M. Mellow’s week: 2/5/2005-2/15/2005
It’s just past midnight at the teahouse on 2/15/2005, the day after Valentine’s Day. The closing routine is underway, and having finished stacking the chairs on the tables, I’m sweeping the dust and crumbs of the day’s patronage into the dustpan. It’s been a most remarkable week – or rather, nine days or so, for so many reasons, both good and bad. For one thing, I haven’t done any studying for about four days now, which would probably shock a lot of my close friends. If they knew, they’d probably have me in a straitjacket being packed off to a padded cell. Just a few hours ago, I had been helping Moe close up his flower stand after one of the hardest days of the year. Buckets of long-stemmed roses, tulips, and stargazer lilies were being carried into the storage office while buckets laden with stray leaves and water were being poured into the strainers. While we munched on pizza and sushi, the drizzle pelted away at the sidewalk, drippy rain that colored the entire weekend and made work cold and left the fingers clammy after long days of work. I sipped my warm honeyed tea, trying to soothe the itch in my throat. I think running about in the rain these past few days has given me a cold. The cold and wet notwithstanding, I’ve been having an interesting time lately, to say the least, and while it hasn’t necessarily been brimming with happiness, I hope to remember it for a long time to come.
On 2/4/2005, I went home for the weekend… back to the
*THUDTHUDTHUDWHUDWHUDCRACKTHWACKTHWACK*
But restraint, as usual, wins out, though not without the aid of fortunate happenstance. I was flanked by a law student and a practicing attorney, so it wasn’t terribly hard to cloak my inward negativity by talking enthusiastic shop with them. The attorney practiced educational law, estates and trusts; his case work involved a lot of private schools and scholarship funds, and I had a good time listening to him describe the particulars of his calling while he asked me about oddities in computer science. (Honestly, the complexities of compilers make the much-dreaded Rule against Perpetuities look like child’s play.) And to my right, the sharp-witted, tough-cookie law student from UC Hastings (who happened to be a breathtakingly lovely korean girl) traded law school stories with me in between mutual klutziness at the crowded dinner table. (“Wow, this is some pretty strong tea. And that’s after you cut it with the shark’s fin soup.”) Her field of particular interest was criminal law – on the prosecutorial side, which is something I don’t get to see much at Boalt, but it’s the side to which I certainly gravitate myself. Criminal law was one of my best subjects at Boalt, and we had a great conversation that ranged back and forth between intellectual property law and the criminal justice system. Computer crimes, secret service, DOJ, international jurisdiction… this is a completely different kind of geek talk than that with which I grew up, and it’s a little scary to me just how deeply engaging these discussions can be for me now. I’ve got a job lined up, contingent on passing the bar exam, but she’s still looking. Positions at the local district attorney’s office are rare, and landing one would be a long shot, but I wished her luck on the bar exam and with the DA’s office on my way out. The dinner had been marked by a lot of smiling and laughing, trading professional jokes and sharing work and martial arts stories, but it all melted straight off my face as I crossed the street, headed for the Millbrae BART. It’s not that I can’t hide it in polite company if I really need to. It’s not like it feels like a monumental strain to be holding up the mask of the engrossed and enthusiastic professional. Sometimes I do get caught up in the moment, especially with a good conversation. The façade is not insincere; it’s just a little less sincere than the downcast eyes and tired slouch that take over on the train ride home.
That banquet ruined my week. Dejection was a constant companion for the next few days, but it’s also a pretty normal state of affairs, and it doesn’t keep me from getting my work done. On the contrary, I put in some pretty long days at the teahouse burning through my reading, and for good reason; I needed to free up my time for the weekend. I was setting time aside to help out at Moe’s. On Tuesday I had the good fortune to run into a visiting friend, who stopped by Scharffen Berger on the way back from lunch. Out comes the credit card for a dozen chocolate roses and tulips; cheekily platonic (but genuinely affectionate) gifts for the teahouse folk who put up with me here at Berkeley practically 24/7. I was going to be spending around an astonishing quantity of flowers and chocolates this Valentine’s Day weekend. And by Thursday, I was done with my studying, having read up through the next Tuesday’s assignment. I spent the rest of that evening getting back into my wushu groove, which had been gone since the end of the demo two weeks ago. (Apparently, my body had been working under the assumption that it would get a vacation after the demo, but I had promised it no such thing. It took the vacation anyway, and my sword hand hurt so much after weapons practice I had trouble picking things up for the next day.)
So ended my gloomy fit of self-absorption from the previous week. With the sunrise on 2/11/2005, I tried to remake myself as someone with any selfish cares, unburdened by my usual self-loathing and bitterness born of solitude. For the next few days, it was time to be a lifesaver, a guardian angel – the more selfless aspect of myself which I wish I could be every day of the year. It’s an exercise in necessitated self-denial of sorts, trying to get myself in the emotional state where I almost believe I don’t actually exist as anything more than a kind spirit. At 10am, I arrived at Moe’s flower stand.
People think that Valentine’s Day is the best business day of the year for a florist. They would be wrong – especially when you run an honest business the way that Moe does. The growers all gouge around Valentine’s day, wringing a few extra bucks out of every flower, riding on the predictable increase in demand. Not every florist merely passes the whole cost along to the consumer; Moe’s profit margin per sale isn’t that high, but as you might guess, most customers have no idea. (Some people even think of florists as pure middlemen who add nothing to the product. Enjy knows otherwise; she once described Moe as the Miles Davis of flower arranging.) The lines are long and people get impatient. It’s easy to get irritated at the overweening self-importance (and pressured urgency) that some customers bring with them, and even the anticipation of the tough weekend is enough to make even Moe, one of the sweetest florists in Berkeley’s competitive market for flowers, uncharacteristically irascible, even to some of the other volunteer helpers who were pulling for him over the weekend. We had a good crew though, and Moe’s exasperation dissolved quickly enough. No fewer than eight friends, some old like me, and some newer, chipped in for eight hours per day or more. With us handling the small or simple stuff, Moe could handle the special orders without overloading on stress. As I explained to a few customers over the weekend, “Depending on what you want, we can help you. We have a bunch of helpers here and one real artist; if you have a special or unusual request, you should talk to Moe. But if you need a rose or twelve in a hurry, we can get you turned around pretty quickly.” I’ve given Moe some token help around various holidays and events before, but never on a basis so resembling a full-time job.
We trimmed roses and snapped off thorns for hours on end. We wrapped long-stemmed roses, red, pink, white, peach, and fire-and-ice, in cellophane and ribbons. By the second morning, unfamiliarity and uncertainty had fully given way to efficiency and measured ease; I learned how to roll up a single rose and tie a good bow in less than a minute; I need two minutes if the rose needs to be dethorned and petaled first. We pull a few petals off most roses, I think for the same reason that one thins out the crop on fruit trees; the plant catches only so much sunlight and so much water. With fewer fruit to feed, each one gets more water and sugar, becoming sweeter and juicier than if the tree had to spread its resources thin. With the more ragged, outermost petals gone, the remaining petals on the rose stay fresher for longer. We also became quite practiced at processing hapless customers who don’t really know what they want. (It’s a pain in the ass, really, when you have a clueless know-nothing at the front of the line and a dozen customers in a real hurry backed up behind him). “Do you want something romantic, or friendly? Unconventional or traditional? Solid red roses? Mixed white and red? Something artistic? Impulsive? Loud and happy? Thoughtful and shy? What’s she like?” And then, of course, if all else fails, “I’ll pick it for you. It’ll be something nice, I promise. Just tell me what your price range is, and we’ll work with it.” Maybe by next year, I’ll have learned how to put together the more elaborate arrangements; I’d have a long way to go before I could begin to approximate Moe’s cultivated talents, but for now, being able to arrange a dozen roses or two in a take-home sheaf is helpful enough.
The lines were long, but we had six people. Twice as many as any of the other flower stands around, and oh, what a difference swift service makes. With Moe taking up the special orders, the rest of us busied ourselves with processing the line, filling preorders, handling small or simple orders, and preparing or shuttling stock. Constant activity for long hours, especially in the afternoons and evenings. I’m just really glad we were able to keep Moe rested and relatively unharried, and Moe seemed equally happy keeping us all fed for our trouble. The lines may have been long, but nobody had to wait long before being helped. Some of the customers got the sense that they were in a really special place when they learned that the five extra students or ex-students moving with the apparent speed and attention of professionals were volunteering their time for free. Moe proudly announced to an incredulous long-time customer: “This girl’s a doctor, and married – and she’s spending her Valentine’s Day here, can you believe? And this guy has four degrees. You couldn’t hire him for less than a hundred dollars an hour!”
It was busy, but fun. But the part that made me happiest was being able to help out a few other friends who had taken very good care of me these past two years, namely, the teahouse folk. People who notice when I’m glum, who hand me piping hot tea sometimes for no reason at all, who listen to me when I need to talk or let me be silent when I have a lot of my mind, and who tell me with what seems to be genuine sincerity that they think I’m a pretty amazing guy. A little flattery, now and again, does feel good. The occasional freebies are fun, but it’s really about the warmth of acknowledgement. I let them all know I wasn’t studying this weekend, but was working at Moe’s – and that if they needed flowers, they should drop by so I could give them a hand.
On Saturday, I took some of the casualty stock – formerly long-stemmed flowers snapped or broken in transit, but with pristine blooms – back to the teahouse and popped them into a teacup. We can’t sell casualty stock that’s too short to hold a place, but they can still enhance a holiday mood in the teahouse, and when I returned that evening, I had to laugh with (not at) Sharpie Goddess, who had taken to wearing the tulips in her hair in her own wacky fashion. I filled an order for Bandannaboy, who the first of my teahouse friends to come to the flower stand looking for help that weekend. We picked out an artsy pink and purple singles’ bouquet for his Valentine’s Single’s party on Sunday, which I can only hope was met with approval (though it was perhaps a bit extravagant for a singles’ party. It ended up being big enough to be a dinner table centerpiece).
On Sunday, I dropped off the Scharffen Bergers behind the counter at the teahouse on the way to Moe’s, and passing by on the way to dinner was surprised that no one had taken one. “No, really – these are for you guys. I’m not just using this place as my walk-in closet.” Silly people. Late in the evening, once my shift for the day had ended, ‘Thusiasm called and asked whether it would be better to pick up flowers Sunday night or Monday morning. “Sunday night, unquestionably. Keep them in water at home, and they’ll be good for the next day. Pick them today, and you’ll have more options in stock.” Three stargazers, three callas, six red and one pink later, the judgment call was complete.
“Wow, you are good at this, aren’t you?”
“Well, you did ask for something more creative than the standard dozen red.”
“Yeah, but this is art!”
“heh… that’s Moe’s work. I just picked them. I hope she likes them.”
Of course, it’s not all about catering to friends, young lovers, and beautiful couples. There are a few spoilers, and if anything, I’m glad it’s not Moe who has to deal face-to-face with all of them. It’s part and parcel of any job that entails customer service, but the volume on Valentine’s Day increases, by sheer probability and statistics, that the frequency of spoiler customers increases a dozenfold. Like the distinguished-looking gentleman with the commanding air, who seemed insulted when I asked for his money up front while attending to his request.
“Sorry, sir. You look eminently trustworthy, but this is
“All right, but if I don’t get my flowers, it’s your ass.”
He says it somewhat jokingly. I return it jokingly, with raised eyebrow: “Yeah, actually, that’s probably true.” I don’t tell him that my darker half is silently intimating what kind of mess it would like to make out of his anatomy. In a few minutes, I return with his sheaf of red carnations and white roses, send him off on his hurried way, and look over the line for the next customer needing attention. The nearest one holds up a yellow customer’s receipt in the commotion, and I distract my vicious side’s raised hackles by moving to fetch the next pickup.
“A preorder? I’ll get that for you.”
And then, Valentine’s Day itself. I’d have put in more hours if it were possible, but Mondays are my long class days. All told, I would rather have spent more time at the flower shop, but Antitrust, Legislation, and Trade Secrets called. Oh, well. I let my friends know I was working from 1pm to 5pm, lift my jacket from the back of the chair, and sprint through the rain back to Moe’s. Three days in the rain is a little rough, but I quickly forgot about any physical discomfort after throwing myself into the frenetic activity of the day’s constant business. The thing about Valentine’s Day is that you know you’re not going to run out of red roses; you buy enough to make sure that you can meet the day’s most basic (and fundamental) need. It’s everything else that starts to run out after a while, other random demands being a little harder to anticipate. Hairguy and Jet the Cook dropped by in the afternoon and I picked them out of the line. There’s something really fun about making flower arrangements for someone when you know who it’s for; Hairguy’s girlfriend is something of a party girl and social butterfly. She’s also into ballroom dancing. I like her a lot, actually – she’s really caring. Hairguy lands in the category of the clueless customer – so I took his order the way he takes orders from hopelessly undecided customers at the teahouse; executive decisionmaking. Two callas, one iris, two red, one stargazer, a stalk of Peruvian lilies, and some creative dressing. Probably the most notable thing about the order, though, was that it was my first real attempt at approximating Moe’s style. That guy makes it look so easy… I managed to get it looking about right on the fourth try, and handed them over to Hairguy, my mind’s eye imagining their actual delivery. I walk to the other side of the table to fetch an armload of orchids and gerber daises for Moe’s queue of special requests.
Jet the Cook was looking for something purple. His girlfriend (who I’ll call Sweetfob for the time being, ‘til I think of a more suitable nickname) used to work at the teahouse also, before going back to school – but it’s been two years, and I still didn’t know her favorite color was purple. Learn something new every day. Eleven purple glittered roses and two stargazer lilies. “That’s beautiful, Jet. Uh… that’s also sixty-five dollars.” “?!?” “”Uh…. We’ll figure something out…” Expensive, and different – and worth an entry in the teahouse journal. A few days later, I spent part of my study reprieve sketching purple roses into the page reserved for Valentine’s Day.
Though the prevailing feelings throughout the days were those of excitement, love, and artistic indulgence, the darker side did manage to slip in a moment of bitterness here and there; one can only banish it so thoroughly. I wish it hadn’t; there were times it made me feel bad for feeling bad. I know there’s something wrong with me when a compliment makes me feel bad. The best kind of customer one could ask for on a day like this fits the following mold: a clueless, simple-minded boyfriend in a hurry, with fifty bucks. Weaving around the bins of premades and tulips, I pick the next customer out of the line and ask him if he knows what he’d like. “I don’t know – a dozen red? But it’s so common. What should I get?” He fit the clueless-about-flowers profile, and I offered a few options:
“There’s nothing wrong with a dozen red, especially here. If you want, I could put together a dozen red with something extra, or find you something more original.”
I ask him his budget, and start picking out flowers. Red roses, and fire-and-ice. Magenta stargazer lilies, the rare ones in the stock. A quartet of deep violet irises, not yet opened, and finished with purple wax flowers instead of the usual babies’ breath.
“Wow. Thanks, man, you’re a lifesaver. Now I need candies… do you know a good place to find chocolate in
“Cool. Thanks again. You know so much about all this stuff, your girlfriend must love you!” I feel my face tighten as my conscious self narrowly staves off a reflexive face-fault. I wave goodbye with a thin smile and a nod, trying to lose myself again as I gather gladiolas for the next order, a huge dinner-table arrangement.
Valentine’s Day at the florist ended around 11pm. There are always a few stragglers here and there - frankly, if you’re picking up your Vday flowers that late in the day, I can’t help but wonder if your timing couldn’t have been better for your own sake, let alone everyone else’s. But no matter – with everyone still present, the rhythm of the closing routine isn’t disturbed by a latecomer or three. Usually, latecomers are a bit of a problem; when Moe’s working alone, he’ll tend to the requests of late customers but they do interrupt closing, and it’s not uncommon for him to start closing at 6pm, and still not get home until midnight. The profit margin is pretty tight, though, and paid help isn’t something that fits easily into the operational budget. But late or not, we were all glad to see Moe upbeat rather than beat, and jovial rather than merely relieved.
That’s the reason we were there… caring for a longtime friend. Moe was thanking everyone for their help and trouble, but everyone had their reasons for volunteering. R just wanted to help because she loves flowers and it looked like fun. P, just to do something “totally different from his everyday.” E insisted that she was just repaying a favor, though everyone smiled and figured it to be a white lie – Moe couldn’t remember any specific favor that would need repaying, and he’s got a phenomenal memory. Friendship was probably the better explanation. For J, it was tradition – as a longstanding friend, she’s been helping with Valentine’s day for the past five years straight, and it’s something she looks forward to. (It’s obvious – she knows her way around absolutely everything.) And while Moe tells everyone I’m helping out of the goodness of my heart, the truth is probably more that he’s doing me a favor by letting me help, because I need this to get through the weekend. I need to feel like I’ve been doing some good for my friends, and even complete strangers. I need to have the glowing warmth of generosity outshine that disingenuous sense of forced civility that I get at weddings and wedding banquets.
At about 1am, the last of the flowers have been watered and put away for the night. The tables have been brought inside and the sidewalk is clear of debris and foot traffic. With a snap of the padlock and a flick of the light switch, the day is at long last done. After one last round of smiles and handshakes to everyone I’d been working with for the past four days, I turn toward the street and begin the short walk home, suddenly aware of the damp and cold. I pull my jacket closer around me, trying to keep the rain from soaking into my shirt. I come home, pull off my waterlogged shoes, and take a warm shower before settling in for the night, soothing music playing from the computer as I curl up under the covers and try to get warm again.
I woke up the next morning with a sore throat and congested sinuses. I caught a cold. It’s been more than a week now, and I still have it. Oh, well. Happy Valentine’s Day.