Carol Shields - Larry’s Party

Well, that’s changed overnight.

All twelve Flowerfolks stores have been swallowed up by Flowercity, the California-based multinational. Suddenly there’s a new logo. Suddenly there are dyed carnations all over the place, whereas formerly they were carried reluctantly, on special order only. Suddenly the staff, even the guys, are wearing blue-and-white checked smocks with their names pinned to little round Peter-Pan collars. Half the floor area in the various outlets is given over now to artificial flowers, something Flowerfolks has always looked down on. As Vivian Bondurant says, “Why have something dead when you can have it alive?” A good question.

Vivian, the branch manager, gave notice two weeks after the Flowercity takeover. She dreads what she sees coming in the eighties, and, besides, she’s ready for a career change. “I’ve worked my tush off,” she told Larry, “building this place up, establishing a loyal clientele here in the West End, turning out a reliable product. I’ve definitely decided to go back to school. Social work – that’s where the jobs are going to be in the future. I was reading the other day about squirrels and I –”

“Squirrels?” Larry interrupts, scratching his chest through his checked smock. His wife’s washed it twice now, but it’s still stiff with sizing.

“Seventy-four percent of the nuts that a squirrel hides never get found. Amazing, isn’t it?”

“You mean –”

“I mean I’ve been hiding nuts, too, in a sense. Forever making little improvements in the business? Remembering people’s names. Following up after weddings. Sending those little anniversary reminders. Bringing in white balls from Toronto at Christmas when no other outlet in town would touch them. All that stuff.”

“And?”

“And where has it got me?”

“I thought you loved it here.”

“Like now they want daily time sheets. The whole ball of wax. Wouldn’t you think, if they kept up with modern management, that they’d have figured out that it’s people who matter! Computerized inventory. Good God! Not that there’s anything wrong with computers per se, but they want it just so. And I have to turn up every single day for work in this dumb schoolgirl get-up. A checked smock at my age. I mean!”

“What do you mean your age? You’re talking like you’re –”

“Like I’m thirty-eight years old. A mature woman. Ha! If I wanted to be Little Bo Peep I’d go work at Disneyland. It’s different for you, you’re –”

“I’m thirty-one.”

“A mere babe.”

“But social work, Viv! How do you know you’re going to like social work?”

“I don’t. I’ll probably hate it. Poor people, sick people. Omigod. But at least I’ll have my dignity. You know, doing something useful.”

“Hey, Viv, wait a minute. You’re the one who’s always saying how flowers are important. Remember your Chinese story –”

“Chinese story? What Chinese story?”

“You know – about the Chinaman who has two pennies –”

“Two yen, you mean.”

“And he spends one on a loaf of bread and the other to buy a flower.”

“Listen, Larry, I’ve got to tell you something. I hope it won’t hurt your feelings.”

“Go ahead. Shoot.”

“Look, you’re a sensitive guy, you really, truly are, but there’s something you’ve got to know, especially working in a business that’s ninety-nine percent customer relations.”

“I can take it. Just go ahead.”

“Well, look, you just can’t say Chinaman anymore. It sounds prejudiced. You have to say Chinese person.”

“Oh.”

“Saying Chinaman’s like saying Wop or Honky.”

“My old dad says Chink.”

“Exactly. There you have it. We’ve come a long way, baby.”

“I’ll remember.”

“You’ll have to, Larry. ‘Cause it looks like you’ll be in charge here when I go.”

“Me? Are you kidding?”

“It’s not for sure, but there’ve been these teensie-weensie hints from the head office, those bastards. Little inquiries, you know? Like is this Weller person reliable? Can he make decisions? What are his interpersonal skills? That kind of thing.”

“I can’t believe it. I never thought –”

“Like those squirrels I was mentioning earlier? You’ve been burying your nuts all along – nothing personal, pal – and now it’s time to go find a few. You deserve it, Larry. You’ll be a great boss. I’ve written a recommendation, as a matter of fact. A whole page, typed, single-spaced. He’s a great guy, I said, or words to that effect. With capital O-Original ideas. Does this man know how to make irises stand up or what? And he’s well organized, keeps a neat work table, doesn’t let the orders get backed up, doesn’t play royal highness with the trainees. Hey, what gives? You’re supposed to be looking happy. You’re going up the ladder, my laddie-boy. What’s the matter?”

“I just can’t,” Larry said, “imagine this place without you.”

Larry doesn’t talk much about his job, but he thinks about it a lot, and mostly he thinks he’s lucky. Work for him adds up to a whole lot more than the feel of ferns in his hands or the sight of sprigged baby’s breath gleaming through the glass of the cooler or even the green spongy cave of the store itself with its forest smells rising up to greet him when he comes in in the morning. How many people get to work in that kind of lushness, the air breaking out into fragrance and color all around you. The loose, light humidity of the place is part of being at work, a big part, but all these particularities are shaken loose by the good music of talk. He and Viv talk all day long. They’ve been talking for twelve years, an unceasing, seamless conversation.

There are always a couple of assistants around, but they come and go: Wendy, Kerri, Dawn, Sidney, Brenda, Lou-Anne, two or three Jennifers, a big fat guy called Tommy Enns, an endless procession of them, trainees from Red River College, young and confused, eager, stumbling, shrill or shy, it all depended. A new apprentice on an eight-week work stint tends to turn the place really hairy, at least at first, but Larry and Viv hold it steady and fluid with their voices, his, hers – talking, talking, all day the two of them talking.

While they stand at the bench “backing” bridal bouquets or improvising a winter arrangement to deliver to Victoria Hospital’s Palliative Care Unit or unpacking cedars (they come twenty bunches to a box) Larry and Viv discuss Michael Jackson’s stage style or Margaret Trudeau’s maternal instincts or lack thereof. Their fingers move and so do their mouths. Yammer, yammer. About economics they admit their ignorance, and their right to their ignorance. They talk about the penny shortage in the States, the danger of radon in basements, the inflated salaries of professional football players, and about the pros and cons of whooping cough shots – on this particular topic Viv managed to persuade Larry not to have his three-year-old son, Ryan, inoculated after all. The two of them reminisce about the time a guy walked in and ordered a dozen dead roses to send to his ex-wife, and how Vivian took the order, then calmly phoned the police.

They talk about the cost of air conditioners in the States versus the cost in Canada. About draft dodgers, whether they should be sent home. About pimples, whether to pop them or leave them alone. About mothers, their mood swings, their dumb sweetness. About Ronald Reagan, how good-hearted or stupid the man is. How hot it is outside, how rainy, how the back lane is blocked with snow. A whole decade has slid by, its weathers and transports and passing personalities, and all of it crystalized into the words that fly back and forth between Vivian Bondurant and Larry Weller. A million words, a zillion. Note for note, the biggest noise in Larry’s life is the noise that comes out of Viv Bondurant’s throat.