Among the Flowers

She was not a morning person.  Not by sentiment.  Not by culture.  Certainly not by habit, as she could often be found, blanket swaddled, cuddling with her mattress until the mid morning hours. Drooling on her pillow was the norm of her wake up routines, and hitting her snooze button several times became a most regular occurrence.  It had always been this way, as she often took a while to fall to sleep and once there, would succumb to nightmares which woke her, then it was back to fitful sleep again.  On one occasion, her parents took her by bus to visit the headquarters of their church, and April had to arise before the sun to embark, but became violently ill from the mere audacity of being awake at such an ungodly hour.  Her little body flat out rejected the idea.  From then on, she tried to avoid early rising at all cost.

In recent years, though, she felt the need to push herself a little out of her comfort zone, and became itchy with the need to amount to something.  This was common among her age bracket and demographics of the time; the urge to uproot the everyday, shake things up, and push boundaries.  She liked to dabble in the idea that she too could produce more than a lifetime of menial labor and toiling for scraps.  April believed she had what it took to “make it”.

She thought she wanted to go to university once, long before, for a very brief moment, before she realized the sheer desperation of it all.  Having not graduated “properly”, and having had parents and a family who cared little about secondary education.  In fact, growing up, no one told her how to make a livelihood in this world.  It was “The World”, which her parents had called it her entire life, as if it were someplace other than, some place adjacent to herself, but one that she was not living inside of.  She was so afraid of it, this other place. and was taught to fear it, to stay well clear of it.  Therefore, she kept her head down and found work at various restaurants, service types of places.  All of these were just fine, had kept the roof over her head, the lights on.  It was just that she got bored, and wanted more skills, perhaps some upward mobility.  She definitely did not want to confine herself by the limitations of her lack of education.  

That desire prompted her, without any prior experience, and with no real understanding of what the job might entail, to answer an ad one day on Craigslist.  It said they needed no degree, and no background in the field, other than some prior office stuff and basic computer skills, to be the office manager/bookkeeper to a small floral supply company in San Francisco.  The place seemed quirky, was unkempt and interesting.  It felt promising and charming, in an endearing small business sort of way, even thought it was actually a national company with multiple locations.  They offered her just enough money that she would only have to work one other part-time job and be able to stay there.  It was the title that interested her most real: Office Manager/Bookkeeper.  It sounded important enough that it mattered, somehow.  The catch, of course, was that it happened to be at the San Francisco Flower Market downtown.  There, they kept the ungodly working hours of 5am-2pm weekdays, and 4am-1pm Saturdays, because it catered to the florists of SF.  They all had arrangements to make and floral stands to set up in the wee hours.  (That’s right, those flowers you bought today?  They were probably purchased wholesale and put into buckets before the crack of dawn, friend, just for you… enjoy.)

April never realized the kind of slog it would be, rolling herself out of bed reluctantly to scramble, shower, dress, and coffee herself out the door.  Every day, she’d be rushing to meet the bus, trying to forcibly will herself into consciousness, and holding on for dear life as the express sped toward Union Square.  Once there, she would depart onto the downtown city streets and throttle herself headfirst through the bustling pedestrians of the early everyday: the go-getters, the morning sales clerks and sullen laborers, trampling and trodding along.  She would make a bee line down 5th street, until she was well clear of the melee, striding confidently toward the freeway onramps and the gas station hellscape.  She always walked briskly past the homeless shelters, with men spilling out after check out time, gathering shoes and whereabouts on the doorstep , smoking, and/or deciding a plan of action for their day.  These, she would try to hurry past less out of any fear, than out of a profound sense of sadness for the unjustness of their situation.  Another block more and she would be there, flashing a badge and entering through the giant warehouse on the north side, the one with the basic flower varieties and the crafty accoutrements. 

April would take her time walking through the warehouse, taking in the feast of colors and fragrances.  The whole place smelled of pine and cinnamon when it neared Christmas time.  Each day, she would try to remember if there were places that she would want to hit up after close, because of the end of day discounts that were sometimes offered.  Near the exit to the parking lot were situated the more special plants & flowers.  She would pass these, knowing there were no discounts to be expected and that likely she would not be purchasing any, but she would still longingly dream of taking some home with her.  Then she would head into the supply company, beginning the daily tally and calculations from the previous day.  In truth, the job was perfunctory, and the work didn’t differ much from other jobs she had in the past.  She performed it with one very old computer and a calculator.  Her boss, Jim, always chain-smoked and he often seemed sad.  They shared a joyless office on the second floor with two desks, several filing cabinets, piles of old paperwork and a large window overlooking the showroom floor.  The room below was filled to the brim by rows of vases and ribbon, paper and shears, and everything she ever hoped it would have.  

April soon realized she might actually like to be a florist.  There was no denying the artistry of it, and the thoughtfulness of the job, its specialness.  So most days she would doodle arrangement designs in her spare time.  After work, she’d buy the cheapest and most lovely of flowers she could, to bundle up and carry lovingly back home to play with.  Her time basking in flowers and daydreaming reawakened her creative side, after a long depression-induced dormancy.  

Because she had done plenty of customer service, she also found herself relieving the sales clerks over breaks and lunches, manning the registers and getting to know the regular customers.  This gave April some insight into the business of floristry.  This dynamic made it worth the pain of her early morning routine.  There were other times, of course, when it didn’t feel worth it at all.  On rainy days, for instance, it felt infinitely harder making her way the ten blocks down 5th, get soaked in the process. Also, during non-peak season, trying to ride out a slow day that seemed to go on forever was agony, as she hated being bored at work.  Those days she would take an extra break or two, and go for second and third walks through the flower shops, soaking up the beautiful alternative to the gray skyline.  The flowers always brightened her days. They never failed to do so.  

Then, too, she had difficulty with her boss, Jim, who was moody and could get easily agitated by the smallest of problems.  He really made her feel like she needed to walk on eggshells around him.  This she did, until it became too uncomfortable in their joint office, and she would happily go join Hank, the floor manager, with the rest of the sales staff downstairs, just to avoid dealing with Jim.  Hank had been at the company, like JIm, for more than ten years, and knew everyone and everything about the products they carried.  He also, like Jim, was jaded about the place and their industry, but it was in a way that never came out against her, but rather just in snide remarks and eyerolls.  She loved working with Hank.  He was sarcastic and funny.  She totally trusted him and his work instincts, even viewing him as a sort of professional mentor, which she was badly in need of.  So when he heard of her desire to get into the floral business, his response caught April off guard.  

“Don’t do it.” He advised, matter-of-factly without a hint of humor.  “You see these folks coming in here, looking frantic and haggard?  You think this looks like fun to you?”

“Well, yes…” she hesitated, “it does. All the flowers to work with, the freedom of making my own schedule, having my own business…” she trailed off dreamily.

“Well, it’s not.  These people are slaves to the buyers of their goods... the crazy brides, the grieving families, the dutiful boyfriends and husbands buying for holidays, anniversaries, birthdays.  They have to make all of their money during the peak seasons, when all their competitors are doing the same thing.  And they are here ridiculously early most mornings, rain or shine, without a huge profit to show for it, and with more stress than you should ever hope for. Not to mention the fact that to do that job, you have to have a vehicle.  You have to drive!”  With that, he gave her a knowing look.

He had touched a nerve.  Since she had moved to California, she had given up on the idea of driving.  She found that the drivers were far too aggressive for her taste, and the freeways damn near gave her a heart attack.  She was also becoming acutely aware of issues with the degradation of the environment, and saw cars as being on the bad side of that equation.  Either way, in SF, having a car was a luxury she could not afford, even if she had wanted to do it.  The registration and upkeep of a car in that city, even just the idea of finding a place to park it, made ownership untenable.  Thus, she had given up her license and committed to a pedestrian lifestyle for some time.  Maybe Hank was right, maybe floristry really wasn’t her path in life.  

The realization settled with her for a couple weeks.  It was after that, when it all started to feel very dead-ended, and the glamour of working there began to fizzle out.  The days started to feel too long, all of them.  The early mornings turned into a constant headache that lasted well into the afternoons.  Jim’s grouchiness became plain old rudeness and their interactions felt too awkward.  One day, looking around the market, even the flowers couldn’t cheer her up and began to feel mundane, instead of magical.  So after more than a year with the company, she decided it was time to move on and gave her notice.

April had decided to make the most of her last few weeks.  Every day carrying as many flowers back home as she could.  In the end, it was armloads of roses, which she had taken to drying and hanging all around her little apartment, as a memorial to the loss of her job and her hopes for that particular future.  On the very last day, she went to one of those specialty plant vendors and bought a rare tropical hanging plant, which she gingerly carried with her back up 5th.  From there, she just decided to splurge and take a taxi the rest of the way back home, for fear of getting on the too crowded bus and having the plant ruined by pressing bodies and someone else’s carelessness.  That beauty became her pride and joy for years afterward, always reminding her of her year among the flowers, and brightening even her darkest of days.  In the end, she opted for jobs that didn’t require such a rude awakening time, but stayed within her wheelhouse of customer service. The whole experience had changed her life for the better, however, as it instilled the urge to get creative and keep learning, and she ended up enrolling in several classes at the City College.  She continued with these for many more years, “Horticulture” and “Sculpture” being among her very favorite.