Figging crazy

It's the morning. 

"I'm sorry," Samantha tells Figaro for the third time, "I didn't mean for it to happen this way. I thought we could make it work. I did all the right things." 

She hadn't. Most people never do. Most people don't understand what it takes to keep a promise. They don't get that you have to be active every day, giving a portion of your life, a part of yourself, to keep the thing alive. 

Nothing comes easy, Samantha. Why can't you see that? 

Most people treat their plants like a cup of coffee. They kill one cup, and they know they shouldn't have another, but they do. And then, maybe, they have another. They shake, regret it, tell themselves they won't do that again, but tomorrow comes, and life repeats. Guilt exists to teach people lessons but serves no purpose for those who don't listen. 

Samantha! 

It's the summer, the season when the sun is up and out the longest, and people like Samantha still can't get it right. They destroy these poor plants, and they don't even see it as murder. 

Figaro didn't deserve this. Figaro was an innocent plant at the nursery getting plenty of sunshine and just the right amount of water. She'd been there for a year; she'd adjusted. She'd wake up in the morning, stretch and reach for the sky, and all around her were friends who were healthy and protected.

Then you, Samantha, came with your black thumbs and your cell phone pointed at your face telling your twenty-seven followers that you were going to try again. You promised to keep it alive. 

You foolish girl! It's not a cup of coffee; it's life!

Figaro leaves a scattered trail of soil behind it like blood tears down an angel's cheek as Samantha drags it to the green trash can and says, "I think I bought you like this, with a bacterial infection. You look just like the pictures online." 

It would be laughable if it weren't an execution. Figaro didn't have an infection. Figaro came from a beautiful nursery. She grew up with ten other fiddle leaf figs just like her; all of them were smiling with their big green leaves.

Dammit, Samantha, the nursery doesn't allow infections! You killed Figaro! You overwatered; you over-turned; you put it under the A/C vent! You heedless, evil woman! Why can't you take the blame for once and see that it was you that did this? 

I said it's the summer.

 Figaro was supposed to thrive, supposed to be green, a deep green that makes you take deep breaths. A green that makes you want to run naked in the forest or swing with your tits out from branch to branch in the jungle. A green that makes you eat more leathery greens and enjoy the taste of spirulina. 

 The squirrels on the fence watch as you pass, Samantha. They see what you're doing, what you've done again. They scratch their sides with their back claws impossibly fast, and their eyes dart around like yours do after you've drunk four cups of coffee, but, dammit, Samantha, they see. The top of the fence is only an inch wide, and they glide on top of it before they leap onto your plum tree. When you think they're squatting, eating the plums, I want you to know they're doing more than that. 

Figaro's spotted brown, and her nodes don't bleed sap. 

She's dried out, an empty cup, a useless, lifeless thing. 

She serves no purpose.

You murdered her! 

They're watching you. 

***

It's an hour later, the same day. Homicidal Samantha took a shower to get the remaining bits of the crime scene off of her. She's on the sofa, braless, with her legs tucked underneath her. Her hair's up in a messy bun. She's on the phone with her mother, who, like all mother's judges her 

and 

judges her 

and 

judges her 

and

"Another plant? I don't know, Sam."

"But, mom, now there's just, like, this empty corner, and I don't know what to put there."

"Why don't you get a fern? They're much less likely to die." 

"But they're so ugly." 

"I have a fern in my house."

"Can your teeth just start moving backward?" Samantha asks.

"What?" 

"Your teeth, can they just shift? My bottom left canine tooth, I think it's moving."

"I thought we were talking about plants?" 

"Mom, I can't not get another fiddle. Everywhere I go, I see pictures of fiddles." 

"But you're at home." 

"On my phone, I'm on a website, and there's all these ads for fiddle leaf fig food and fertilizer."

"You're on a website right now?" 

"The world's telling me to buy another fiddle."

"You should go to the dentist if you're having problems with your teeth. Do you still have your old retainer?" 

"I just wish I could get one that's not infected. I'm pretty sure that's what's happening. I keep getting these infected ones." 

"I'm getting my second Covid shot on Saturday." 

"That's good, mom." 

"Was your last fiddle leaf infected? I thought it had root rot." 

"I don't know. I thought that too, but now I'm not sure. All the pictures online of brown leaves, they all look the same." 

"Why don't you get a fake plant?" 

Fucking, yes! 

Yes, Samantha. Listen to your mother, old reliable. That's what parents are for: to give you advice that you don't ever listen to. 

But please, Samantha, listen to your mother this one time. It's good advice, really. You could save a life, buy a plastic plant.

***

It's lunchtime, the same day. Bloodthirsty Samantha's just checked the mail and found a Crate and Barrel magazine. She's made herself a cup of coffee because she's batshit crazy and hits the caffeine at all hours of the day. She's wearing a bra now, has makeup on, and sits on the couch with her legs tucked underneath her. She takes a sip of the coffee and says "Mmm" to herself. FYI, one of the top three traits that all serial killers share is talking to themselves. 

Bedwetting is also on the list. 

Samatha's carelessly flipping through the magazine, looking at things she won't buy because she doesn't purchase stuff from Crate and Barrel; she just gets ideas and then spends her money at Home Goods. So, if she doesn't ever buy anything from C&B, why does she get the magazine? 

Ha! Because the world is a scary place, and whereabouts are always known. You go on a website one time and 

BANG! 

They got you forever. 

C&B won't stop; none of these corporations will. They have a marketing department, and their job is to send you papers stapled together to throw away. And they're going to keep it up, hoping, and praying that one image, one deal, one piece of copy will get you hot enough to tear out the page and jam it down your pants or stuff it down your throat. They want you to want it and want it bad. 

 On page two, she spots a fiddle leaf fig by a gorgeous bay window in a perfectly staged living room. There's an oak tree outside the window that's a vibrant green. The ambiance is cool and grey but also so bright. The natural light's shine is expansive. The fiddle must be four or five feet high, and its canopy is full. The tree trunk is thicker than the smallest point of her ankle, wider than any of the stems on the fiddle leaf's that she's owned, and the leaves don't have any brown spots. Instead, the leaves are all green, and they look the same but different, like two dozen identical twins. They're the type of green that makes you want to jump in a lake or feed a colorful parrot, then meditate. 

Her eyes are fixated on the fiddle leaf, which is in the background of every photograph on nearly every page. It pops out to her before any of the other bull shit; she doesn't see the decorative pillows, the poufs, the candles, the mirrors, the wallpaper options, the cases, the coat racks, the entryway rugs, the stemware, the dinnerware, the flatware, the bar glasses, the decanters, the tablecloths, the table runners, the napkins, the colanders, the salad spinners, the knife sets, the juicers…

Dammit, Samantha, look away!

But all she does is turn the page and salivate for the fiddle leaf. She finishes her coffee and drops the magazine to the hand-knotted area rug that covers her living room. She has the urge. 

Don't you do it, Samantha! Don't you dare!

She texts her friend, Janelle. What a terrible name. Really, it's the name of a middle schooler, not an adult. 

She asks Janelle, "Should I get another fiddle leaf?" 

Janelle writes back within seconds, "Didn't you just throw one away?" 

Yes! What a burn! 

You go, Janelle, with your pretty name. 

Samantha frowns like the gymnast Mckayla Maroney when she won silver. 

"What are you wearing to the dinner?" Janelle texts. 

"Don't know yet, don't have anything," Samantha replies. She hadn't thought about what to wear to their boss's backyard dinner party that was happening the following weekend.

"I'm going with a Maxi dress." Janelle texts. 

Samantha does her Maroney frown again. She's peeved at Janelle for not supporting her in her plant buying endeavors and for already knowing what she's going to wear to the party. All Samantha wants is for someone to tell her to go ahead and buy another fiddle leaf.

Janelle sends a follow-up text, "Anthro has a sale rn."

Samantha reads it and feels the wickedness rise from within; she knows what's next: she's going to stunt on Janelle by buying an ever better Maxi dress from the same store. This is how Samantha treats people, how she thinks they'll learn to support her in her future plant purchasing decisions.

She texts, "Can I see a picture?" 

***

It's an hour's later at Anthropologie. Bitter Samantha's got her phone out with the picture of Janelle's dress, and all she's thinking about is how she's going to buy a better dress. 

Finally, Samantha! You're not focused on murder, just hurting people's feelings.

There are two floors at Anthropologie, and she can't find the dress on the bottom floor, so she starts to ascend the stairs. 

I know you want her to fall on the stairs; we all do. And it seems like there's a good chance she might because she's staring at the image of Janelle's orange Somerset Maxi dress on her phone as she walks, but, dammit, she doesn't.

 She makes it to the top, and, in front of her, she sees three sets of staged living rooms with bright furniture, oversized mirrors, and chandelier lighting. 

She turns her head to the right to look for more clothing, and her eyes widen. She sees two things:

The first is a flash of orange, Janelle's dress. 

The second is green. The type of green that makes you think of fields of spinach, or kale, or collards. A green that makes you wish you had an outdoor shower. 

No! Samantha, don't you do it! Go back downstairs!

She practically runs to the fiddle leaf figs. There are three of them in total beneath a massive skylight. They're eerily similar to the ones she saw in the Crate and Barrel magazine. 

She whispers under her breath, "Oh my God. Oh my God." 

A male employee wearing red suspenders comes up to her, "Finding everything alright?"

"Yes. How long have you had these?" She asks. 

"We just got those in last week. We actually had a whole bunch, and these are all that's left. They go so fast. Fiddles are on-trend right now." 

Life isn't a trend, you second-rate retail sales associate! These plants have always been and always will be!

"I know, I love them so much. I have two." Samantha says.

Samantha, you liar! You don't have two; you killed two!

"Oh, girl. If you get another, you should call it charm." 

"Love it," Samantha says to the man. She still has her phone out, and the orange dress is on the screen. The man asks her if she needs help finding the dress. She tells him that she needs help finding a better one. 

He says, "Me-ow."

I know; we all want him to be fired and Samantha to fall down the stairs. 

Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you want." 

But Samantha does. The Somerset dress is $168, so she buys the $258 Embroidered Off-The-Shoulder Maxi. She'll look like a hot Spanish princess at the party, shitting on Janelle and everyone else who thinks she shouldn't buy another fiddle leaf fig. 

The only issue with spending so much on the dress is that it makes buying the fiddle leaf seem reckless. She stares at the three plants for a long time.

Don't do it, Samantha! You don't need to take another life. 

***

Somehow the Anthropologie fiddles were able to escape savage Samantha's wrath. She's driving home listening to a Harry Styles song called "Adore You," where the twenty-seven-year-old English heartthrob sings lyrics like, "I'd walk through fire for you" and, "Just let me adore you." All Samantha can think about is Figaro. She's convinced that she did everything she could for that plant. 

She takes her silver Lexus Rx300 onto the freeway and stays in the right lane, the slow lane. It's only a couple of exists before she gets off, and she's too depressed to look over her shoulder to change lanes and go faster. She's lost in the song, and, in her mind, a montage of the greatest hits from her and Figaro's time together plays: her smiling while watering Figaro; her wiping its leaves with a moist cloth; her reading to the plant. The problem is, none of its true. Samantha was always annoyed when she had to water Figaro, and she never cleaned its leaves or read to it. 

When the song ends, she's only a mile away from her exit. She tells herself that if on the way home, she gets another sign to buy a fiddle leaf, she'll do it, but if she doesn't, she'll let the dream die.

She pulls the car into the left turn lane at the off-ramp and stops at the red light. She's half a mile away from her house and looks at her phone to see if anyone has texted her; no one has. She exhales in a fit. She was hoping her mom or Janelle would have changed their minds and texted. 

Then, she looks up, and right in front of her is a Nissan pickup truck making a left turn. In its truck bed is a fiddle leaf, shaking from the vibrations of the moving vehicle like it's waving at her.

"Oh my God," She says, turning her head and then tracking the fiddle leaf from her side mirror until it disappears from view, "I have to get another."

When the light turns green, she makes a u-turn and heads to Sloat Garden Center. There's no stopping her now.

I could weep. 

***

Samantha puts on lip gloss and fluffs her hair before entering the shop. If you think she's doing this because she wants to make a good first impression on the fiddle leaf she's about to capture, you're wrong; she's doing this because she wants to look good on Instagram live. 

She walks into Sloat, and the matriarch of the family-owned store, whose greying hair is cut in a bouncy bob, says to her, "Back again?" 

Samantha smiles and says, "I can't stop myself from adding to my collection." 

You goddamn liar, Samantha! Stop it!

"Plants have that effect on people." The store owner says.

Samanta pulls her phone out of her purse and opens Instagram live. Before hitting the record button, she types in her title, "Plant shopping pt. 3" 

She hits record, 

"Hey, everyone. So as you know, I had to get rid of my fiddle leaf fig recently because of a bacterial infection. It was really hard for me to say bye to my little Figaro because I adored him. And today I was debating on whether or not I should get a new one, like, is it too soon? But then I kept seeing signs, and I'm happy to say that I'm back at the nursery, so come with me and see which fiddle leaf I pick today." 

She turns the camera around and walks. She passes ficus Audrey's, snake plants, monsteras, dieffenbachia camouflages, etc. All are lower maintenance, better options for her, but the camera focuses on the fiddle leaf figs. 

As she gets closer, she squeals with excitement and zooms in on a fiddle leaf that's five feet tall with at least three dozen broad leaves that are a deep hunter-like green, a green that makes you think of growth, renewal, and life.

"I think that's the one." She says, turning the camera back on her, "Are you ready to come home with mama?"

She rubs one of its leaves, and the plant shutters. 

"I think I'll name you Charm." She says.

Someone "likes" her stream.

Samantha turns the camera back to the plant so the three people following can see it once more. 

"I promise to take good care of you," she says.

 But we all know that's a lie. 

Samantha, it's a goddamn lie! You hear me? Leave the plants alone!