just smiled and cocked his head like a dog at me. “Please,” he said, pointing at the flowers in Myrtle’s window. “Please.” He either didn’t speak English or he was mentally impaired—maybe even a little retarded. “Is it an experimental art project? Is that what all this is?” If it was art, I would accept it, but waste with no art was intolerable.

It was then that I got my idea. I ran into Myrtle’s shop and asked to borrow a vase, and then began collecting the petals from the sidewalk. I wasn’t an artist, but maybe I could glue them to a board of thick paper and create a collage of some kind. Attention diverted from the beggar to me, and I heard laughing and saw people turn their heads toward me even as they walked away, as if they couldn’t get enough of the strangeness of a woman collecting shredded flowers from a sidewalk. Was it that strange? “What are you doing?” Myrtle asked me, nudging my shoulder. “What are you bothering with those for?”

“Just my own personal salvage operation,” I said, trying to laugh to seem casual. “I thought maybe I could glue them to some kind of artsy paper and make a collage or abstract design somehow.”

Myrtle started to laugh, full-throated and even bent over because she thought it was just too hilarious. “I didn’t know you were an artist!” she said, “I guess we better call MoMa—sounds like something up their ally, you never know.”

“Ha, ha,” I said. “It’s just something I want to do—as long as they’re lying here on the sidewalk going to waste.”

But Myrtle kept laughing and the beggar even started smiling, while keeping his hand extended. “I got more for you, don’t you worry,” Myrtle said to him. “You can shred all the flowers you want—I can’t keep them forever—I have to trash some of them eventually anyway.”

I fixed my eyes on the bright shreds of my bouquet on the sidewalk, collecting it piece by piece—the beggar waiting, hand outstretched for more to collect and tear apart; Myrtle laughing as she bundled together out-going flowers.

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Stacy and Bart hadn’t seen each for six days. He was at a fitness camp in Burlington, Vermont. He said he needed a break from their house. Stacy hadn’t been a fair partner in cleaning—Bart felt like only he scooped the cat’s litter and dusted around the box. Only he administered the insecticide when needed. Only he inspected the oven for grease.

“That’s ridiculous,” Stacy said as he packed his allergy medications and searched for his extra contact lens cases. “I come home every night after 10 hours in the office and put dinner on the table and clean up while you sit on the toilet or spend time alone with Algernon, hoarding him to yourself—he hates me now,” Stacy said referring to their black and white tuxedo cat, Algernon. “I do so much I—“ she gasped then, making gulping sounds and started to cry. “I can’t take this anymore,” Bart said glaring at her. “The constant crises and hysteria.” It was then that he zipped up his two overnight bags and stomped out of the house. Stacy knew he would be back because they had an appointment the following Saturday with Dr. Hirschman, their couples counselor.

Bart couldn’t bear to miss a pre-scheduled appointment, and he was too compulsive to drop out of an-already-set course of treatment. He believed in “powering through” the misery to “complete the assignment.”

But he was uncharacteristically late, as it turned out. Focusing on the cactuses on Dr. Hirschman’s waiting room registration desk, Stacy folded her arms with her fingernails digging into the opposing arm. She smiled and hoped no one noticed the digging into her own flesh. Bart had texted her that he would be 15 minutes late, so she knew he would show up, but it was out of character for him to be late. When he arrived in his usual khaki pants, collared shirt and loafers (his style had changed little since she first met him at a fraternity party in college), he smiled like you would to a relative you don’t like but have to sit next to at a wedding. “Sorry, I wanted to stop at home and clean up. I was worried about Algernon’s litter box. He doesn’t like it when it isn’t scooped well, so I was worried he would try going in the tub again.” Stacy shook her head and rolled her eyes. “That’s just like you, not to trust that I could take care of Algernon,” she said. “That’s what I can’t deal with anymore.” Before they could continue the latest round of argument over who was the better maintainer of the house, Dr. Hirschman walked out to the waiting room to greet them. If you booked a weekday appointment, she was in what might be called “business casual”—slacks with blouse and low heels or maybe a comfortable looking dress with cute flats. But on Saturdays, Dr. Hirschman wore blue jeans and a t-shirt, her long highlighted brown hair hanging down the middle of her back like a sixties hippie. Stacy found her more credible in that attire, but Bart always winced when he first saw her. “Now, now,” Dr. Hirschman said laughing. “Save that for later. Our session hasn’t even officially started yet!” Bart and Stacy smiled socially and laughed as if they were only play fighting. “I guess we got a little ahead of ourselves,” Stacy said.

Walking behind Dr. Hirschman, watching her brown hair swinging side to side like a soft metronome and seeing the photos of cactuses, canyons and desert sunsets on the wall, Stacy shivered. She couldn’t figure out why the doctor loved the desert so much. “Dr. Hirschman what is it about the desert that makes you want to see it all day?” Dr. Hirschman laughed, and as they got settled in her office, posed the question back to her patient. “I guess to act like the stereotypical psychologist, I’ll turn that question around: Why do you think I like it so much? Or maybe more interesting to think about—why don’t you like it?”

Stacy wasn’t sure, but was too embarrassed to admit she didn’t know why. “Well, it’s just so empty, and it looks so hot, and I know it’s a dry heat which is better than a wet heat like we have here in Connecticut, and the canyons are so steep and, you know, kind of unmanageable, and—“ She knew she was rambling but couldn’t help herself. Bart, meanwhile, was sitting smugly back on the couch laughing, ready to expose her. “She doesn’t like it because there aren’t any benches or restaurants in the photos,” he said. “There’s nothing in the desert ready to serve her.”

Stacy began clearing her throat repetitively. “That’s not true! I don’t need to be served. Why would you say that about me?” She looked as though she might cry with her cheeks and eyes reddening. Bart meanwhile continued in his smugness, slouching even further back on the couch and snorting a laugh. “Well, let’s see…” he said in answer to her question.

“Alright, alright, let’s move on,” Dr. Hirschman said. She seemed to realize she was dangerously close to one of her two clients storming out of the room. “We’ll revisit that later.”

“The problem is he doesn’t believe I contribute to our home,” Stacy said. “Yet I contribute more than a quarter of our income. He obsesses over how regularly I scoop Algernon’s litter and whether I clean properly around the box.”

“True, but it’s more a lack of caring,” Bart said. “I don’t think you care about keeping things in the places we’ve decided they go.”

Dr. Hirshman perked up at that, waiting for an epiphany with the same expression a dog has when asked if he wants to go outside or wants a treat. The cocked head with widened eyes and a slight leaning forward. “You’ve decided things have certain places they have to go?” she said.

“Yeah, he’s got a designated spot for everything. You want to take your sneakers off when you get home, forget it—you’ve got to know where the sneaker box is first,” Stacy said laughing. You need scotch tape? You better put it back in the office supplies cubby. I needed a hanger the other day and it took me a half-hour to remember that he classified hangers as “laundry paraphernalia,” and so, put them in a crate hidden behind the door to our porch.”

Dr. Hirschman bit her lip and half-smiled. Stacy thought she caught the doctor trying to mask a giggle as a cough, which made her happy. If even the psychologist couldn’t keep a straight face about the way Bart acted, didn’t that prove something? “So, Dr. Hirschman, you see what I’m dealing with.”

The doctor looked around letting her eyes rest on each desert canyon or empty night vista full-mooned rimmed, smiling to herself and then looking back at her two clients. “I think you spend too much time arguing about the organization of stuff,” she said, “or, on the other hand, the disorganization of stuff. Or what stuff is missing altogether.”

Stacy’s victorious smile faded. She thought the doctor was becoming a woman-to-woman ally, but it seemed now that what she was about to propose would involve discomfort—perhaps the thing Stacy hated the most.

“How about a living room desert—a temporary one anyway?” Dr. Hirschman suggested. “Actually, it can be as temporary as you want it to be. You spend a week throwing or moving out everything the two of you decide together is not absolutely necessary, and then after at least two weeks of living without it, you decide whether you want to fill the house up again with the stuff that’s gone, replace it with new stuff or use the down-to-the-bare-essentials house as a chance to easily move out and move on—your separate ways.”

Stacy blinked repeatedly as if she had something in her eye, or had turned the bathroom light on in the middle of the night, and cringed. “That sounds awful!”

Bart, on the other hand, did his bark laugh and slapped his knee. “Sounds good to me. I’ve been asking her if we could do a garage sale for over a year. All that crap in the house. You can never dust all the way with all that stuff everywhere.”

Dr. Hirschman laughed. “That just says it all, doesn’t it? Why not compromise, and just try it for one week, including two weekends? You can start this Friday. The first weekend you empty as much out as possible, during the week you live in your homemade desert and then the second weekend you decide whether to move all or some of the stuff back in, forget about the missing stuff entirely, but continue to live with each other, or dispense with everything including the relationship. Of course, you also could retrieve the stuff, divide it up and then end the relationship. Like I said, the desert can be as temporary or permanent as you make it.”

Stacy took a few deep breaths, rolled her eyes and then stared at the floor. “But I like my stuff. I feel like Bart doesn’t like any stuff at all practically. He just likes sweeping things clean, so I don’t really feel like he’ll be suffering. I feel like I’ll be the only one suffering.” She wanted to add an emphatic, “I hate that!” and stomp her feet like she would have done if she and Bart were talking about this proposed plan alone, but didn’t want to appear childish in front of the doctor. “I mean, I don’t know how reasonable that is,” Stacy said laughing sociably to cut the tension.

“I’ll tell you what—give it a try and if you can’t do it, you can’t do it,” the doctor said.

Too embarrassed to protest any further—she hated the idea of Bart appearing the more evolved of the two of them—Stacy nodded in agreement. “Alright, we’ll give it a try.”

Walking out of Dr. Hirschman’s office, the scenes of desert played out, Stacy and Bart one behind the other rather than side by side. The rigid crests of dry sand, the redness of the sun crisp against flat land and the far-off oasis she thought she saw in a picture not nearly as vivid as the hard sand crusts at the borders. The hallway out was wide enough for the two of them to walk side by side, and they weren’t yet at the point of separating, so why single-file?, Stacy wondered to herself watching Bart’s shoulders rock slightly from side to side heading toward the exit. His real walk was all balls of the feet with a slight bounce, but a lot of the time—especially in public—he tried for what he must have thought of as masculine by rocking side to side as if to the beat of a drum. Stacy always laughed to herself thinking that with Bart, it wouldn’t be an internal drum that his steps were keeping pace to, but something more like a tambourine.

The next morning light broke up the curtains’ pattern and the last of the picnic baskets had been divided up—the ones Stacy brought to the marriage and the ones Bart had tried to replace hers with. They met through a summertime picnic-goers club about 10 years ago, and so, they both had their ideas on how to spread a meal over an open lawn; they also each had beliefs on how to transport, and, to Stacy’s annoyance, pack up the meal afterwards. She liked to focus on the preparations and the feast whereas Bart focused on keeping the meal contained, how to limit infestations and how to pack up back into the basket. His baskets were compartmentalized; Stacy’s were large and decorative with handles of varying sizes. Bart’s handles were superior, designed for long-distance hauls. If their home was now a desert, they both agreed, they should each get to keep just one basket. They now had about five or six each.

“Don’t worry, I won’t touch your basket. We’re down to just these two now, so since it’s the only one you have left, you can keep it with no argument from me,” Bart said. Stacy forced herself to laugh.

“Oh, good, because if nothing else, I’d like to be left with my favorite picnic basket. At least you respect the integrity of that one basket,” she said. Bart huffed and snorted the way he did to connote irritation rather than humor and then moved onto to Stacy’s collection of flag dishtowels. “So, I guess we can’t get rid of any of these?” he said. “I suppose you wouldn’t want to throw out any part of a collection.”

Stacy laughed genuinely because she really thought it was funny he would ask. “No, one for every country I’ve visited, so throwing one out would be like throwing out a memory.” The only time she used the dishtowels was when they had company. She would drive Bart crazy asking his opinion, given the culture and politics of their guests, which flag dishtowels would be best. “Plus, you know I like to alternate them every few days so I don’t feel like I’m stuck—it helps to be reminded of all the places we could go.”

At that, Bart’s eyes wondered over to the window and the suitcases he had pulled out of the closet that morning for review. Which would go first? They were under the windowsill, with light catching the beaded up dust around their edges. “I wonder why we ever kept all of these?” he said without looking at Stacy. “You only needed your own since you know I don’t like to travel, but you just kept buying more. Look at this one,” he said picking up a brown leather suitcase monogrammed with his initials. “Where would I ever take this thing?”

Stacy laughed, and, getting up, ran her fingers along the monogrammed letters. “Great leather. I remember when I first ordered that for you how much I loved seeing your initials on the leather and how when you wouldn’t use it yourself, I would take it with me on my trips so I could be reminded of you. Now, of course, I don’t need any reminders.” She laughed again and patted Bart on the back.

“Don’t need reminding because you just love me so much you can’t stop thinking about me, right?” he said. Stacy smiled and winked playfully. “Yeah, sure,” she said.

Bart pulled one suitcase for himself and glared at Stephanie nodding his head toward the pile of empty bags. “It’s hard to get a feel for a suitcase when it’s empty; it’s like having to try to pick out an outfit in a store hanging on a hanger or just on a mannequin,” she said. “You can’t get a sense—“

“What are you talking about?” Bart snapped. “You’ve stuffed most of those suitcases full of crap enough times to know what they’re like. Pick one and let’s get this over with.”

Stacy ran her fingers again along the monogram and then let the back of her hand rest on a blue with pink polka dot suitcase she got for their honeymoon. “That’s one that won’t get lost at the baggage claim,” she said. “One of those other ones is liable to just keep circling because they look like any other.”

Stacy had begun making a pile of things she chose to keep while Bart had a large trash bag he was using to throw things away. Stacy kept piling items on top of each other and then all of a sudden remembered the suitcase itself was a container and began piling it all inside it. Meanwhile she brushed off the dust from the underside of her keeper pile when Bart wasn’t looking. He always laughed at her inability to care for her possessions. “I don’t mind if you want to throw away all the cleaning solutions, mops and all that stuff,” she said. “I mean I don’t mind leaving all that up to you. You don’t have to ask me if there’s any of it I’d like to keep.”

Bart laughed and ran his hand along the cords of wood under the window frame, looked around and rolled his eyes. “That makes sense.” During his trip to the fitness camp dust had collected, though none that Stacy could see. She always thought of that kind of dust as just residing in Bart’s eyes, as if the back of his eyes needed housekeeping more than the space they shared. Their home always seemed more or less the same. He always looked at her the same and said the same things when they saw each other at night after work. He was precise throwing his zipped-up iPad down in the corner he appointed for it, his cell phone on the island in the middle of the kitchen and then without looking at her (she sitting usually in the picture window seat daydreaming over a pack of cards playing solitare or painting with Crayola water colors): “So, what do you want tonight?” He just meant something along the lines of do you want meatloaf, turkey loaf, green bean casserole or fillet of sole.

“Obviously, you don’t get much use out of these,” he said, piling the mops, brooms, detergents and solutions into his trash bag. “I think I’d like to start fresh with all new cleaning stuff,” he said. “I don’t want to bring all this dust with me.” Stacy laughed as if she were trying to be sociable and inspected the room remaining in her boxes. She still had a way to go to get them filled. “Well, I always thought if we had ever had a child, we could have done a good overhauling cleaning,” she said. “We never had a kid, we hardly ever traveled anywhere together and we hardly ever had any friends over. You were always so obsessed over keeping everything a certain way—and we didn’t have anyone to make it look a certain way for—so I just figured who cares?”

Bart continued averting his face from her as he kept piling cleaning solutions into the trash. “We had ourselves,” he said. “You’d think you’d have some pride about it, just for your own sake, never mind mine.” He sniffed in a way that always reminded Stacy of a prudish minister or even a manly nun. Bart made a big show of having a certain stride when he walked, and with his fitness camps, but at the end of the day, he always seemed a little old ladyish to Stacy. Would a real man preoccupy himself with how clean the borders of the cat litter box were or whether too much dust had accumulated on the windowsill? Bart even once suggested they clean between the tiles of their bathroom with a toothbrush. “No, not really. I don’t care about it myself,” Stacy said. “I need motivation. Like when I thought we would have children. When we didn’t end up having any and you never wanted us to have anyone over, I figured who cares?”

The childlessness of their house never seemed to bother Bart. They had received hand-me-down strollers from friends when they prematurely told them they were planning to have children “in the next year or two,” and ended up shoving the several strollers in the back of a deep closet under the stairs. Stacy always held out hope even when they began trying to avoid each other. She thought maybe things would eventually warm up again between them and then maybe they’d finally have a baby before she got too old. Bart, on the other hand, quickly seemed to forget about the idea and immersed himself in fitness camps. He hated to travel but made an exception for the long weekends in the wilderness in which he climbed rocks and forged—well, not rivers—but shallow streams (or so it seemed to Stacy from the pictures she saw). It was the only borderline manly thing other than his false macho walking stride that Stacy ever knew him to do.

“That’s just a cop out. If it hadn’t been for the ‘childlessness’ and no entertaining it would have been something else,” Bart said. “You would have said it wasn’t sunny enough to clean or there was too much construction going on outside or the garbage man wasn’t picking up trash well enough to clean—after all, who can throw stuff out and sweep away dust and dirt without a good garbage man?”

Stacy smiled through grinding teeth and chortled her social laugh. “Ha-ha, well, I guess you’ve got me nailed down, don’t you?” But anyway, it’s all going now, so garbage man or not, you’ll finally get your chance to sweep every corner and every exposed cord of wood just the way you always wanted to.” She walked over to the deep closet where all the hand-me-down strollers were stored and began taking them out and lining them up side by side. “I think rather than choose which to get rid of, we should fill them all up and use them as a conveyance,” Stacy said. “Like for my lighter collection. Remember when I tried liking smoking?” She laughed and winked. Bart furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. “That was idiotic. I still don’t know why you did that,” he said. “You’re the only person I know who was lucky enough to fail at trying to like smoking.”

Stacy laughed again. “I don’t know—it looks cool, don’t you think? Hey, my grandma smoked at least five cigarettes a day and lived till she was 90.”

Bart shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I’m not even having this conversation. You’re just lucky it didn’t take. So, yeah, get rid of all the cigarette paraphernalia.”

The lighters were pretty and Stacy might have kept them if they weren’t following the doctor’s orders to strive for a desert that would be a clean slate to make decisions from. They were of all different colors and some even had pictures on them. One, which she got in France, had a picture of the Eiffel Tower, and another she got from a trendy bakery had a picture of a cupcake with hot pink icing. “But do you think it’s safe to throw lighters out in the trash? What if they ignite spontaneously and the garbage man catches on fire?”

“Occupational hazard, I guess,” Bart said. “Anything else for the strollers?” Stacy thought a minute, her eyes tracking around the room until she noticed a basket of scarves, some with stripes, others with solid color, some with spots. Some of them belonged to Stacy, some to Bart. “Let’s get rid of all those scarves,” she said. “Just toss them in with the lighters and then maybe we’ll add some of the college sports sweatshirts we ended up with and maybe finish the stroller load off with some expired toiletries.”

Stacy began retrieving the items and tossing them into the strollers as you would toss garbage into the trash because the strollers had become just that—mobile trash cans. “I guess these served a purpose after all,” she said laughing. “I knew I was holding onto them for something.”

Bart looked away from her and made a show of rummaging through one of his piles. “We could have adopted—I suggested it, remember?” he said. “You were just so stubborn—it had to be ours. Well, that’s what you get.”

“I don’t remember saying exactly that. I just wanted to make sure if we had a kid it would be one we’d feel connected to. I didn’t want to feel like we had a stranger here,” Stacy said.

Bart sighed and turned his back on her, stuffing the strollers with a hodgepodge of garbage. “How about the lions, elephants and the humpbacked whale under the bed?” he said. Stacy smiled and began dragging large black and white wildlife photos from under the bed. “I thought these would have been nice for the nursery,” she said. “I wanted to hang these animals alongside a map of the world so the kid would learn about nature and want to travel. I just didn’t want her to have that fear of travel like you.”

“Not afraid to travel,” Bart spit out. “Just don’t think it’s worth the money. You buy a TV, you can watch it for five years maybe; you take a week’s trip to Europe the money’s gone in a week.”

“Lucky Dr. Hirschman had us make a desert at home instead of having us travel to one. We have our own mobile desert—we can make it wherever we live,” Stacy said. “Pretty convenient, huh?” She lined the freeze-framed animals against the wall and watched as Bart sorted his cleaning equipment and added in a collection of baseball mitts to his mounting garbage.

The sun making a railroad track of light through the prism-patterned window curtains as it set, the living room, kitchen and bedroom were almost empty. The bed remained and the closet with a handful of each of their clothes and Stacy’s toiletries remained, along with a couch, coffee table and end table with a lamp, but the material that had accumulated between them over the years was gone.

Bart and Stacey were like two people who didn’t know each other but saw each other every day waiting at a bus stop. They would look at each other and attempt a pleasant expression and then look away into the distance as if they were looking for the bus that was scheduled to arrive shortly. Their eyes trailed in search from the emptied corners of the room to the garbage-wreaked strollers to the newly opened views from all of their windows. There was formerly always an obstruction like an art print waiting to get hung or a memento from one of Stacey’s trips on the windowsill.

On the last journey of her eyes, Stacey settled her attention on paint and brushes left on top of one of the strollers. She thought she would just throw them out since she never managed to get around to painting anything. Now with bare walls and the decision of what to take and what to leave, the thought occurred to her finally to create not on a canvas but across their shared living space.

“I’m afraid your canvases have long since made it to the dumpster,” Bart said chuckling. “Maybe when we—or you maybe—relocate you can find an art supply store to stock up again.”

Stacy laughed right back. “Well, actually, our desert is here so I can paint anything I want. All our photos, all the art we picked out for our place, is gone. The walls are back to the original now—just like they were when we first got here—and I can paint anything I want—jungles, beaches, cityscapes, gigantic splotches, anything—even yet another desert.”

Broad swipes at the center of the wall from the orange palette were following by royal blue at the upper edges of the wall and pinks were splotched here and there. “Desert colors,” Stacy said.

Bart laughed with a snort. “That’s just a mish-mosh of colors. That’s nothing.”

Stacy reached back into her palette and drew dark and gray colored “v’s” to look like scattered birds traveling. “Time to fly,” she said to herself. The colors merged so that it wasn’t clear where the desert skyline ended and where the sunset began. For a few minutes Bart didn’t say anything and then he tapped Stacy’s shoulder: “You know, I have some white paint down in the garage. I don’t mind cleaning this up after you’re done. I think the white I have is pretty thick, pretty opaque, should cover this up.”

Stacy didn’t hear him and seemed not to see him either brushing past him so that her shoulder butted against his as she strode across the floor to dip into another color and pick out another piece of wall to frame into an orange canyon’s shadow or the rising rim of a sunset (or was it a sunrise?). Bart meanwhile had brought the white can of paint back from the garage, opened it and stood poised with his brush. He looked at Stacy’s back swaying this way and that like an aerobic exercise as she covered the wall with her desert. He looked concerned and confused—eye brows knitted so the lines popped out of his forehead and a line appeared between his eyes. His cheeks were flushed. “Don’t worry about it, just relax, it’s OK. I can fix this, I can clean this up pretty easy, I think. It turns out I have that white paint I was talking about. I just got it up from the garage.”

Stacy twisted toward him briefly with his scrunched up face, muscles tight and his hand raised to administer his healing white paint balm. “Sure, it’s OK,” she said. “Why wouldn’t it be OK? What do you think of all these suns? I decided to bleed the color some. I decided there should be more than one sunset and sunrise maybe and a lot of things that could be canyons or mesas or maybe not or—why do you keep staring at me like that? I’m painting my desert. And there you are with your white paint brush all ready to—“

“Stacy, babe, really don’t worry about it’s OK, why don’t we go sit on the couch for a while and read a magazine or—“

“Can’t—I want to finish this desert scene. I’ve only tackled the first wall, and there are three others, three others with suns waiting to be bled all over the place.”

“Alright—whatever—well whenever you’re ready, I have the white paint.”

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On Unicorn Farm

The pig mirror had a cracked hoof, but did that disqualify it for the living room? Judy didn’t think so. “Well, maybe I can find a pretty pendent of some kind to glue to the injured foot,” she said. She smiled in the belly of the pig, her large hazel eyes framed with mascara and greenish eye shadow and her purple-tinged lips reassuring her. “I like it—it adds color to what would ordinarily be the kind of room a person would just do their taxes in,” she said to Herbert, the man she had hired to oversee the property she had just been given, and to act as a kind of super in the house. She needed someone there when the plunger wasn’t enough to fix the toilet.

“Actually, to tell you the truth, I’d like a whole collection of mirrored animals with pieces missing,” Judy said, only slightly laughing. “I think I might even mount them on the wall.” Herbert had long since ignored her—Judy got the sense he thought she was crazy and tuned her out as soon as she started talking about anything unrelated to the utility of the house. “What do you think, Herbert? You think that’s a good idea?” Herbert made a face, wrinkling his short nose. He was 10 years younger than Judy—probably no older than his late 20s, but he had the affect of a middle-aged man. “Noooo,” he said melodramatically. “I don’t think that would be the best choice.” Judy laughed and seemed happier with her idea now that it had been rejected. “Yeah, I think I’ll look for some fake jewels, maybe those little things they paste on finger nails and then paste them to the missing parts of the animals.”

The farm, technically speaking, wasn’t a farm. It was a three-bedroom house originally white with black shutters, but which Judy had painted pink with green shutters. Each shutter had a different sea animal carved into it. She had chosen the octopus window frame for her own bedroom. “Don’t worry, Herbert, you and Lily can have the starfish room,” Judy said. “Maybe Lily will start feeling better with more colors and windows with sea creatures and the wind knocking in the middle of the night.”

Herbert smiled sociably and nodded. “I don’t think so. But we’ll see. Dr. Mathis says a change in her routine might be a good idea. Her meds aren’t doing as much as he had thought.” The starfish room wasn’t bad, though Judy wouldn’t have chosen it for herself—the hills on the horizon beyond the sea creature-shuttered windows weren’t visible enough, so all you got was a horizon with nothing to put it into context. Herbert’s wife, Lily, was depressed, and it was one of those depressions that didn’t stem from any life event—she was just sad for no apparent reason. She dragged her slippered feet across the wooden floorboards of the Manhattan apartment she shared with Herbert, too de-energized to pick up her feet, and she often slumped when she walked, like an old lady would. On the streets, it was a different story. She wore fashionable, bright clothes and would only slump when no one she knew was around.

“Well, maybe cooking for all of us and working in the garden will help,” Judy said. “I heard they give people busy work to do in mental hospitals, so maybe my new house is the next best thing—”

“Right,” laughed Herbert. “To a mental institution.” Judy was afraid to live alone in the house she was given by her father. And she didn’t know how to do the most basic of home repair work, so if her old work friend, Herbert, and his depressed wife, Lily, were looking for a change of scenery and needed a cheap place to live, she was willing to give it to them. She made sure she wouldn’t have to share a bathroom with them, and the house was just big enough that she could avoid them if she didn’t feel like looking at them. “Well, I’ve never had my own garden before, and you said Lily knows how to do that stuff and knows how to cook, right?” Herbert nodded and smiled vaguely. “Good enough. She knows how, anyway.”

The next day, Judy found herself in the eye of the broken pig. She had stuck it on the wall and found a faux-jeweled ornament to cover up the missing foot. She wandered around the room laughing at how the pig’s eye followed her, like the eyes in a painting would. “Herbert, are you sure you don’t want the injured pig in your room?” Judy called up the stairs. Herbert wasn’t listening to her through his sweeping and dusting and vacuuming. Evidently he would be housekeeper as part of his low-rent agreement. Judy hadn’t asked him to serve as a housekeeper, but he found her standards of home cleanliness unacceptable. “The pig is yours if you want it. It’s kind of funny looking. Maybe it would make Lily laugh.”

When Judy didn’t hear any response, she trudged up the stairs, each step groaning the way she liked a house’s steps to talk back to the owner. Herbert was in the room he and his wife would share, using a toothbrush to scrub between the tiles in the bathroom just off the bedroom. “I keep seeing brown residue of some kind,” he said.  I like the little spaces between to be plain white.”

Judy rolled her eyes. “Who cares? I don’t have patience for that nonsense. Does Lily care?”

Herbert shook his head and laughed, never pausing in his scrubbing. “Not really. I guess she feels the way you do.” Every few minutes he would hold the toothbrush up to the light to see what new dirt it had picked up. “Well, I don’t think she realizes that she actually does care—she just takes it for granted that everything will be clean.” The light coming in from the window was still strong enough for Judy to look in the mirror and see the beginning of crow’s feet around her eyes and slight wrinkles around her mouth. Nobody else could see it, maybe, but she knew it was there. Lily and Herbert were younger, and she wondered how much they noticed. Did Herbert, inspecting the tiny spaces between the tiles on the floor, notice the creases on his face gaining on him, or the way his mouth was more marked than it was last year? “I think Lily’s probably more interested in keeping up her own looks than worrying about the bathroom tiles,” Judy said.

Judy and Herbert were outside debating which tree would be best to anchor a swing to, and whether it would harm another tree to string lanterns to it, when an SUV rolled up with Lily in the passenger seat. The driver’s seat was taken by a curtain of ironed dark hair streaked with honey-colored highlights. The curtain turned and a slightly beaked nose bobbed up and down.  When the face beneath the curtain turned down to rummage through a large purse, Judy and Herbert could see Lily with her head turned away looking out the window. She had arrived at her destination but seemed to be still in transit in her mind. She was still looking out the window in the immovable way you do when on the highway for a long stretch of time.

Judy hoped she would just stay that way for a few hours to avoid having to make small talk with her. But after about a minute she turned her small, thin neck, brushed back her bobbed dark hair, put her sunglasses on and pushed out of the car. She smiled socially and said goodbye to the hair-as-curtain friend who had given her the ride, but Judy could see it was just one of those forced smiles you do when someone is taking your picture. Lily had a small black overnight bag slung over her shoulder and she was in black Capri pants with a short-sleeved, cream-colored tailored blouse. She had on black, shiny, open-toed dress shoes with light pink-painted toenails. “Hi Judy,” she said thinly smiling. “Thanks again for letting us stay here between apartments. We really appreciate it.”

“Sure, no problem,” Judy said. “Like I told Herbert, I needed someone here in case the toilet broke.” Lily nodded and smiled and then looked away, studying the tree where Judy and Herbert had been debating about the swing. A yard measuring stick was leaning against the trunk and there was a manual for the swing lying in the grass. “That’s where we were thinking of putting a swing. I thought maybe it would be nice to have one of those tree swings in the front yard. What do you think?”

Lily smiled again and nodded. “Sure, I guess. If the tree can hold our weight.” Lily didn’t travel lightly. She had a bird that had died over the last month, but she decided to keep the cage. She had filled it with scarves and tights. It was now an accessories carrier. That was the only sign of whimsy. She had a six-piece Louis Vuitton luggage set that required several trips to move into the house. Judy wasn’t a light traveler either, so she sympathized.

“I like that I’m not the only one around here who isn’t a low-maintenance traveler,” Judy said during one of their trips back and forth to the car to retrieve the luggage. “People are always making fun of me about it.” Lily looked back at her without laughing, seeming to shy away from the two of them being grouped together. “Well, I have a lot of sets of clothes that I like to keep organized together,” she said. Judy pitied her the organized outlook. It was good to make sure all your personal things were kept out of sight, each in a place you could find, but sub-dividing into categories all these items, and then constantly sorting and re-sorting them, seemed like a terrible waste of energy. “Oh, I’m not too organized myself,” said Judy. “I just have lots of stuff.”

The strangeness of the arrangement, with Judy, a single woman, and Herbert and Lily, the married couple, living together was inherent. But the first tangible strange thing Judy noticed was when Lily began unpacking. Lily was, like she described herself, organized. In a special pouch in the suitcase were her silk scarves in a multitude of colors; in another pouch were her beaded necklaces and in another her necklaces with pendants; and in another part of the suitcase her cardigans and then her Capri pants and then her blouses, and so forth until you began to get dizzy watching. And then there was in its own special bag a cuckoo clock from a trip she and Herbert took to Austria a few years earlier.

“That’s fantastic, Lily,” Judy said. She hadn’t thought enough of Lily to think her capable of keeping cuckoos. “Does it work? Is there one of those little birds that comes out every hour co-coo-ing?” Lily smiled with her eyes cast down. “Actually,” she said, “it’s an antique from a great aunt—one of the family who stayed in Austria rather than coming to the US in the 40s. It does work, actually.” Judy looked longingly at the cuckoo clock. “Could we mount it on the wall downstairs, maybe in the living room? I would just love to be reminded of the time by a cuckoo.” Lily nodded and got back to her packing seeming to prefer staring at her socks than at Judy. “It helps to stay on task when you’re reminded of the changing of the hour,” Lily said. “I like to make a list every morning with everything I want to do that day, and then let the cuckoo remind me at the beginning of every hour how I’m doing.”

It was hard to believe this was the same person Herbert said could barely be peeled off the couch. Maybe the cuckoo clock and the agenda of the day was Lily’s psychologist’s advice for getting herself on the move. The cuckoo was central to the house now. Once it was mounted on the wall, it began announcing the hours as early as 6 am, when Lily woke up and went downstairs and set the cuckoo to clucking hourly. They had all agreed the cuckoo should be turned off for sleep. Lily would then begin tending to the herb plants she grew in pots on the windowsill behind the sink in the kitchen—mint, rosemary, thyme and oregano, among others Judy couldn’t identify. She would then begin organizing what Judy and Herbert had thrown here or there. Stray magazines would be compiled and organized by month and then week and then sub-categorized according to content. Lily was the obsessive one about everything having its place and Herbert was the one who checked between every tile and around every window and door frame for dust. Judy preferred to ruminate on the broken pig mirror or wonder whether the tree swing would propel her high enough. As Judy told Herbert, she was glad they were there, anyway, in the event of a broken toilet.

Herbert was the next to rise and he would obsess over eggs for about 20 minutes. He liked to keep not one but two-dozen eggs in the house. Every morning he would conduct an egg inspection, holding each egg up to the light and sniffing each. For what purpose, Judy had no idea. Herbert said he could tell whether at any given point an egg would be at its best in taste by doing this inspection. Judy liked to sneak up behind him while he was bent down, hovering over the egg drawer in the refrigerator. “But how can you tell? And does it matter?” she would ask as he sometimes jumped back. “When an egg is at the point when it’s best to eat, you know it,” he would say. And then the cuckoo would announce the coming of the next hour and he would rush to choose his egg as if he were on a game show and the timer had just buzzed.

“Why don’t you share eggs with your husband?” Judy asked Lily as she sat by the living room’s picture window staring away. Lily usually had instant oatmeal as soon as she woke up and then didn’t eat anything else except a few crackers or a piece of fruit until dinner. She was thin. “It’s too rich for me. I like something light in the morning,” she said. “And I like to eat as soon as I wake up. I don’t want to wait for him to wake up and then go through his whole process of choosing an egg and then wasting time while he figures out what kind of eggs he wants and then another 10 minutes while he decides what he wants with his eggs and then another five minutes while he thinks about what he wants to drink. I’d rather eat, tidy up and then, then, then,” her voice trailed off like she couldn’t remember what should come next. “And then what, Lily?” Judy said. “Oh, I don’t know, whatever I feel like doing that day,” Lily said.

What Lily felt like doing was reorganization. Usually, nothing was thrown out or altered; just rearranged. Everyday, as if doing it for the first time, Lily reorganized all of her belongings. A person unfamiliar with her routine would never guess she did the exact same thing the day before and the day before that. It reminded Judy of a person who looks at the same painting from a different angle everyday hoping to notice something new. Lily’s collection of purses was a special focus. She would go one by one to make sure they were all empty and then she would try to minimize storage space by finding the biggest one and then putting the next biggest one inside and then the next biggest inside that one and so forth. It was as if she were making Russian nesting dolls of the purses. She hadn’t done any shopping since her arrival, so the bags were always the same. Yet every day she re-did this task as if hoping to find that she had been wrong and one of the bags was actually bigger than another or that she could suddenly squeeze two or three bags into one.

Meanwhile Judy had begun a daily project of pasting faux jewels to the missing parts of animal mirrors—like the pig mirror with the missing hoof. Something about seeing herself in the frame of a broken animal was appealing or comforting. She now had a small basket of rhinestones and other costume jewelry to paste onto the missing parts.

And as Judy pasted jewels to animals in disrepair and Lily slid bag into bag to make her possessions as small as possible, Herbert inspected eggs, scrubbed along the cracks between tiles, dusted behind the refrigerator, disinfected the floorboards and policed the coffee table. If he had just polished the table, it was unacceptable to put anything down on it. Judy once made the mistake of thoughtlessly putting her umbrella down and he got up from the couch just to take the umbrella off the table and put it in the designated umbrella bin by the front door. “You’ll ruin the wood,” he said to Judy as he resettled on the sofa with his iPad.

One late afternoon, with the sun glaring eye level through the picture window and Lily staring through winter tree skeletons at an unnamed target in the distance, Judy began mapping out her spring garden. She wanted both a flower garden and fruit and vegetable garden—and wasn’t sure if it was too late—whether a great spring garden is something that needs to be planned in the fall. “What do you think, Lily, is it too late to plan for my spring garden?” she asked as Lily continued to stare out the window. Lily didn’t respond, so Judy just kept talking. “I mean, let’s say I wanted daffodils, crocuses, and then peonies and lilies and lilac and all the berries I like—strawberry, blueberry, raspberry, blackberry—”

Lily spun her head around, her dark bob of hair swinging. “Actually, I don’t know much about gardening,” she said. “I don’t know why Herbert told you that.”

Judy laughed. “Yeah, that’s strange. It’s not like I wouldn’t have let you stay here if you didn’t.”

Herbert, who had been playing one of his puzzle games on his phone, butted in suddenly: “What are you talking about? You had about ten herb plants growing on our windowsills in our old place.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “That’s nothing. Anybody can grow mint and things like that on a windowsill. I don’t know anything about the berries Judy is interested in.”

“Well, who cares?” Judy said irritably. “You can just help me with as much as you know.”

It was still bitter winter, so the garden planning was all internal now, behind fogged-up windows and artificial heating. Judy didn’t bother to talk about it out loud now that she knew neither of her housemates could help. The peony bushes were most important and the tulips were pretty important, too. The roses, which Judy guessed would be eaten by beetles, were less important, but she would have liked having at least enough for a bouquet. She wondered if the daffodils would come in naturally with the crocuses at the end of March. And whether this garden she envisioned would look good twined around the small, steel unicorn she purchased at an antique shop in the fall. Judy’s mind was set about wanting a garden surrounding the unicorn. “Do you think there’s anything strange or unpleasant about a unicorn in a garden?” she asked the other two. Lily swung her head around again. “Definitely strange, but not too unpleasant. Maybe there are some religious people who think it’s a sign of the devil, the way they do about things like crystals. Assuming nobody sees it as a devil symbol, I don’t think it would offend anybody.”

The cuckoo clock struck the hour and Lily and Herbert jumped up like puppets with their cords pulled. Herbert began putting all his electronic devices away—phone, tablet, laptop computer—and Lily began straightening the pillows of the picture window couch. Judy continued to reside in the ungrown garden in her mind, preparing to plant, yet uncertain of how and when the flowers would come in, or where the unicorn would go.

The room became vacant before the garden could come fully to mind, and Judy turned to the growing collection of incomplete animals—the mirrored animal art missing paws and hooves, ears, eyes, and, in one case, a fang. The pig she discovered at the antique shop with Herbert was now on the wall in the living room opposite the cuckoo clock. His missing hoof glittered now with rhinestones and faux pearls. When the cuckoo announced the hour and darted in and out of her wooden box, the cuckoo’s reflection was caught and magnified in the pig. An owl mirror, which Judy named Floyd, was next—his beak was chipped. A new beak of faux turquoise was needed. As Judy rummaged through her brown bag of fake jewels, assorted beads and sparkles, the raised voices of Herbert and Lily drifted down to her. “I resent that you don’t believe me,” Lily said. Herbert just laughed and laughed. “Oh, come on!” Judy heard her stomping back and forth in the upstairs hallway. “No, really, it says a lot that even about something like this, you don’t believe me,” Lily said. “Well, where would the horses come from?” Herbert asked. “Why would they be running across this lawn?” There was a long pause and then a creaking of feet toward the top of the stairs. “How am I supposed to know? I just know I saw three white horses running really fast across the front lawn. I don’t know why you won’t believe me,” Lily whined as she came downstairs.

Lily was in a huff once downstairs, pacing from picture window and back along the other side of the room. She moved fast twirling her hair and frowning. She was mumbling to herself. “Well, I believe you,” Judy said. “Sorry—but I couldn’t help overhearing about the horses. I think it’s possible.” Lily stopped and half-smiled. “Thanks—I guess that helps. It’s just so aggravating to always be second guessed about everything.”

Judy held up the owl mirror, Floyd, with his new rhinestone and faux pearl beak. “What do you think? He’s looking good now, isn’t he?” Judy took Floyd to the kitchen sink and began washing him so you could see yourself clearly when you passed by him on the way in or out of the house. She thought Floyd would do well by the front door as the kind of mirror you give yourself a first or last look in after arriving or just before leaving. Lily, meanwhile, had brought her purses within purses downstairs and was taking each out of the one it had been tucked into until a dozen purses were laid out on the sofa. She then began her usual routine of sliding her hand into each to ensure nothing had been forgotten, zipped up and thrown into the closet.  “I could have sworn I left a pendent for a necklace in one of these,” Lily said irritably. “I just can’t find it anywhere.” Judy who had returned to the living room after tacking up Floyd to the entranceway wall, didn’t want to embarrass Lily by stating the obvious—that she searches through her purses compulsively every week, and that Judy knew she was doing it as a compulsion rather than as a search for any keepsake. “Well, I’m sure it will turn up sooner or later—you know how it goes,” Judy said gently.

As Lily consumed herself with the purse inspection, Judy looked through her growing collection of mirrored animals, settling on a cow with a chipped udder as her next project. Throughout the day she worked at covering over the chipped area with saffire-looking jewels and some sort of yellow semi-precious stone she couldn’t identify.

At dinner that night, the theme was silent irritability. There was waiting-for-the-elevator-with-strangers chat interspersed with yearning glances away from the table out the dark window. “Well, I meant to tell you, Herbert, I like the way the sconces ended up looking in my bathroom,” Judy said. “The sea horses are illuminated well.” Lily laughed in a guffawing way and cleared her throat. “What’s wrong?” Judy asked looking shyly at her. “It’s a unique choice of lighting fixtures,” she said, laughing again. “It goes well with your mirror menagerie, I guess,” she said. Judy detected sarcasm, but played dumb. “Yes, well, you know me, I’m nothing if not a sophisticate.”

“What I don’t understand is why you don’t at least get animal mirrors with their parts in tact,” she said. “It’s like you feel sorry for them as if they were real.” Judy thought about it, shuffling her peas on the plate. “Well, if you have an animal mirror that’s old and in a garage sale or at an antique store, there’s a good chance part of it’s going to be chipped because glass breaks so easily, and usually they’re a good bargain—because they’re broken. Actually, until I happened to see the pig mirror, I never knew animal mirrors existed.”

Lily went upstairs immediately after dinner saying she was in the middle of a good book she wanted to get back to, so Herbert and Judy cleared the table and loaded the dishes in the dishwasher. “Why were you goading her earlier about whether or not she really saw horses?” Judy asked. Herbert shut off the water from the kitchen sink and turned to face her. “Lily does this kind of thing all the time. She makes up stories. Like back when we were in the city, she said she used to see a homeless man everyday on her way home from work who used to do magic tricks for her until she gave him money.” Judy laughed and nodded. “I don’t think that’s unbelievable. There are probably a lot of homeless magicians in New York.”

Homeless magicians didn’t seem strange at all to Judy. She added: “Actually, what’s strange to me is if they’re magicians, why don’t they pull an apartment or house out of their hat so they don’t have to live on the street?” She laughed again and turned back to the dishes. Each dish had an animal on it, and with the wear of many years and meals, most of the animals had parts that were fading, though you could still get the idea. You knew you were looking at a pelican with a fading beak or a rabbit with one ear deteriorating or a peacock with nothing but tail feathers left. “Well, anyway,” Herbert said shortly, “she makes stuff up. Parts may be true, but the whole thing lots of times isn’t.” Judy wondered what the problem was—as long as the general idea or point was true, couldn’t she be given some leeway? “So, maybe it wasn’t three white horses running across the lawn, but three deer or a large rabbit,” she said. “Who cares?”

“God is in the details,” Herbert sighed hanging up the dishtowel and walking out of the kitchen. “The devil, you mean,” said Judy. She retreated to her cow with the chipped udder, contemplating the adornment that could conceal the missing edges.

Over the next month, the only intact animal in the house was the cuckoo clock’s cuckoo, who zipped in and out in a sing song announcing the hour. The cuckoo was flawless as Judy labored over a barnyard of mirrored invalids, Herbert checked the cracks in the house for dust and Lily organized and reorganized her belongings and slouched around, often with a disgusted downturn of her lips. She would sometimes mumble to herself: “He’s so dismissive of me, ready to disbelieve me, I’m so sick of this, cleaning this and that and inspecting everything.” Judy would let her go on and rattle to herself thinking maybe it was good for her, like a catharsis. Plus, it was pretty funny. “Yes,” Judy responded one afternoon, “Herbert is an inspector. He’s always pointing things out I never would have noticed. Like the other day—”

Lily was rubbing her hands vigorously with coconut-smelling hand moisturizer and staring again out the picture window. “I know what you’re about to say—that he noticed the dust at the edge of the floorboard. That’s one of his big things—the accumulation of dust and the idea that there are spaces too small for a broom, a mop or one of those little vacuum cleaners to reach. It drives him crazy that there could be dust that’s out of reach, I—Hey, hey, hey, gimme my phone!” Lily said hysterically. “I think I see them again!” She was tapping the window glass and bouncing up and down on the picture window seat. “Did you hear me? Gimme my phone!”

Judy did as she was told and rushed to the window. Sure enough, there were three white horses. This time they weren’t running but nosing around the bushes at the edge of the woods. They were treating the backyard more as a pasture than as a path to stampede through. Lily gingerly opened the window, but as careful as she was, it seemed the horses heard her because just as the window hinges creaked, they sauntered away.

“Don’t worry, Lily,” Judy said. “I’ll let Herbert know I saw them, too. He probably won’t believe it until he sees it himself, but at least he’ll have to call us both crazy now, or say I’m lying.”

Herbert, up a stepladder changing the batteries in the house’s smoke detectors that night, didn’t argue about the presence of the white horses, but, worse yet, didn’t seem to care. Lily at one side of the base of the ladder and Judy at the other, took turns explaining what they saw. “And then they nosed around the bushes. Like they didn’t have anywhere to go,” said Lily. “Yeah, they weren’t running anywhere this time, they were kind of contemplative,” Judy added. “Maybe they would have stayed longer, but the opening of the window must have scared them off,” Lily said. “Yeah, it’s a shame because I was just getting Lily’s phone so she could take a picture when they ran off,” said Judy.

“That’s good to know,” he said in a nearly flat tone. “The account of the rampaging white horses has been substantiated,” he laughed. Lily took a deep breath then and stomped away and Judy laughed back. “Yes, really, no joke, I saw them myself—but more nosing around this time; not really a rampage.”

The next week saw so many mirrored animals tacked to the walls of the house that injured or incomplete animals reflected back toward one another wherever you looked. Outside the bedrooms upstairs a pair of foxes, each with a missing ear filled in with orange beads, kept watch, and as you descended the stairs, monkeys with cracked tails filled in with paisley beads looked back, showing you your face in the descent. Lily would pause in front of the filled-in animals and pat her hair or smile to check that there wasn’t food stuck between her teeth. Sometimes it seemed she couldn’t keep from glancing sidelong at herself, even when perched on the picture seat—her favorite spot—looking longingly at the edge of the woods.

“Coo-coo, coo-coo,” the cuckoo clock said on the hour one late afternoon with the sun in early spring staying longer than they had gotten used to. “All these broken animals,” Lily said to Judy who was reading a book on the couch. “They can’t help but find you—wherever you look—in this house.” Herbert was assembling one of his model airplanes, the pieces spread out on the dining room table. “A lot of reflections,” he grumbled, overhearing Lily.

But the time for reflections had come to an end—or at least the reflections through the window Lily had been looking through since her arrival. The three white horses were nosing around again. Judy ran to get her phone to take a picture this time through the glass, but Lily stopped her. “Don’t! You might accidentally press against the glass and frighten them. I’m going to sneak out the back door and see if I can get a good look at them from the side of the house.” The funny part was neither Judy nor Lily thought to get Herbert. Instead the first thought was to just take a picture of it—as if they knew he would believe a photo more than his own eyes. Documentation was more important to him than experience.

Lily put on her slippers and crept out the backdoor. She was cat-like, you couldn’t hear anything at all—from inside the house, at least. Judy saw her profile and bob of hair at the edge of the house and watched her tiptoe slowly toward the center and edge forward to get a good view of the horses.  She crept and crept ever closer and the horses didn’t seem to care—they were too interested in the exploring the grass near the woods’ edge. But at some point, Lily must have stepped on a twig or tapped a rock because the horses all looked up suddenly and moved back into the woods.

“Wait! Don’t leave!” Lily shouted loud enough that Judy could hear her through the closed window. For a few seconds Lily just stood there agitated, rubbing her hands, but then she moved toward the woods herself.  The sun was going down, but it was still light enough to clearly see what remained visible of the horses—one’s tail, another’s hindquarters, the edge of the third one’s mane. And you could see Lily in her gray, loose fitting yoga pants and sweatshirt and her shearling slippers following about five feet behind them. She crept closer to them and then they receded a little more into the woods. It reminded Judy of a child trying to catch a ball that started at the edge of the water at the beach and was slowly moving out farther and farther away from the shore.

“Hey Lily,” Judy said, finally opening the window. “They’ll probably come back tomorrow, don’t worry about it. They probably live around here and will be coming through a lot now.” Lily looked back at Judy and half-smiled, but moved forward into the woods, pushing branches aside and clucking her tongue. “Herbert, your wife is going after the horses—into the woods,” Judy yelled into the kitchen, where Herbert had been using a scraping device for the last half hour between the tiles. “Maybe you should go get her. She’s not listening to me.”

Herbert didn’t seem too alarmed. He slowly put down his tile grout scraper and walked—didn’t run—out the door to the yard. You could just see Lily’s outline as she moved deeper into the woods. The outline of her body was framed by the skeletons of early spring trees, which still didn’t have buds on them. “Forget about it—they’ll be back,” he shouted.

Judy saw Herbert place a hand on Lily’s shoulder, but then retreat. He walked back to the house shaking his head. “I think she just has to satisfy her curiosity. Let’s just leave her alone and see what happens.” They waited by the window seat, Judy repairing the missing claw of a mirrored raccoon and Herbert polishing an antique candlestick Judy just bought. About an hour went by and they didn’t see Lily. Then there was a rustling of leaves, and one by one, the white horses emerged from the woods. They again didn’t seem like they were in a hurry and began nosing around. Herbert and Judy looked at each other with wide eyes. “Oh, so I guess Lily must have been following them,” Judy said. “She probably isn’t far behind.”

The horses were in no hurry, especially with Herbert and Judy staying inside and just watching from afar. One of them looked like he (or she?) had some kind of glitter just above his eyes, on his forehead. Maybe decorative bridal with glitter that had smeared off onto his head. “It looks like he had something there on his head that’s gone now but left a mark—or rubbed off somehow,” Judy said, pointing it out to Herbert. “Should we go out there and look for her?” Herbert didn’t answer, but instead tapped the glass and laughed. “Just wanted to see if they would notice that and run back into the woods. I’ve never liked horses.” Judy laughed and pushed his hand away from the window. “Don’t do that, I’ll go myself. I love horses.”

Like Lily, Judy also was in slippers. She crept out, tiptoeing until she was close enough to see the mottling on the skin of one of the horses. “I love you horsies,” she said softly wanting to pet and brush them. Judy almost forgot her mission. “Hey, Lily,” she said loud enough that she hoped her housemate could hear, but not loud enough to frighten the horses. “They’re out here now. There’s no point staying in the woods anymore.”

Judy heard a rustling of leaves—possibly—but no sign of Lily. She wondered if she should joke about how Lily should come back to the house because she wouldn’t want to miss her weekly purse assessment, but decided Lily probably wouldn’t find it funny. Judy crept closer to the edge of the woods and peered in and raised her voice louder this time: “Lily, are you in there? The horses are out here now, in the open, in the front yard. There’s no point staying out there anymore.”

There was leave crunching and twig-moving sounds and Lily emerged, her bobbed hair only slightly mussed up and her slippers slightly dark with soil at the edges. She was breathless. “The thing is,” she said,” catching her wind, “the thing is, I think there could be more. You know that? I think there could be more.” Judy stifled her laugh. “What do you mean, you saw or heard other horses in the woods?” Lily shook her head, hair sticking to her lips. “No, no, I just mean, just because I couldn’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there. These horses here could just be missing from a larger herd.”

Judy extended an arm out to Lily, as if wanting to help a person with a leg injury walk. “Well, if there is a larger herd out there, we’ll probably see it sooner or later, without looking for it, don’t you think?” Lily moved back toward the edge of the woods and turned her back. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I just worry if I don’t keep watch—I just worry—I don’t want to miss anything. I keep thinking the others will come back for these three in the yard, and I’ll miss it. I’m just going to keep watch here.” She folded her arms and stood staring into the woods, her back to the house.

Judy shrugged her shoulders and walked back inside. Herbert would have to convince his wife there were no more horses coming—at least not tonight. Judy, meanwhile, looked for her next damaged animal mirror to repair—a duck, a goat, maybe a reptile this time. Or a wolf? What beads or jewels could mask a missing fang? Judy saw her reflection in the completed animal mirrors around her, just broken up here and there by the opaque spots where she decorated over missing parts. She could even see Lily in some of the animals, still at the edge of the woods with her back turned, only part of her cut off by a missing hoof.


Lily’s Poetry Journal


Garden in a Bathtub


White porcelain clawed


Gardens inside

Where a shriveled end-of-day

Person might lie

Petunias grew

Cleaning in late summer.

Sun Canvas, Sun on Horse

Bright orange

Brushes water

Colors lapping

White canvas

Setting in the horse’s eyes

Galloping down

Her mane

Tracking a tub-entombed


Late Day Walker

Plastic-sheen sky

Cornered the walker’s trail

Rabbits burrowing, deer foraging

The moon


Stars dimmed out

The walker persisted

To a lit wrap-around


Moon on a Foggy Night

Oozing from the moon

Fog or mist

Smeared gauze.

Tracking across the sky

We didn’t bother

the sleeping


padding across the porch


our elongated light.

Spying on Aliens

Spying on aliens

Was the goal

Of our new telescope;

Seeing aliens

In private deliberations

Cooking dinner

Playing games

Of cards.

We could never get

Close enough

Or zoom in enough

But we’re optimistic

People like us

Are alive

On planets beyond

Our galaxy.




Strung across living

Room, picture window

lake, dock,

Swans, ducks

And frogs

Weaved into the blue


Swim out

The daydreamer

Peering, couched

Bleeding Blue

Bleeding blue

Caved purple iridescent

Plants drowned

Fish hooked

Lines down

Sank in

Striped companions

Moths in a Lamp

Light inverted

Wings singed

The upward-bound

Spiraled down


Gardener’s a Witch

The gardener

We were suspicious

Was a witch;

Plants he seized

Danced around

Offered himself

A magician

Of cold cures.

Winter here

He watches the woods


at abandoned birds’ nests

Inviting Paw Prints

Paw prints on our porch

We kept,

Waxing until


A record

Of the stray animals

We invited

Grandfather Clock-Jewelry Dispenser

Grandfather clock became jewelry dispenser,

Stuffing left over


Into the clock


A diamond or rhinestone

Rolling out the bottom

The luck of the chime

Self-Portrait as an Owl

Eyes sliced sharp

To a talon

The last gulp

Before midnight

The mirrored inspection

Just looked like myself

With glasses on

On the wrong side of the window


The key dangled

On a horseshoe

A horse roamed


While a key chain

Handily was tacked

To a wall.

The key opened

A door removed

The horse since

Moved on, too

With no shoe

Happy to be

Tromping along

Her feet


Dying at the Pool’s Edge

Dying at the pool’s


The frog seemed


Rearranged from his swamp

He nosed

Chemically enhanced


Hoping for the smear

Of algae

Or a passing


A sign of

Under current


Fish at least—

But he saw clear

Voided water

Silk Flower?

Dark pink


At the core

The flower

Was real


The bees buzzed

Around it

The dog sniffed

Its outer bands

And nothing moved


Or fell off

The darker edges

Always just seemed

About to fly away

Daffodil in Broken Fence

Our fence has a hole

A daffodil grows between

Bugle-heading herself

In the accidental


Attempted Mummy

I asked

To mummify


And you acted

Like it was


To ask.

I unspooled

White gauze


And started

At your feet

You asleep

But woken up

When I touched

Your eyes.

I’d have mummified


Right on the property

Given you

Your own sarcophagus

But you remain


Burying Watches

On a whim

I buried an old watch—


A watch collection.

I ensured

At least some

Were still ticking

Buried alive.

The hour hand

Kept steady

Minutes crept


A face submerged

In dirt

Struck noon

High-Up Church

Stepping up

On slippery moss

The monument

Was an aged church,

The tram


You had to

Toe it

Up the edge

Of greasy rocks

To kneel

At the altar

Swooning Swan


The swan

Fawned over

The stone swan

Linking stone

And feather


The real and


Swans, linked

Were a distant



You couldn’t tell


Which was stone

And which just swooned

Snow Blind

I wanted to pull snow


Our windows.

Coating the ground

The view still

Wasn’t obscured

So I wanted to make

The white

A black eye shade.

I shoveled careless

Of keeping

The snow in a tidy

Pile on the ground

And slammed

Our house’s


Funny Nectar

Humming into

The nook

Of a flower’s stamen

The hummingbird

Made concentric

Tightening circles

Apart from her


She was brought

As a pet to the farm

So she searched

For nectar

Finding it tasted funny

A Rocking Horse in Fall

A rocking horse

Pink with green

Polka dots

Idled in the fall

Grass, the dead


Fall leaves

Impeded the rocking



I just lilted

The wooden

Animal by the ears

Crunching dried out


In mid-rotation


Hot Air Balloon Ornament

Setting the toy

Balloon on the ground

The model

A hot air balloon

Was too small

And lacking

To take flight—

So became

A lawn ornament

Birds and rodents

Perched on


In the ground

Remaining terrestrial

The children

Pulling it to play

One-Eyed Lion

The lion

Had an eye

Chipped off

But I kept

Rubbing its back,

A known amulet.

The next-door


Kept razing

Trees in favor

Of a diminished view

The lion

Stared one-eyed

At the reduced


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The Happiness of Dogs

Margery and BrunoThe peonies were in bloom, but the bathtub soap dish still was detached and the roaches still infesting the patch behind the radiator. Audrey was focusing today on candelabra. If only the right wall fixture could be found she wouldn’t feel so glum.  She could take her collection of rubber duckies and affix them somehow to the brown cement square where the soap dish used to be. Audrey’s dogs, an Australian shepherd and a mutt from the pound, didn’t mind the missing cabinet on the wall or the brown spot on the black tile next to the tub where the soap dish used to be. Audrey tried to focus on the happiness of the dogs. The Australian shepherd, Sydney, bounded up at the drapes in the living room, bit an edge of the drapes coming down on his feet and then spun around after his tail. The other dog, a border collie mix, Agatha, was on her hind legs licking the remnants of butter off the galley kitchen counter. “Agatha Christie, stop licking the counter!” Audrey shouted slapping her hindquarters playfully. “What did I tell you about paws on the counter?” Audrey knew she was infantilizing the dogs, but she couldn’t help herself.

The sky was purple again and the air was heavy enough that Audrey couldn’t bear to keep the bathroom door closed or even the shower curtain drawn all the way. The dogs lulled on the floor, rolling around after their chew toys with their tongues hanging out, but other than the flashing of their tongues, they didn’t show any signs of discomfort. They were similar to shallow, but well-intentioned and kind extroverts, who skimmed the surface their whole lives untroubled. Audrey looked at herself in the bathroom mirror as the fog on the glass from the shower evaporated and studied what looked like the earliest signs of crow’s feet and maybe a specter of a jowl. That’s another thing about dogs, she said to herself. You can tell an old dog by his gait and sometimes an old dog with distinctive markings loses the vividness of those markings, but there’s nothing hangdog in the face about an old dog. If there were, of course, the dog wouldn’t care anyway.

Audrey eyed the pet catalogs on the wooden chest that served as her coffee table and decided what she needed was to see in dogs; instead of seeing her worn human face, to see the face of a dog with tongue hanging out chewing up a sneaker or pair of sunglasses. With her nail scissor and scotch tape, Audrey began cutting up dog pictures from the catalog and taping them to her bathroom mirror. When every corner and square of the mirror was covered over with the soothing lull of dog tongues, floppy ears and bushy tails, Audrey smiled. “I’ve brought myself into the dog house,” she said out loud to no one but the dogs. Soon I’ll be as good as a cocker spaniel.” She then laughed and decided to get dressed as if she were more dog than human. That meant not regarding herself in the long mirror on the living room wall that came with the apartment and picking clothes based on sensory delight. She pulled a light bright green sundress from the closet along with a bright pink scarf and stuffed four-inch purple high heel sandals into her small leather backpack. Audrey then sniffed at the front door of her apartment, keen to the smell of cooking down the hall. Could it be cinnamon muffins or Danishes or maybe just someone wearing sweet-smelling heavy perfume.

Dogs in modern NYC increasingly resemble humans so taking the dog’s stance on life isn’t hard. When Audrey picked out her walking shoes—red sandals with rubber soles—she knew there was a Dachshund somewhere in New York with a similar pair, claws sticking out, maybe even painted claws, sticking out.

On the sidewalk, an invisible leash halting her neck from turning fully around or looking too down or too far off to the sides, Audrey pulled herself to the office, the men and boys glanced as far as she could see on her leash cooing at times like you would at a sweet Yorkie in a sweater or snickering as if they were looking at an infirm animal—or so it seemed. At other times she felt ignored at the back of a diaphanous cage with bars she couldn’t see but were there enough to impede anyone from seeing her. There were so many other animals in front of her she couldn’t even see the stoplight. There were times another’s unseen but felt leash intertwined with Audrey’s and she pushed it off, the other animal glaring back at her. She grunted as a human animal form of barking. “Well, not like I tried to sniff you,” she snapped at one intertwiner. The intertwiner turned back puzzled and even may have said “excuse me,” but Audrey just grunted again and cocked her head. “I don’t have to answer because I don’t really understand her anyway,” Audrey thought to herself. “In fact I hear their words and know their combinations of words but they usually don’t mean anything to me. They’re just commands you can follow or not follow and either get rewarded or punished for.”

The other animals put their nose in the air and head down to the cups they were carrying as if sniffing out their direction. They should have known where they were going but unlike pointer dogs they sniffed down at themselves instead of out. Other animals blew smoke back at Audrey so that she pulled her nozzle away and wondered what kind of animal would deliberately poison itself. Or maybe it was the air version of an octopus’s underwater ink clouds. She ran ahead of them breathing out but not breathing in, unwilling to take in the poison smoke they emitted. She noticed a fur version of a dog—one of her brethren—jerk his head away when one of the cigarette-holding animals twirled her hand in his direction.

At the office, you remained in your enclosure or pen, for the most part. Everyone had a cordoned-off box with desk and chair—at the very least, not expected to sit on the floor. The dogs were allowed to sit on the furniture here. Audrey resumed her language skills being in the office and knowing the full dog she knew herself and others to be had to be suppressed in the business setting. She put aside the urge to bark and became the panting self you to be in an office. Walking alongside her boss, Samuel, to the copy machine, she treaded at his side looking up at him and “Yesing,” “Noing” and laughing with the ends of her dress swaying slightly from side to side. “Oh, that’s funny!” she said.

Samuel didn’t look down too often in her direction; he would look down, give her an instruction and then look ahead again. “Oh, yeah, before I forget, I need you to send me a list of the people you invited to the meeting next week.” Audrey then said “sure,” and as if being unhooked, turned on her heel to her cubicle settling down to her chair though longing for the kind of cushiony dog bed she used to share with her Labrador growing up. Her father and the Lab, Madame, would go out for a walk in the early morning and Audrey would curl up in the dog bed fully asleep again by the time they returned. In her cubicle, Audrey would bunch up one of the pashminas she kept in her desk drawer, make a pillow out of it and curl up under the desk for a nap once in a while. Her cubicle was bound by the wall, so since people could only pass by in front the cubicle rather than behind, she couldn’t be seen under there. People would peep into the cubicle, and not seeing her, assume she had just stepped away from her desk for lunch or a bathroom break.

It was a fire drill day so Audrey and her co-workers were instructed to wait for the bells and then make their way to the top of the staircase at the nearest exit. They were instructed to wait there quietly, listen to the fire marshal’s commands and then think about what they would do in a real fire.  They were told there would be an orange flag to follow as they made their way down the sidewalk to their pre-planned meet-up posts.  “I can’t remember, who are we following today?” Gilbert, one of Audrey’s co-workers, asked as they headed to the exit. He circled her and then bobbed his head forward in the general direction he thought they should go. “Beats me,” said Audrey. “I’m just following all these people. Who knows? When it’s a real fire you know no one will know where to go anyway, right? I papered over my bathroom mirror this morning with dog pictures I cut out of magazines because I was so bored,” she said. Gilbert sniffed critically. “Okaayy,” he said in that drawn out way people do to signify that they think something you’ve said is too weird to consider. “Yeah, I just wanted to see dogs instead of myself all the time.” Gilbert gave no response to this; he just kept motioning with his head nodding in the direction of the exit. Everyone stood up to listen to the fire marshal, but Audrey decided to sit on top of a nearby table. People stared as if there were a rule about not sitting on tables in the workplace. “But I even sit Agatha and Sydney in dining room chairs sometimes,” she thought to herself. People snickered while the fire marshal spoke but Audrey kept her eyes trained on feet, inspecting and considering shoes and shoelaces. She saw half-painted toenails sticking out of flip flops, many pairs of sneakers and the khaki men with their loafers so stiff they turned up at the toe. “Familiarize yourself with your exit plan,” the fire marshal said. “You’d be surprised. You see this area everyday, but when it’s filled with smoke and the alarms are going off, and you have an emergency on your hands, how hard it can be. Everything looks different in that situation. Close your eyes sometime and practice making it from your desk to the exit.”

Audrey stifled her laugh and it ended up coming out like a short whiney bark. She thought that she’d probably get hurt tripping blindfolded before she would ever get injured in a fire. She wondered if she could just follow the scent of the janitors’ heavily perfumed aftershave to find her way out, or the smell of the hair gel of one of the men who sat near her, or maybe the scent of printer toner from the printer near the exit. Wherever Audrey went, she trailed and was followed by the scent of other humans and their vices. She put her hand up to cover her nose sometimes at lunch to avoid the gassy smell of pungent vegetables (was broccoli a vice?) and fried fish and tried to avoid the antiseptic of the early morning that was in the hallways and especially in the bathroom. “I’d prefer an un-sanitized morning for once,” she thought to herself as the fire drill gathering dispersed, passing by the bathroom and kitchen.

Here off-the-leash time was hours away—if such a time ever existed—so Audrey tried to concentrate on her work retrieving files and facts of data to fill in a graph relating to the salaries of different professions. It was a reflexive two-part routine. First she would look up the profession on the US Labor Department’s web site and then she would fill in the graph. Her eyes sometimes mixed up which salaries should go in which rows, and suddenly a waiter had an annual salary of $120,000 and a financial advisor earned $25,000. She didn’t think it mattered that much because she couldn’t imagine ever consulting a graph before making a decision. She liked to bound after her balls. Audrey decided then to put away the graph and begin striding back and forth the length of the office. She carried a notebook and pen with her so anyone watching would just assume she was late for a meeting. She couldn’t go directly back and forth in a straight line because then everyone’s strangeness alert would go up, so she strode first in a straight line to the back of the office and then circled along the perimeter. She stopped at Herman Welker’s desk. Herman had a lazy eye and wore a dress shirt and tie everyday with a pair of jeans. Nobody else in the office wore a dress shirt and tie, but despite his jeans, he felt the need to do it for some reason. “Herman, do you have anything I could chew on?” she asked. “I’m just dying for some gum or one of those chewy candies.”  Herman looked at Audrey and smiled eyeing her up and down and adjusting his tie. “Nope, sorry, nothing today. Why don’t you just go to the vending machine?” Audrey considered this but then decided she didn’t want to pay for something to sink her teeth into. She wanted to be given it as a gift or reward. “I don’t know,” she said. “I was just hoping someone would happen to have something like that in one of their desk drawers.”

Audrey retreated to her desk and sat down to the chiming bell that signaled new e-mail in her inbox: “Calabaster Industries is pleased to announce its partnership with Employment Mile Ltd., suppliers of employment and job aids and related tools,” the memo read. “Leveraging the information databases of Calabaster with the resources of Employment Mile will give customers of both companies unparalleled service.” So, her company had been acquired. The memo didn’t say anything about the employees of the two companies, but as Audrey’s company was the one that had been purchased, her professional fate was not so different from a dog at the shelter waiting to be adopted. Who knows if you’ll be taken, and if you’re taken, who knows how you’ll be treated? Once taken, what kinds of new tricks will you have to learn and what new rules will the new owner’s house require?  Audrey circled around her cubicle shuffling paperclips, pens and pushpins, rearranging all the contents of the wraparound desk that created a nearly half-circle around her. She emptied boxes of paperclips and put the pushpins inside instead and dusted off the surface dipping a Kleenex into an old bottle of water.

Just then Ben, Audrey’s boss, walked up with his clipboard and sat in her cubicle’s spare chair. He was one of those usually happy types because he was too shallow to feel too much of anything so the default was happiness. He was the ultimate dog. “What do you think?” he said waving a printed out sheet with the memo on it. “What do you think? Could be good for us—more money now to position ourselves in the market.” Audrey just smiled and nodded. “Yeah, it seems like it could be a help.” She then tried to block Ben out fixing her eyes again to the computer screen and glancing back at him just every now and then, smiling, hoping he would take the hint and move on. “You know we’ll have to watch ourselves,” he said. “It isn’t definite yet, but it looks like all communications with outside groups will go through a review process,” Ben said.  He took out a manual that had been shipped to him via overnight delivery. The cover said “Indices of Recommendation and Approval: Your Guide to Submission.”  Audrey laughed and pointed. “What’s that? Do we really have to use it?” Ben also laughed but instead of tossing it in her cubicle’s trash bin, he opened it up and scanned a few pages with his index finger. “Our use of brand names,” he said seriously. “We need to start adding trademarks and when we make a mention of our company we have to use the tagline—every time—“The Last Word in Employment and Labor News.” Audrey tried to ignore him, typing even as he was talking. “That’s a little shallow and clichéd, don’t you think?” she asked. “We’re aligning our messaging,” he said, “so we can have cohesion and work as a team.”

Audrey paused in her typing, tuning Ben out though nodding and smiling for the sake of avoiding an argument. But in her mind she saw a dog sled like the kind that race in Alaska and herself as one of the dogs in the “team.”  She wondered if Ben realized that he wasn’t one of the mushers leading the sled but one of the dogs. The sad part was she didn’t doubt the sled would get to where the new parent company wanted it to go, but that she wouldn’t like that destination. But what else could she do but move her paws when the musher called? There may not be another “team” to be leashed to for a while, and didn’t she need to be leashed to somebody’s sled?  The thought of wandering off in the snow with her little paw prints covered over fast by fresh powder made her shiver.  “Oh, Ben, she said, “I think I feel like a Husky dog today.” Ben laughed and walked off. “Well, then,” he said.

Audrey returned to her labor statistics, placing numbers in columns and rows and being pretty sure she was transposing figures here and there, and not caring. She could always claim ignorance if anyone asked. The truth was she believed nobody read the articles and charts about labor news that she put together. Who cares how many dentists there are and how much money they make on average, anyway? If you want to be a dentist, be a dentist. Or if you want to be a pastry chef, just be a pastry chef. If you were interested in such a specialty, would you really all of a sudden change your mind if you found out too many dentists were entering the marketplace or that dentists were making a few thousand less this year versus last year?  Then Audrey remembered that Travers Pimbers would be in tomorrow and he liked to review her charts. The good part was with the merger, he may use up most of his time in the office reviewing can and can’ts of the submission guide. The Pimbers Roundtable would convene. That’s what Audrey called the meetings in which Travers sat at the center of the table and pointed to each person to speak with his laser light pen—one of those pens that have a light at the tip. He wielded it like a sword and never smiled. Everyone usually kept silent until Travers pointed at them with the light and then, instead of just saying whatever it was they were thinking of, they always got a worried look on their face like a game show contestant who’s been stumped with an enormous prize at stake–or at least embarrassment in front of the audience. Lean deli meats like turkey and wrap sandwiches would be ordered along with chocolate chip cookies matching the exact number of people expected at the meeting. Audrey brought a pen and paper to these meetings but primarily to have something to twittle in her hand and to draw with in case she felt like doodling.  She would discuss the merger, the guide to submission and the roundtable with Agatha and Sydney, the dogs, that night.

The apartment was in its usual disarray thanks to Agatha’s and Sydney’s housekeeping. Once again the refrigerator had somehow been pried open and the cereal and cracker boxes Audrey kept in there to keep away from the roaches were lying on the floor with some of the boxes’ contents spilled out. Luckily, the only perishable food in the refrigerator was yogurt, which usually withstood being unrefrigerated for several hours. “Agatha and Sydney, how could you do this to me again? After I work so hard?” Audrey said to the dogs who galloped back and forth the length of the apartment in their happiness to have her home. “And what are you so happy about? Is it just me?” Agatha jumped up on her hind legs leaning her paws against Audrey’s stomach and Sydney circled around her panting, tail wagging vigorously. “Happy, happy, happy,” Audrey said. “You’re like some people—always happy for some reason.”

As happy as the dogs were, they did follow a guide for submission and did wait for approval before moving forward. Like many dogs, they sought to please their owner and would often look back at Audrey with a cocked head when she looked at them angrily. They learned that she didn’t like when they hovered around the refrigerator, so they waited now a few feet away, patiently sitting with their heads angled up, noses in the air twitching. Audrey handed them their biscuits as a reward and considered how she and her co-workers would hover near the conference rooms during meetings attempting to overhear. They were never given an incentive to do otherwise so they just hung out at the closed doors waiting for a word about their fate to trickle out. Actually, just the opposite, the employees were motivated to hang around the door to the conference room like cats on a dock waiting for the fishermen to come in. There was always hope that the lack of intelligence would be relieved with left over bagels or maybe a wrap sandwich or Greek salad. The dogs chomped on their biscuits and Audrey planned out in her mind where she would be best situated at the conference room table for first access to the bagels. She realized it would be smarter to focus on preparing information Travers Pimbers might be interested in, but she preferred to focus on bagels, so like any dog, that’s what she did.

Travers Pimbers in his pink dress shirt and khaki pants (his attempt to look downtown NYC hip) stood at the screen at the front of the room pointing at the projection of a laptop computer screen. Audrey looked at the ceiling and at the yellow of the girl’s sundress sitting across from her; she kept her eyes on various fixed points like a ballerina spinning so she wouldn’t become dizzy or lose balance. “The alignment of our core values in everything we do is central to becoming the kind of company our customers need us to be,” said Travers rotating his head and stopping at each rung in the turning of his neck. The slow, stilted way he turned his neck reminded Audrey of opening a child proof bottle of pills—you could almost hear his neck cracking stiffly as he slowly turned it. “That core value alignment is at the heart of our new and vigorous review process. It is our way of saying to customers we hear you and are communicating a unified message,” he said. Audrey reached for a bagel and concentrated on the alignment of the cream cheese, attempting to have an equal distribution across the two halves of the bagels.

The question was why more time wasn’t taken to provide a more fulfilling selection of bagels—or any selection at all. “You know, they make all sorts of bagels these days—blueberry, everything, salt, onion, egg, whatever you can think of. Why always plain bagels?”

“It’s a simple process, really,” Travers continued. “An 11-part approval that aligns our culture. You just begin the process with a self-review first, a critical look at your own communications.” Audrey savored the bagel as best as she could making her eyes go out of focus to avoid the clocks on the walls. The room had been decorated with clocks so there was a clock on every wall surrounding the table; a clock that was ordinary on one wall; another with a Chinese dragon painted on it and the times of all the major Asian countries and then an oversize clock with neon hands and then a clock that told the minutes and hours in tasks accomplished. It could be marked up and erased so the current top projects in the company could be listed on it. With the merger in full swing, the clock was consumed with alignments—“alignment of central and peripheral values, alignment of cross-functional role development, alignment of critical decision-making, alignment of competitive advantage.” A cuckoo clock with a little bird that charged out at intervals would be a welcome addition to the room, Audrey thought to herself. Something to shake up line after line of pre-planning.

Travers was walking around the conference table now smiling and pointing at people with his laser pen. “And Louis here knows just what I mean when I talk about alignment of strategy. Last quarter his group took the poly bag program for our Labor Monthly and added coupons for employment agencies. We did a public service there and provided an additional stream of revenue for a new advertiser. Why don’t you tell us about that, Lou?” Lou smiled and nodded and then glanced around the table. “Yes, that’s true. It has been a real profit center for us, taking advantage of a lot of synergies,” Lou said. There was a pause in which Lou cleared his throat repetitively, looked around the room making eye contact, nodded and smiled. “Yes, we’re proud of our accomplishments.” Travers also smiled, looked around the room and patted Lou on the shoulder. “Alignment of synergies—that’s what it’s all about.”

Audrey felt out of alignment with the cream cheese slopping over the side of her bagel onto the conference room table. She had over-spread, she supposed. “By the way, I don’t buy into the idea that the review process is too comprehensive,” Travers said. “We have to have process.”  The process of eating an overflowing bagel without getting your work clothes dirty in the middle of a process discussion at a “roundtable” in a conference room lined with clocks is hard. For one thing you have to pretend like you’re listening and care about the process being described, so you nod, and then you have to make sure each bite doesn’t dribble cream cheese on your buttons because it’s one thing to wipe cream cheese off a collar or shirt or dress, but another to try to ease it out of the minute crevices of a button. And then every so often you have to (painfully) put down the overflowing bagel and pretend to take notes, knowing all along you just plan to sketch a chain of hearts and maybe some concentric boxes. “Yeah, that’s true,” Audrey said smiling and nodding at Travers and making eye contact with everyone around the table. “That’s a good point. Process is a cornerstone for us.”

Travers smiled, and Audrey thought, winked at her, and tapped the projection screen with his pen. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Audrey. Because process is what we’re getting. At the beginning of every month, or I should say the first Wednesday of every month, I will ask each of you to submit to me 150-word descriptions of all of your current projects including when your manager asked you to deliver them completed and when you estimate they will really be done. You will log into our online portal’s Base Camp at the start of your day and tell us how close you are to getting to the last first Wednesday-of-the-month’s goals.”

Audrey remembered as she polished off the remnants of the bagel that she was trying a new training technique with Sydney and Agatha. She tried to focus on dog faces and away from Base Camp.  Audrey was in the process of training them to go back to their dog beds on command and could get Sydney and Agatha to bring her their toys and then deposit them in front of their dog beds. “Show me your toys,” she would say and the dogs would scamper off and bring back two toys at a time in their mouth. She wanted the dogs to be able to bring her the toys in a particular order, but they weren’t able to do that yet for some reason. Audrey wondered if it was a task beyond their abilities or if they just didn’t feel like it. She had offered dog biscuits as an incentive, but that didn’t do the trick so she was now sprinkling doggie treats in a circular path from their toy basket to the center of the kitchen hoping, at the very least, to be able to determine the path they took when delivering the toys. “Why can’t you bring them to me in order?” she would ask the dogs looking at her with cocked heads.

Travers picked up about five plastic folders in colors ranging from red to yellow to blue and began explaining their uses. “The orange is for the monthly review of facts obtained, the blue is for facts reviewed, stage 1, the yellow is for facts double-checked, stage 2, the green is for cross check of facts via peer review, the purple is for supervisor approval step 1 and the clear folder is the all-clear sign, so to speak, that your supervisor has looked over the document, signed it and is ready for it to be released. We still want you to e-mail and electronically register all projects in Base Camp but the plastic folders offers the added security that should our electronic systems fail, the approval process will continue undamaged,” he said.  Travers then took out his cell phone and opened up one of the folders to a dummy page and took a photo of it. “And this is the way you should document each folder’s contents before it leaves your hands to protect yourself,” he suggested. “This isn’t required, but I strongly encourage you do it for your own protection.”

The meeting over, Audrey kept the dogs in mind as she walked back to her cubicle including the indoor pad she had bought to guard against accidents. She was slowly training Sydney and Agatha to use the pad instead of the floor if she were late getting home to walk them. They didn’t seem to mind having a part of their territory segmented off and designated. Audrey noticed on her walk back to her corner buffeted by window and collapsible wall that multicolored bins had been erected throughout the office. They were drop-boxes for each step of the new process. Audrey couldn’t imagine the patience that would be required to complete each step in the process before finishing a task—the tediousness she anticipated was immobilizing. Sydney and Agatha, her dogs, tromping around the apartment extending paws onto the counter against her wishes, came into her mind and how their torsos jumped upward when they were excited about a person whose footsteps they recognized.  They abided by her rules but consistently leaped past the threshold as soon as she opened the door. Audrey began rolling through the photos of the dogs on her phone as she settled into her corner cube. Agatha shoving a ball at the feet of a passerby on the sidewalk; Sydney with her paws up against the window of a restaurant; Agatha and Sydney rolling around in the grass chomping on a half-deflated soccer ball; Sydney edging away when it was time to put her leash back on to leave the park.  Audrey then sent the photos to her work e-mail inbox. The dogs galloping and raising paws might be useful somehow at the office, she thought to herself. It was a process, alright, but a process featuring the stages of chaos or passionate existence in place of a series of checkpoints. It was the stages of the dogs’ happiness. Rather than working toward approval, they just appeared to be enjoying themselves.

The assignments with spreadsheets and all the quadrants Audrey had to divide her thoughts and work into were tiring. It felt like her brain had been chopped up into a hopscotch course and the ideas that used to be fluid were jumping from neural box to box, each box numbered rather than pictured. The dogs, paws and nose first in front of her, were tapping at those numbered blocks like they would to be let back into the apartment on a cold day. At the office, these spreadsheets did nothing for her, and at home, and she didn’t care to stay longer in the apartment—she wasn’t sure the dogs liked it.  It wasn’t that she wanted to throw away her job, but that she was tired of presenting consecutive spreadsheets. So, an exchange of canine reflections on numbers and boxes was in order. If she lost her job, she and the dogs could maybe move to Montana or some other place where real estate was cheap and start an artist’s colony.

Agatha baring her teeth in her trained “smile” pose: “Agatha, smile, smile, Agatha,” and up and back would go the big dog gums and what you might call a toothy grin would emerge. That image would go in the first folder with an accompanying digital file, just as Travers recommended. Sydney drooling over her half-deflated soccer ball was fit for the second folder and another of Sydney barking a squirrel up a tree was suitable for number three. Agatha slinking away from the table with a pot roast shank in her mouth was the fourth folder’s contents. Now would come the vast approval process—to approve an animal stealing the main course, an animal scaring a rodent up a tree, a drooling tongue-lolling-out animal clinging to a dysfunctional toy. And so many checkpoints for animals caught in the act, red-pawed!

Luckily, Ben, Audrey’s boss, enjoyed critiquing documents, but she suspected he didn’t read anything deep enough to process the information. So he might critique how the papers were placed in the folder or the font that was used to label each dog photo, but he probably would unthinkingly pass it up the chain of approvals. “You really want to present the material so you can see everything at a glance,” Ben said thumbing through the dogs-in-action. “Is there a way to illustrate the key points so the reader doesn’t have to search for it? Two or three seconds is all we get today to make our points—that’s all the modern reader gives us. The reader today really needs everything at a glance.”

Audrey smiled and nodded her head. “Yes, at a glance is really important. I see what you mean. Everything right away,” she said nodding and smiling wider.

“Absolute necessity for the reader today,” Ben said. “And I would align the margins of type with your descriptions of the graphics.”

“OK, sounds good,” Audrey said in her automaton task management voice. She went back to her desk and over the next hour aligned the margins and created a chart under each picture to illustrate for the reader “at a glance” what the dogs were doing. In the picture of Agatha pulling a hunk of meat off the table, Audrey illustrated with a pie chart that showed a quarter of the meal going to the dog and the rest to be shared by the human diners. Sydney chomping down on her half-deflated soccer ball was fit for a bar chart with the level of chomp measured by a blue bar while the level of soccer ball deflation was marked by a red bar.

Next stop on the road to approval was Sandra Davens, the newly appointed head of departmental reviews. Ben liked the “at a glance” charts, so after he initialed the corporate dogs montage, Audrey rounded a few cubicle corners to Sandra who sat with her thin back to the window. She had some sort of condition it was tacitly understood nobody was allowed to ask her about. She was only in her 50s, but her back was slightly hunched, her legs misshapen and her fingers crooked. Sandra smiled at Audrey. “Hi Audrey, what’s up?” she said. She was sympathetic toward the younger women in the office luckily. “Not much; just moving dogs around,” Audrey said. Sandra didn’t smile; she just cocked her head like one of the dogs staring at squirrels against the living room window. “I mean I have these documents for your review,” Audrey clarified. Sandra took a few minutes and quickly scanned over the dogged folders. “These will need to go through our legal review,” Sandra said. “We have to clarify the legal rights to the photos—even if you took them yourself—as to whether you or the company retains rights and whether we run the risk of liability for promoting the behavior depicted in the pictures—whether we would be seen as advocating anything. Anyway, there are a lot of issues. The legal review team needs to see this.” Audrey nodded solemnly and retreated again to the cornered cubicle.

The legal review, which returned with its requested revisions a week later, asked that a disclaimer be put at the bottom of the page stating that the company did not necessarily endorse or encourage any of the behavior seen in the photos. The review team also informed Audrey that the photos would become the property of the company once the document was distributed under the corporate name.

Next came the marketing review in which the dogs-in-action would be subject to a process of deciding whether they fit the company’s brand message. What would a dog slyly hauling off a hunk of someone else’s dinner say about a company, anyway?  “I think it would be a good idea to crop the table out of the photo so the dog is just carrying the meat rather than having the appearance of stealing it off the table,” Carole Duckly of Marketing said. “And I think you should minimize the teeth,” Carole said of the photo of Agatha grinning.

Minimizing the teeth and hiding the taking of the meat from a table not the dog’s own was fairly easy. Audrey laughed to herself as she did it, actually, not caring finally about the outcome of the review. There had always been a review process but this newly expanded review was just too much to be serious about. The reviewed documents in edited and redacted order, Audrey placed them again in the plastic colored folders. The next steps of the review would be at the executive level and wouldn’t involve her unless there was a significant problem. Would corporate releases to the public that consisted entirely of dog pictures be considered a significant problem?

No one seemed concerned about the dogs. Audrey didn’t hear anything for at least a few weeks and when she did get word, it was only to note that she had violated the review instructions by using a type font that was larger than recommended—in violation of the Go-Green initiative to use less paper by using a small type font that takes up less space.

One day as Audrey labored over whether it would be M&Ms, peanut M&Ms, M&M trail mix or a trip down the street for vanilla yogurt with miniature M&Ms, Travers came up from behind. “I saw the dogs this morning,” he said to her chuckling. “Did you see the dogs?” Audrey thought for a moment wondering if he was talking about her special project. “What dogs?” she asked.

Travers turned around and shook his finger wrapped around his laser pen at the office’s back window. There’s a dog show today down the street. It’s part of the circuit that eventually leads to Westminster, I believe.”

Audrey smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I think you may be right. It’s the season of the dogs, I guess.”

Travers put a hand on Audrey’s arm and leaned toward her. “Just between the two of us, I’m thinking of getting a puppy.” He said it in a way that conveyed a deep sense of shame or guilt or maybe just embarrassment. As if you were confessing to not being able to resist a slice of cake or a purchase you couldn’t afford or a thought that was elicit. “There’s just something about them, I’m not sure what—I don’t know, it’s like the way they run off-leash in the park, you know, in the off-leash-appropriate hours, of course,” he said. “I wanted to ask you, do you know anything about dogs?”

Audrey laughed thinking of her recent submission to the internal review process. “Well, not much, but I have a couple of dogs myself.” Travers swung back and forth from the heel of his shoe to the ball of his foot. “Really! I didn’t know that. What kinds?”

“Oh, just an Australian Shepherd and a mutt I got at the shelter,” Audrey said. “I love them—they’re so boundless.”

Travers cocked his head and gave a half smile. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to ask you about. What did you do about obedience training? How do you get them to not jump on things and bark inside the apartment?”

“Oh, I don’t bother—they jump, they bark, they steal things off the table,” she said laughing. “They have the run of the apartment. You know, I used to try, but it’s useless to try to get them to do what they’re not in the mood to do. What they want to do seeps out eventually. It’s bad enough being shut up in a house or apartment most of the day.”

“Not mine,” Travers said. “I’ve already looked into it. Every Saturday afternoon there’s a dog school that meets on the Great Lawn in Central Park. I’ve read a lot of good reviews about it. It’s supposed to work. I’m looking for a breeder now but I’ve already signed up for the school. You have to—months in advance—there’s a six-month waiting list, you know.”

“There are books, too,” said Audrey. “A lot on reward and punishment systems. You should start stocking up on dog biscuits—especially the ones with bacon inside. You can get dogs to do all sorts of stuff for bacon.”

You could see Traver’s by-color-organized plastic covered folders filled with dog training tips and classifications as he spoke. “There’s a lot to learn,” he said.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I wouldn’t turn a dog into a big production if I were you,” Audrey offered.

“You, see, the way I look at it, the training of a dog is a process with steps to follow, Travers said. “You have to have process.”

He smiled, nodded (when Audrey looked at him unresponsive) and walked with his scissor-like legs back to his office.

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flowersI set aside the yellow chrysanthemums and wondered about the oranges, reds and purples. They were arranged one on each step to our house and I thought the colors should be coordinated like an outfit of clothing. Greg, my housemate, didn’t like the care I took with the chrysanthemums every year because he considered them out-of-season flowers—because they were flowers that bloomed in fall rather than in spring or summer. “What are you doing?” he would snap at me. “Didn’t you do enough gardening this summer?”

He didn’t appreciate the full growing season, thinking it should be confined to April or May through the beginning of September and then be done. I tried also explaining crocuses to him, which he saw himself every year in March but dismissed as weeds. He was on the fence about daffodils.

So, while he fixated on changing all our light bulbs to ones he called “energy efficient,” which I called less flattering and more garish, I arranged the chrysanthemums wondering how best to show them off.

Just as I decided to place the purple up top, then the orange and then maybe the bluish followed by the pink and yellow, Greg appeared at the top of the stone steps in a t-shirt and track pants. I always wondered why he didn’t just wear jeans. Was it to give the impression that he was fitter than he really was?  He wasn’t fat, but maybe he liked people thinking he was either about to leave for the gym or just back from a rough workout. He blamed me for liking Hershey bars better than gyms, though I have no idea why. I wasn’t fat either—and with much less effort than he exerted. Why blame me for having a smarter way of living?

“The chrysanthemums again?” he said. “I thought you were done with those and were going to help me change out the light bulbs.”

“I don’t like the light bulbs you bought—and I don’t care about whether they’re better for the environment or more economical. I think the lighting tones they give off are less pleasant than the old bulbs. So, since you’re taking away a little beauty from my life I thought I would concentrate on the beauty I still have control over.”

When I agreed to be Greg’s housemate a few years ago I had no idea he thought efficiency was a good idea over comfort and that he wasn’t tuned into daffodils, tulips, peonies, lilacs, lilies, roses and, especially, chrysanthemums. The whole season built up to them and they were such a soft-spoken, unostentatious, flower. I appreciated that they didn’t take advantage of their end-of-season status to flaunt themselves like a rose. They were outside nearly every shop door and many houses by the middle of October, but they weren’t glamorous. Nobody chooses chrysanthemums for their wedding reception.

Greg laughed and began pointing at dandelions left over from the summer. “What about those?  How do weeds fit into the ‘beauty?’” He liked to look me up and down while he talked, but not in an admiring way—more like an insurance rep who visits a house after a disaster and eyes everything up and down affixing costs here and there.

“Actually, I don’t consider dandelions weeds. I always thought they were misclassified,” I said.

He snickered but I pretended to ignore him and just smiled in return. It was unfortunate that three years after agreeing to share the house (he the first floor; I the second with shared access to the kitchen, living room, garage and outdoor spaces) we still lived alongside one another. I commiserated with the dandelions. They were called weeds because they found themselves growing on the outskirts of someone’s doorstep. They were like flowers except nobody planned for them. My big hope was Greg’s love of adhering to society-approved timelines and the fact that he just turned 36 would mean he’d finally propose to his girlfriend and move out.

“How’s it going with Stephanie?” I said. “If you don’t speed it up and claim her she’ll find somebody else.”

“I don’t know—we’ll see. I’m thinking about it.”

It wasn’t like he was a treasure—balding with glasses and on the short side—so I couldn’t imagine what was keeping him from asking his kind, decently attractive (though admittedly not beautiful) girlfriend to marry him. It’s not like he had a line of girls waiting to go out with him.

“If you think about it for too long, she’ll find somebody else,” I snapped.

He laughed as if to say he didn’t care, and walked back into the house leaving me with my chrysanthemum companions. Stephanie would be over later so I thought I might plant a seed in her mind about leaving him. His lack of appreciation of chrysanthemums and dandelions and the whole growth cycle indicted him as a person who didn’t appreciate wildlife and nature. Did such a person deserve to be given a mate and probably children? That would put him fully in synch with the natural cycle of life, death and reproduction.  He didn’t recognize the beauty of the natural world, so was that something he deserved?

On the other hand, a conventional thinker like that could hope for nothing more than marriage. I imagined marriage as a locked tree house from the male perspective. The roaming bird, haphazardly dropping seeds here and there, seemed the true male mentality. If you have that mindset, what could be worse than being tied down to one place, one person, one garden?

As I heard Greg pattering around the kitchen opening his energy drink-in-a-can, I wondered if the chrysanthemums regretted their pots. It wasn’t like I put them there—I purchased the chrysanthemums already in their golden brass-looking pots. But maybe energy-wise they counted the pots against me. I also wondered whether I was receiving bad energy from the chrysanthemums for not planting them myself—enjoying them without having grown them.

The chrysanthemums only had about three weeks left before the first serious frost would come and shrivel them up, so I thought the right color arrangement was important—like a dying person dressing up to her best since she would want to look good for whatever time she had left.

“I thought you were going to dust,” Greg yelled from the kitchen.

“The chrysanthemums are more important, and I don’t have time to do both,” I said.  “I suppose when this latest blooming season is over, I’ll have no excuse so I’ll have to take care of the dust so it doesn’t interfere with your energy drink regimen.”

“I’m allergic to dust,” he said sniffling dramatically enough that you could almost hear the phlegm going down his throat. “It makes me sick.”

I laughed not to be spiteful but because I really thought it was funny that he was that weak and prissy-ish that he couldn’t stand a little dust. And that he was so petty that he wouldn’t then just pitch in and take care of it himself. When we first became housemates we decided on a division of household chores. Dusting was in my column. He would rather sniffle and choke on his own phlegm than deviate from our assignments.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” I said. “It’s awful not to feel well, isn’t it? I think I’d like to spend more time with the chrysanthemums. I’ll let you know when Stephanie gets here.” His girlfriend was due to arrive in the next hour or so for their weekly Saturday night date.

Stephanie usually wore the same thing every Saturday—tight skinny jeans with an animal print top of some kind. She was a girl who loved efficiency and since she liked animal prints she decided her days-off outfits should be comprised of nothing but designer skinny jeans, various animal print tops—leopard, zebra, giraffe, even cow—paired with a selection of $400+ designer high heels. She said it simplified her life to have this animal print-skinny jean-designer shoe algorithm that she could just plug in to quickly put together an outfit for her leisure hours. Her work hours—as a financial consultant—were spent in pants suits in various colors—red, navy blue, pink, even purplish—with the same high heels she wore during her leisure hours and a variety of decorative silk scarves (paisley, floral, striped, collage, etc.). Her goal was to eliminate the need to think about anything other than what she considered the substance of her days—her work and her quest to get married by the age of 30. She had latched onto Greg because, because, because—well, I’m not sure. I suppose because he was her romantic equivalent of what college seniors call the “safety school,” meaning a man who fit the general profile she was looking for, and was acceptable even if he wasn’t her first choice, or even her second or third choice. Who had time for all that choosiness anyway?

The Chrysanthemums’ petals retained their color. Until they shriveled up after the first deep frost, they would keep it pretty well. At that point, you could still see their colors but their ends would be tinged with brown. It was mid-October, so I thought they might have another month. After the shriveling would come the potpourri stage, when I would collect whatever was left of the colorful petals and throw them in with other petals I had collected from earlier blooming cycles of the year and add pine chips.

Just then I heard Stephanie’s SUV coming up our gravel driveway. She was driving the way she usually did—tentatively. She was going at exactly a mid-range speed for driveway travel, careful not to so much as skim the grass at the perimeter of the gravel. It was a snow leopard day as she emerged from the car with the white and black pattern of the cardigan offset by a red-pink silk scarf and silver stiletto heels beneath her weekend skinny jeans. As she came closer to where I stood on the cement steps, I pretended to be paying most of my attention to the chrysanthemums. I hated that long interlude between the time you see someone walking toward you from far away and when they get to within the zone of hearing and communicating right in front of you. I never know if I’m supposed to wave at them from afar and then continue to stare at them smiling and seeming interested or whether I’m supposed to smile, nod and ignore. So, I just pretended to labor over chrysanthemum decision-making until I heard her heels click close enough for us to talk.

“Hi!  How’s it going?” Stephanie said as she made her way to my chrysanthemums on the steps and me hovering over them. “Oh, hi there, Stephanie! I like that you’re a snow leopard today. Gold and black leopards get all the attention. It’s time the snow leopard had his day.”

Stephanie laughed, but mostly just to be polite. Greg told me that she thought I was strange and didn’t get my humor. I didn’t worry much about that because I couldn’t bear to make small talk. So, I just tried to be nice, but as myself rather than as a person she wouldn’t find strange.

“Is Greg around?” she said. “I’m a little earlier than usual so I wasn’t sure.”

“Yeah, he’s brooding over his energy drink because he’s angry that I’ve neglected my dusting duties in favor of the chrysanthemum tending and color coordination you see I’m involved with. I guess that’s something to look forward to—the luxury of staying on top of the dust if the two of you eventually move in together.”

Stephanie laughed again and looked past me into the house. “Yeah, I guess I’m kind of a neat freak. I thought the two of you had worked out a shared housekeeping schedule for the common areas,” she said.

“We did, but unlike you, I don’t owe him anything so if I happen to rather spend time with chrysanthemums than with a dusting rag or a sponge, that’s what I do,” I pointed out, smiling proudly. I got lonely sometimes but liked that I wasn’t beholden to anyone except the gardens I created.

Stephanie continued her perfunctory social laughter. “It’s not that bad. I like to keep things tidy, too, so I’m not doing anything I wouldn’t do on my own.”

“I guess you could say the two of you came together over your shared love of the tidy,” I said. I looked at her and giggled and then stooped over the crysanthemums again tinkering with the arrangement of colors, wanting each color to set off perfectly both the color above and below it. I knew they were the last of the season’s flowers, so I wanted to make the most of them. I kept thinking how awful it would be to be a crystanthemum and have colors that didn’t suit me surrounding my pot on all sides.

“Yep, I guess so,” she said. “You know, I think I’m going to go in if you don’t mind and see if I can find Greg.”

“Sure, maybe you can help him with his energy drink,” I said. The chrysanthemums seemed to be aligned properly now color-wise, so I started futzing with each of the flowers in each of the vases. I didn’t want any to be twisted, with chrysanthemum stems tangled. Integrity of the stems was important to me, with each stem set apart from the others even as they all shared the same pot and the same colors within that pot.

I thought maybe each pot of flowers would last longer if the bounty were even side-to-side rather than lopsided, though I knew there was no scientific evidence to back that up. One idea I had that I thought I might follow through with that afternoon was mixing colors within the same pot. So, instead of having orange crysanthemums on the top step, followed by purple, then blue, then pink, I would bleed some orange into the purple pot and some purple into the blue pot and some blue into the pink pot, and then mix things up even further by, say, taking some blue and putting it in the orange pot along with the orange and purple and just keep mixing everything up. But to do that I would have to start ripping up the stems from the roots and turning the pots into vases rather than planters.

“I think you can still go out without your gray pants,” I heard Stephanie say from the kitchen. The screen door was drawn to take advantage of the mild autumn day, so it was perfect for eavesdropping, or impossible to escape private noise, depending on how you looked at it.

“Well, the only other pair of pants I have that’s clean are my jeans, and I don’t feel comfortable going to that restaurant in jeans,” Greg said.

“I’m in jeans,” Stephanie pointed out, laughing. “What difference does it make?”

“Yeah, but it’s different—women can get away with it. Besides, those are designer jeans. Mine are working-in-the-garage jeans.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Stephanie said. “Of course you just don’t want to go. It’s like last year when you said you couldn’t go to church because you didn’t have the right kind of dress pants, and that you didn’t want buy cheap dress pants and so you wanted to wait until you got your end-of-the-year bonus to splurge on a designer suit. The end of the year came and you never got the suit and finally admitted that you just didn’t want to go. If you don’t like the places we go, why don’t you just say so?”

“I like the places we go—I’m just not able to dress for those places tonight.”

Luckily, the chrysanthemums were always dressed appropriately, so I was glad I didn’t have to worry about their wardrobes. I had friends who fretted about what they would wear, but what do you do with a man who uses wardrobe deficiencies as an excuse to get out of things you feel like doing? I admired the chrysanthemums’ colors. They only had one season but they always were attired perfectly. Their colors went well with the oranges, reds, yellows and the remaining greens of mid-October and November and if the season was colder than usual and the leaves just turned brown or fell off early, the brightness of the chrysanthemums offered a colorful counterpoint. Greg, on the other hand, was Stephanie’s stripped tree—a tree that night that had lost its foliage and had nothing else charming, like, say, a fresh coat of new snow, to compensate for its barren offering.

“Oh, alright,” Stephanie snapped. “Just put on your jeans and we’ll figure out someplace else to go.” With that she stamped outside and came to sit on the steps with me and the chrysanthemums. I decided to just admit I’d heard everything because it would be phony not to, and, plus, she knew I was right outside the screen door. And on top of that, she and Greg knew one of my favorite pastimes was eavesdropping.

“It’s hard when there’s a shortage of gray slacks, huh Stephanie?” I said hoping to make her smile, though kind of enjoying their argument.

“Yeah, right,” she said, smiling and giving one of her social laughs. “He’s absolutely ridiculous!  If doesn’t want to go someplace why doesn’t he just say so?”

“That’s Greg for you,” I said. “I don’t even like sharing a kitchen, dining room and livingroom with him, so I can’t imagine spending a life with him. I shouldn’t say this, of course, but to be entirely honest—and I’ve told him this directly already—I think he’s awful,” I said.

Stephanie grinned but didn’t bother with her social laugh this time. She was just trying to meet her age 30 deadline and time was running out. It was pretty much the same as having a week before a big splashy affair you’re obligated to attend yet have no dress or partner for. Now it was a week before the big party and she was racing around forcing herself into whatever “gowns” she could find. I would say she was at the stage where she was ready to just start dialing names out of an alumni association directory along with squeezing herself into a gown that didn’t fit, but she showed enough reservation that there seemed to be still a chance she would decide not to attend after all.

“Well not that bad,” she said staring at the orange chrysanthemums. “He can be insensitive and maybe doesn’t think as much as he should, but he’s not a bad person. Remember the starving raccoon he fed?”

I had to control myself to only chuckle at that one. Greg had discovered a skinny raccoon late one night in our driveway, so he crept into the neighbor’s driveway (a neighbor he couldn’t stand) and opened up the neighbor’s garbage can, scattering empty or half-eaten cartons of food out toward near where the raccoon was wandering so the raccoon would encamp in the neighbor’s driveway for a feast. The raccoon was still wreaking havoc on the neighbor more than six months later. I told all this to Stephanie.

“Huh, that’s strange,” Stephanie said after I told her the true story. “He told me how sad the skinny raccoon made him, and how he just wanted to do something to help. I thought maybe he was becoming more sensitive.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I said. I wondered why Stephanie was so intent on the orange chrysanthemums, while she could see how I toiled to coordinate the colors on all the steps rather than fixating on one pot. If I could have pulled up the chrysanthemums by the roots without killing them, I would have interspersed the colors, cross-coloring all the pots rather than leaving each one with just one solid hue.

“I know you’re about to turn 30, but who cares? You could pass Greg by and keep on looking,” I said.

“You don’t understand,” she said, rubbing her fingers along the stems of the chrysanthemums and keeping her eyes away from me. “My mother won’t leave me alone about this. She just keeps hounding me about making plans to get married. She even roped me into asking Greg along on a cruise I was going to take alone with my her and my dad.”

“I never understood why some parents care so much about their children getting married by a certain age,” I said. “Is it because they’re worried about passing on their genes, or is it more because they’re worried their children will be misfits if they don’t get married by around 30?”

She looked at me with an annoyed expression and rolled her eyes. “Well,” she said irritably. “I think they’re just worried about me. They don’t want me to miss out on anything.”

The chrysanthemums next to us were now perfectly color coordinated and were flourishing in their individual pots. They didn’t have knowledge that it was mid-October and if they did have that knowledge I don’t think they would have done anything different. Was it because they didn’t have to worry about finding a mate, or because they had knowledge programmed into their stems that they should just grow according to their internal selves while taking whatever they could from the climate surrounding them to thrive even more?

“Too bad you can’t just be like chrysanthemums,” I said. She laughed probably thinking I was just joking. But, actually, I saw chrysanthemums as a good model for Stephanie, and especially, for her mother. They needed a reminder from beings in tune with the environment as a whole yet unworried about the growth patterns surrounding them. They grew unto themselves, not caring how I color coordinated them or whether they bloomed too late or too early this year to serve as decoration.

“You think so much of flowers and animals, but you know the only reason they don’t do the things you don’t like is because they don’t have the power of reasoning,” Stephanie said.

That was funny to me. The idea that if chrysanthemums could reason they would worry about getting invitations to cocktail parties or be consumed with worry that the right honey bees weren’t coming around or that the trees and shrubbery surrounding them weren’t pruned in a stylish way. Or, in the animal world, that my cat, Halgar, would be embarrassed because he was caught eating a cheap brand of tuna fish.

“I think the peace of chrysanthemums and other plants and animals like Halgar has more to do with a deep-seeded, intuitive synchronicity with the natural world. They’re oriented strictly toward what’s inside them and what comes naturally to them. They focus on whether they want to lie in the sun or, if they’re a flower, which direction to turn their heads to face the sun. Or they focus on whether they’re hungry or tired. It never gets beyond the primal with them, and that doesn’t make them less. It makes them more,” I said.

“I think wanting to mate and reproduce is very primal,” Stephanie pointed out.

“Well, that’s true, except you’ve said yourself that you don’t like children much and that you’re mainly concerned with your mother pressuring you.”

“I never said I don’t like children. I just said that I don’t go crazy for them and I’m not mainly concerned with my mother pressuring me. It just happens to be on my mind a lot lately,” she said.

“Well, whatever the case, I wouldn’t worry about an arbitrary deadline like age 30 if I were you—even if your mother threatens to throw you overboard on the cruise she’s forcing you to invite Greg along on.” I laughed and felt bad about it, but with the freedom of chrysanthemums before me, I found it funny that this girl sitting on the outskirts of my fall garden was consumed with deadlines related to her age and her mother’s opinion. The seasons speak for themselves and you can either tap into what grows during that particular cycle and look forward to the next growing cycle or you can glower about the flowers that either won’t grow that season or whose season has already past. In any case, it didn’t make sense to me to worry about forcing something to grow that wasn’t. If whatever you wanted wouldn’t grow, it wouldn’t grow. Forcing it would be like expecting a rose to grow in your back yard in October while overlooking the ease of chrysanthemums.

From the kitchen, just inside the screen door, we heard Greg fumbling around the cabinets, swearing to himself. Who knew making a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich could be so frustrating? His deliberation of the dress pants complete, he decided that he would have a sandwich with his energy drink to tide him over until he and Stephanie could get to a suitably casual restaurant or find a place they liked that was willing to deliver.

“I guess I better go in there and show him where you keep the extra crunchy peanut butter. It’s funny. I don’t even live here and I know how you organize your kitchen cabinets. He’s been sharing a kitchen with you for the past three years and he still can’t get it through his head,” she said irritably.

“I guess that gives you a preview of your married life,” I laughed. Stephanie didn’t seem to find that funny. Not bothering with her social laugh, she got up and turned on her designer heels to break through the peanut butter and jelly impasse.

“To the right of the refrigerator,” I heard Stephanie say. “No, not the bottom shelf, the top one. You’ve been sharing a kitchen with her for three years now, how do you not know where the peanut butter is?”

Greg laughed a little in a quick, huffy sort of way, the way a person laughs when he only finds something funny because it makes him mad or bitter. But why be bitter over elusive peanut butter?

“It’s not just the peanut butter, it’s everything,” Stephanie said. “How do you live alongside another person for years and not observe their personal habits, likes and dislikes? After three years you don’t know her any better than a person would know a passerby in an airport.“

“Are you saying I’m stupid?” he said.

“No, obviously you don’t have a mental impairment—you’re better at a lot of things than I am. But when it comes to other people, you don’t seem to retain information.”

“I retain what’s important to me,” he said. “I know how much she spends on groceries every week, picking out the stuff I tell her specifically not to. In fact, I think I’m finally going to insist that we keep separate groceries in the kitchen—maybe we’ll mark off my milk from hers; my Cheerios from hers; my butter from hers; my Palmolive from hers with stickers.”

I had to cover my mouth at that point to avoid making my eavesdropping obvious by laughing. If it weren’t for my laziness alongside my love of the garden, I really would have left our shared arrangement a long time ago. On top of that, I was hoping he was one of those people in my life who would eventually remove himself with no effort required on my part. Unfortunately, I was learning that most of the people I didn’t like in this world outlasted me. So, we were really going to have duplicates of peanut butter; duplicates of jam; duplicates of orange juice; duplicates of rye bread. We couldn’t meld so we would duplicate.

Even Stephanie laughed—and her true high-pitched rolling laugh, not her controlled mono-chuckle. “Well, I think that’s taking it a little far, don’t you think?”

“No, I think I’ve tolerated her grocery preferences over my specific requests long enough,” he said, “and I’m pissed.”

I never knew, staring at the chrysanthemums and already anticipating the spring buds (even in late October) that my choice of dishwasher detergent was so upsetting, that maybe I was even causing an existential crisis over it or precipitating a fight between Greg and Stephanie that might blow the whole thing up.

“It’s really not worth getting upset about,” said Stephanie irritably. “And, actually if you paid as much attention as even I’ve noticed just coming over here on the weekends, you would have gotten by now that she has a system for where she keeps things that’s been exactly the same for the last three years.”

“We’re not talking about that now,” he said. “We’re talking about her buying things—brands—that I’ve told her I don’t want her buying with our shared kitchen budget because they’re too expensive.”

There was a long pause at that point and I could hear Stephanie’s heels tapping the floor. She may have been anxiously pacing back and forth trying to figure out whether to continue arguing with an ass for another couple of years—or a lifetime—or whether to cut her losses and walk out.

“I’m not sure what bothers me more—the petty cheapness or the fact that after three years you still don’t know this person you’ve been sharing living space with,” Stephanie said.

“I know the people I like,” he said.

“And what do you have against chrysanthemums?” Stephanie asked. “She said you don’t want her keeping them on the steps up to the front door and that you don’t think they’re legitimate flowers.”

“They’re alright. I just don’t see why anyone would want to bother with flowers in October. She sits out there on the front steps with those flowers like it’s May or June. It’s the fall, so why bother?”

“Flowers bloom all the way from March through the end of October around here,” Stephanie said. “It’s more than just the spring and summer.”

“Fuck the flowers” he snapped. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s dumb. You’re starting to sound like her.”

My coordination of chrysanthemum colors was nearly complete. I was satisfied that as Greg and Stephanie or Greg then Stephanie or Stephanie then Greg stomped down the stone stairs in a few moments they would pass by a perfect cascade of fall colors.

There was a long silence in which I wondered if there was crying going on that I couldn’t hear from my stone steps or whether the two of them had locked eyes, decided they didn’t care about their differences and embraced. The flowers’ colors in my peripheral vision were calming as I stared at the screen door wondering if anyone would pass through to me on the steps. I had anxiety about denouements. I seemed to prefer long, drawn-out, suppressed sadness to heightened bursts of emotion. Feeling in the middle of the fall was comforting because even if Greg and Stephanie had a horrible climax of emotion in which everything toppled, I was immersed in the seasonal, an unending cycle.

After a few minutes I heard the clattering of Stephanie’s heels followed by the lighter tapping of Greg’s sneakers and moved back from the screen door, pretending to inspect the chrysanthemums. They knew I was eavesdropping but I thought it would be rude to not pretend to try to cover it up.

Both of their faces were inscrutable, though I’m pretty sure they weren’t elated or relieved. They both had what I called stone faces on them as they brushed past me. I smiled feigning sympathy at Stephanie, but she walked past me without acknowledgement. Greg, on the other hand, stooped down suddenly, tore out a couple of chrysanthemums from each pot and with at least five of the flowers in hand snorted loud enough to startle Stephanie and I. “Now they’re good for something,” he said handing them to Stephanie and snickering at me: “Cut myself a slice of your garden. Oh, yeah, nice colors,” he added laughing, as he pulled Stephanie in the car and the two of them drove off.

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You Birthed That Skin

The gilt mirrors surrounded Cynthia and the eight bridesmaids and one junior bridesmaid, a slight Asian child of around 12 who bounced up and down and smiled to her mother about her dress’s “tail.” The bridesmaids, an offset of the local Junior League, were clothed in lime green chiffon. The maid of honor was skeletal with the studded joints of her spine visible and her collarbone-length light blond hair turned perfectly under like a tight roll of toilet paper or the curled-under edge of a ready-made pie crust. The other seven bridesmaids were less coiffed but aligned enough to mostly remember the parts of their uniforms they were responsible for—short strands of pearls, pearl stud earrings and short silver heels.

The bride, Madison Powell, meanwhile, posed in front of one of several free-standing full length mirrors looking up and down again at a book cover in her hand. “On a scale of one to 10, how much do I look like her?” she asked. The book, “The Bridesmaids,” was the story of Grace Kelly’s wedding and featured a photo on the cover of Kelly with her attendants. Nobody had the heart to tell her that despite nailing the hair color and having about equal height, there wasn’t much in her face reminiscent of the Princess of Monaco. She had a similar complexion and eye color maybe.

“Oh, definitely, I can really see it,” Ashley, a chunky, olive-complexioned bridesmaid said, patting Madison on the shoulder. Ashley considered Madison her style advisor and may have been the only one able to believe Madison bore a small resemblance to Grace Kelly. She taught Madison how to cook and provided the steadying influence Madison’s mother wanted when she pressured her daughter to join the Junior League. Luckily, Ashley wasn’t secure with her figure and didn’t care about fashion, so Madison was able to play the superior role in at least one area of their relationship.

Then there was the bridesmaid, Lara, who had bullied her way into the bridal party throwing a tantrum when a month went by after the announcement of the engagement and no bridesmaid request was made. Cynthia, seated on a folding chair at the edge of the room so as not to disrupt the preparations, overheard Madison complain to Ashley that Lara had been tipsy and kept asking one of the other bridesmaids whether her husband had “jizz” on his tie. “Can you believe that?” Madison said. “She’s just so jealous of married people she’ll do anything to annoy us. If I had known this was the way she would be, I never would have asked her. I just felt sorry for her.”

Every once and a while Madison would pat Cynthia’s arm or shoulder in passing and smile. “It’s so great to have you here!” she would say. “Ashley, have you met my dear friend Cynthia?” She would smile then sympathetically in Cynthia’s direction and then return to her preparations. Her sisters-in-law had just arrived—also bridesmaids—one about 25 with black curlicue hair and at least 50 pounds overweight; the other a petite, golden-skinned college freshman with tidy straight brown hair. The groom’s mother accompanied them, and it seemed the older, more portly of her daughters took after her. “Do you mind, hon?” she said to Cynthia. “Could you spray my skirt with Static-Guard?” Cynthia smiled as graciously as she could muster and made a circle around the mother-of-the-groom spraying gluey-smelling Static-Guard as she went. “Thanks,” mother-of-the-groom laughed self-consciously.

Cynthia was off to the side in the folding chair, up against the wall, her back to one of the mirrors surrounding the room. But she was called on repeatedly. If not to Static Guard mother-of-the groom then to hold the bouquet or to hold a piece of a skirt’s train up while a shoe was put on or a tight corner was negotiated. She had come from New York City to Chicago for the wedding and had been asked at the last minute, the night before, if she would be interested in spending the morning before the wedding with the women of the bride’s side of the wedding party as they got their makeup done. She and Madison had been close friends for 10 years, and with the exception of two of the nine bridesmaids, she had never heard about or seen any of these girls before. If they were such good friends that Madison wanted them to stand by her side at her wedding, wouldn’t Cynthia have heard of them before?

Madison was now walking back and forth in front of one wall’s series of mirrors trying to imagine what the guests at the church would see as she walked down the aisle. “I look like a fashionable bride, right?” she asked Lara who was concerned with the assessment of her own rump. “Definitely! I wouldn’t worry—you look great!” Lara said.

Madison didn’t bother to return the compliment to Lara who kept looking at herself in profile and twisting around to try to see what she looked like from the rear. Instead, Madison began to make lunch plans. “Hey everyone, I’m going to order pizza for lunch, but not that thick Chicago-style pizza—I’m going to get skinny pizza—the kind with the super-thin crust,” she said. After all, she didn’t want to give the impression to her Junior League friends of a person who took didn’t take the dangers of deep-dish pizza seriously.

“Hey, Cynthia, come sit with us,” Madison gestured offering Cynthia a seat with the bridesmaids in the middle of the room. “I was just telling Ashley that you also spent some time down South.” Ashley was from Birmingham, Ala., and Cynthia guessed that Madison thought geography was the only thing Cynthia could possibly have in common with Ashley.

“Yeah, I went to the University of Georgia, and really liked it. It was a culture shock, but really interesting to live in another part of the country.

“I’ll bet,” said Ashley. “But I wouldn’t know—I’ve lived in Birmingham my whole life—though I did help start a new chapter of my sorority at Ole Miss and so spent a few months in Oxford, Miss. I took a trip to Europe with my family last year.” Cynthia laughed socially and smiled. “Wow, that sounds great going to Europe with your family.”

The slow-going conversation was interrupted by a long-sleeved, bright coral thin figure. With a wan, drawn face and short feathery blond hair, Madison’s mother had arrived. A bottle of chilled Chardonnay was waiting for her in a nearby refrigerator because that was one of Abigail Powell’s expectations—that whenever possible chilled wine be waiting upon her arrival. She had a facelift and microdermabrasion 10 years earlier to un-crease and smooth out her face, but the 10 pounds she lost on an already slender frame left her face gaunt and hollow. “Cynthia, nice to see you,” Abigail said. “It’s been a while. How are you doing? How are your parents?”

Cynthia smiled, suspecting she wasn’t a favorite of Abigail’s. “Nice to see you, too. We’re all doing good. Just enjoying life in the Village,” she said.

“Oh, are you still ‘single in the city?’” said Abigail.

“Yeah, still living the life of the single girl,” said Cynthia.  Abigail shot looks to Madison every minute or so with raised eyebrows.

Cynthia excused herself back to the mirrored room’s periphery. “Sorry, but I have to make a phone call,” she said backing away. She looked directly at Abigail and smiled again while pulling back. Abigail and Madison continued to exchange looks with Abigail shaking her head and patting Madison’s hand. Cynthia looked away toward the periphery of mirrors and saw herself at the corner and the bridesmaid-strangers toward the center framed by yet another circle of mirrors—free-standing head-to-toe mirrors. Madison’s rotund, frazzled-gray-haired future mother-in-law and the younger, prettier of her daughters were getting primped by the make-up artist. The make-up artist was taken by the daughter’s smooth golden skin. “Not a blemish. Gorgeous,” the woman said. One of Madison’s aunts laughed knowingly and patted the mother-in-law-to-be’s shoulder: “You birthed that skin!”

Cynthia laughed to herself thinking how interesting an anthropologist would find the bridesmaids preparation room with an aunt congratulating the mother-of-the-groom for “birthing” the skin of her daughter. The daughter just smiled smugly and nearly winked at herself in the mirror. More bridesmaids had filtered into the room in the meantime—one a woman with the kind of vaguely brownish purple hair that can occur when a home hair dying job goes bad. This woman Cynthia remembered as Julie, an old roommate of Madison’s who she thought had done enough to wipe her name off the bridesmaids roster. She had borrowed Madison’s computer to send e-mails to her friends making fun of Madison. Cynthia, who happened to be living for free in another apartment pet sitting for a friend, had given her room next door to Madison so she could escape from living with Julie. Cynthia became anxious and began slowing making a circle around the room passing varying images of herself as the mirrors all seemed to have a slightly different shapes and were under slightly different lighting. There she was bright and skinny and here she was wide-set with shadows under her eyes and there she was washed out by a stray white light. The girls she passed checked out their rear views, how they looked in profile, how their calves looked peeping out from under their lime green chiffon and even how they looked side-by-side to gauge how they would look in group pictures and maybe secretly to see how they each looked compared to one another.

Madison and her mother were still seated at the center of the room talking in soft tones when Madison’s eye caught Cynthia’s. “Hey there, you!” she said playfully. “What are you doing walking around in circles?” Abigail frowned raising her eyebrows and pursing her lips. “Just stretching my legs, I guess,” said Cynthia. “Getting a sense of the scene so I’ll always remember it—it must be the writer in me.”

Madison looked sympathetically at Cynthia realizing maybe for the first time that her “dear friend” had spent much of the day as the sole observer rather than as a participant. “I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you,” said Madison. “Are you having fun?” Cynthia smiled and nodded. “It’s been interesting watching everyone get ready,” she said.

“Well, actually,” said Madison, “I have a job for you—if you don’t mind. I’d like you to hand out the programs.”

“Sure, I would be honored,” she said. Cynthia stared awkwardly at Madison after that waiting for her to pick up the conversation.

“So, how do you like my friends?” Madison asked her.

“They’re nice, but—but, it’s weird, I mean, I’ve never heard you talk about them before,” Cynthia said. Madison smiled at Cynthia and cocked her head like a person talking to a slow child.

“The Junior League. I met them through the Junior League. We get together sometimes, we—”

Abigail cut in then: “They have a lot in common. Madison has a lot in common with those girls.” Cynthia smiled again and nodded.

“It’s funny. People used to say that we sound exactly alike,” Cynthia pointed out to Madison and her mother who looked back at her with blank stone faces. “Anyway, it’s just funny, I’ve never heard you talk about them before.”

Madison began fidgeting in her seat and her face became flushed while she and her mother kept exchanging looks. “Well, you’re one of my closest friends who doesn’t live in Chicago,” she said. “I never wanted to have nine bridesmaids, you know, I—“ Abigail reached out and squeezed her daughter’s wrist. “Remember what Dr. Samuels said,” she whispered. Cynthia ordinarily would have pretended not to have heard, but her feelings were hurt at having been suddenly pushed to the periphery of her once close friend’s social circle. “Madison, who’s Dr. Samuels? Is that your new psychologist?” Madison smiled and didn’t seem too embarrassed.

“How did you know? It’s like I told you, Mom, Cynthia can always—“

“Well, I know you like to see psychologists and I didn’t think anything was physically wrong with you, so I just figured when you were talking about a ‘doctor,’ that’s the only thing it could be,” said Cynthia.

Madison and her mother began exchanging looks again, wiping the smile from Madison’s face. “Well, maybe it might be a good idea for you to tell Cynthia what Dr. Samuels said,” Abigail suggested nodding her head and patting the top of her daughter’s hand.

“You’ve been a great friend,” Madison said, “but Dr. Samuels says that sometimes friends can be ‘unintentionally toxic’ because they don’t share the same life goals as you. So, they accidentally lead you away from the things you want.”

Cynthia could see the logic in theory, but wondered how it applied to her. “I know we’re different, but I feel like I’ve always been supportive of you,” Cynthia said. “I never cared one way or another what you wanted to do.”

“Actually, Dr. Samuels says that’s part of the problem—you’re not working toward the same goals—getting married and having kids—so you don’t keep me on track the way these girls do,” said Madison, waving her hand around the room at the nine bridesmaids straightening their skirts, looking at themselves sideways, from the rear and back again. “They’re good judges,” said Madison.

“And you want them to judge you?” asked Cynthia.

“No, it’s just—it’s hard to explain,” said Madison. “I do and I don’t. I mean I want to end up the way they are, I—it’s like we’re all on a diet together. And you’re not on our diet. So, we keep each other on track.“

“Don’t want to end up like me,” Cynthia said, completing her friend’s thought like she often did.

“No offense, but yeah,” said Madison laughing.  Cynthia again smiled and kept her gaze over Madison’s head focusing on the reflections of the bridesmaids getting ready and looking one another over. The inspections seemed endless.

“You know I think you’re great,” said Madison, “it’s just that I think we’re on different paths. I definitely wanted to have you here, though, to be part of the day, you’ve been a really good friend. I mean I wanted to include you—I never wanted nine bridesmaids, I had to include some of them and some of them were family. But I wanted you to share the day—I mean that’s why I invited you to spend time with us while we got ready.” Cynthia stared at her, mouth slightly opened.

“Anyway,” said Madison, “I’m glad you’re here—and—do you still want to hand out the programs? I understand if you don’t, but—“

Cynthia smiled. She felt backed into a corner having made a special trip away from home and having already spent money on airfare and hotel, but most of all, she didn’t want to embarrass herself or create “a situation” by leaving abruptly. “Sure, I’ll still do it,” she said.

“Good, would you mind holding this again?” Madison asked, handing Cynthia her bouquet. “What do you think of it? My mother thought these calla lilies would look good but I actually wanted roses.” Cynthia smiled and nodded her head, her eyes rotating around each of the mirrors. Each reflection was of a lime green-uniformed bridesmaid or junior bridesmaid twisting front to back and conducting a self-inspection. Madison also took another look at herself sucking in her stomach and looking at her profile again.

“I lost about 10 pounds. Can you tell?” she asked an unresponsive Cynthia. “Can you tell?” Cynthia nodded her head and smiled. Madison took an appraisal of the nine bridesmaids reflecting in every direction. “Oh, wait! Not everyone is wearing pearls,” Madison said. “Didn’t you all get my e-mail last month? I told you to keep checking your e-mail. Oh, well,” she laughed with humor. “Oh well, no big deal. See how easy I am?”

Cynthia, as it turned out, was wearing a short strand of pearls. She ran her fingers across it protectively. The battalion of bridesmaids were slowly prying themselves from the mirrored circle, lining up to march outside with Madison for a group picture of the wedding party. Madison’s mother-in-law and the prettier of her soon-to-be sisters-in-law were again the center of attention. “Look at you!” one of her mother-in-law’s sisters said to Madison’s future sister-in-law. “Your skin is just glowing!” The mother-in-law to-be smiled proudly. “I like to say I made her myself,” she laughed. The sister patted her on the shoulder. “Well, you did!  You birthed that skin.”

The wedding coordinator handed Cynthia a small box with the wedding programs and she took her place among the bridesmaids trailing Madison out the door of the hotel and into the street, across the way to a park where the whole wedding party would assemble, stretched out in long phalanxes on either side of Madison and her finance. There was construction work on the far end of the street but no dust, luckily, one of the bridesmaids observed. The bridesmaids looked at each other continuing their appraisals and adjustments. “Yeah, just push that strand off there”; “Sure, that looks fine”; “What do you mean? You look great?” Meanwhile, Madison fretted about the anxiety-induced red blotches springing out on her white upper chest. Her doctor-bridesmaid reassured her: “Don’t worry, that’ll clear up before the ceremony.”

Cynthia stared at the clouds and the tops of trees looking for birds or squirrels to concentrate on, and then, happened to glance down—maybe she wanted to check out the bridesmaids shoes to see what their selections said about them the way she checked out people’s feet on elevators and buses. And that’s when she caught sight of it—dozens and dozens of nails spread wide apart enough on the street not to be immediately noticeable. In fact, it seemed she was the only one who had noticed at all. The bridesmaids were still smoothing one another’s hair and dresses and offering reassurances. A few of the nails lodged into the ends of Madison’s dress and into a portion of the short train which her maid-of-honor had let slip from her hands. Cynthia reached out to tap Madison’s shoulder but then retracted her hand. She wrung her hands anxiously as if in a neurotic dilemma and reached out again for the bride’s shoulder. She did it again—reaching out for her friend’s shoulder—and then retracted her hand again, her eyes fixed on the birds at the edge of the park jumping from branch to branch and then settling.

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