The Flower Poet

David dropped the bombshell on Thanksgiving at lunch. He was sitting at the living room table with his parents and two brothers. The half-eaten bird rested in the middle of the table, emitting it’s roasted scent. They were just about finished eating and David was gnawing on a turkey drumstick. His father Max eyed him suspiciously.
“You never used to like dark meat.”
“White meat’s too dry.”
“Your mother’s sitting right here.”
“It’s all right,” Barbara said.
“I didn’t mean your turkey,” David explained. “I just meant turkey in general.”
“It never used to be too dry for you,” Max said.
“People change,” Barbara said. “Taste buds change. Philip used to like meat. Then he found his true love. Tofu.”
She giggled.
David’s older brother, Philip, had become a vegetarian last year. When Philip visited home, he always offered to walk the beagle, Snuggles, but Barbara wouldn’t let him. She was afraid he would try to set Snuggles free. Barbara considered vegetarianism to be an eating disorder like anorexia or bulimia. She had urged Philip to see a psychiatrist but he refused.
Philip spooned up a big lump of tofu that was artificially turkey-flavored. “Laugh now,” he said. “But when you’re all groggy and incapacitated from eating turkey, I’ll take your wallets.”
David’s younger brother Logan was already past groggy and incapacitated. His head lay next to his plate, his fair hair fluttering onto the plate and being stained by a mixture of cranberry sauce and stuffing. He snored lightly.
Max shook his head and looked at David. “I hope you don’t follow in Philip’s footsteps.”
David swallowed and cleared his throat. “I’ve decided to be a poet,” he announced.
David was a Freshman at the University of Illinois and hadn’t yet decided what to major in.
Max nodded. “You’ll need something to fall back on. You should get a teaching certificate.”
“I’m not getting a teaching certificate.”
“You can’t make a living writing poetry.”
“I’m not going to spend of my life doing something I hate.”
“Why not? Everyone hates his job. That’s why it’s called a job. You think I like being a dentist? We have the highest suicide rate of any profession.”
David suppressed a groan. Max was always bragging about the prolific suicide rate of dentists.
“I’m not paying for you to write poetry,” Max said.
“You don’t have to. I didn’t say I was majoring in poetry. I said I’m going to be a poet. I’m quitting school. After this semester, I’m finished.”
There was silence and the silence caused Logan to stir. “Turn off the television,” he mumbled. Then he slumbered and started to snore again.
“You shouldn’t drop out,” Max said. “Your poetry will be much better if you study poetry while writing it.”
“You said you weren’t going to pay for it.”
“You should listen to what I mean, not what I say. You’re staying in school.”
“I’m still dropping out.” David set down the drumstick and wiped his mouth. “I need to feel the plight of the working man in my bones so I can align my creative drive with the downtrodden.”
“They’ve got enough problems without you writing them poetry. They don’t need the boy who doesn’t floss as their poet laureate.”
Whenever Max was angry with David he called him The Boy Who Doesn’t Floss.
“I don’t want to be a poet for the bourgeoisie.”
“I don’t send you to college to learn words like that.”
“There’s so many people who have to work backbreaking hours in factories for little money. How can I lift them up if I’m sitting in an ivory tower? College is just training me to be an enemy of the working man.”
“Get your college degree first. The steel mill will still be there after you graduate. Besides, I read that poem you gave me. It didn’t even rhyme.”
“They don’t have to rhyme. That’s so old fashioned. There’s no rules to poetry anymore.”
“I can see why you like it so much then. You don’t want to follow the rules. You don’t want to go to college. You don’t want to rhyme your poems. You never follow the rules—”
“Who wants dessert?” Barbara asked. “Who wants pumpkin pie?”
“Do you still like pumpkin pie?” Max asked. “Or have your taste buds changed?”
“Yes. I still like pumpkin pie.”
“Well that’s too bad, cause you’re not getting any.”
Logan looked up and rubbed his eyes.
Barbara shook her head. “Max, no—“
“Yes. This is still my house and I say he’s not getting any pumpkin pie. If he’s going to drop out of school to scribble limericks on the bathroom walls of working class bars, he can eat someone else’s pumpkin pie.”
“It’s my pumpkin pie too,” Barbara said.
“Paid for with my money,” Max said.
Barbara lifted up her chin. “I baked it.”
Max shook his head. “You thawed it.”
Barbara’s hand gripped the white tablecloth and the muscles in her forearm tightened. The only sound was Snuggles’s paws faintly scratching on the wooden bathroom door. They had locked her in there so she couldn’t get her snout in the turkey.
“Is there gonna be a food fight?” Logan asked.
Barbara took a deep breath and spoke with forced calmness.
“This is a holiday. Problems can wait until the holiday is over. This is the time for family to be together, a time to be thankful for what we have. I’m going to go get the pie now and we’re going to eat it. All of us.”
She turned and strode into the kitchen.
Max was silent. He just slowly shook his head. Philip picked at his teeth and licked his fingers. Logan stretched out his arms and let out a big yawn.
“You’re mother’s right,” Max said. “Holiday traditions come first. I’m not going to let you ruin Thanksgiving.”
Max leaned back, pleasantly groaned, rubbed his sizable stomach, and unbuckled his belt.
“Are you going to beat him?” Logan asked.
Max glared at Logan.
“I’m changing the notches! I ate a lot of stuffing.” He unbuttoned the top button of his pants. “I’m not a thirty-six waist anymore.”
Then Max reached into his pocket and took out a well-used piece of green dental floss.
“Dad, please don’t do that here,” David said.
“Why? We’re done eating.” Max started to floss between his teeth.
David put a protective hand over his water glass.
“We don’t want little bits of floss gunk flying across the table and hitting us.”
Max sighed and put the floss back in his pocket. “Don’t come to me if you get a cavity.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t think it won’t happen. With all those candies you munch. You’ve always had a sweet tooth, boy who doesn’t floss. A sweet tooth for trouble.”
They ate their pumpkin pie and rested for about an hour. Then it was time for another family tradition, the Turkey Bowl, the annual two-on-two game of touch football.
They groggily made their way out to the front yard. There was a chill in the air so they all had on their earmuffs.
Barbara stood on the sidelines waving blue and white pompoms. She was the cheerleader for both teams. Next to her, on a lawn chair, was the bronzed statue of a turkey quarterback getting ready to throw a pass. The winning team got to keep it for a year. Last year, David and Philip’s team had won and the trophy spent the year on the shelf of Philip’s apartment.
Logan yawned, still groggy from the turkey. Max stood on one foot like a flamingo and pulled his lifted ankle up, stretching his leg. Philip and David were in the huddle. They had their arms on each other’s shoulders and their heads pressed close together.
“Why are you dropping out of college really?” Philip asked. “Are you flunking?”
“I’m not flunking. I’ve got straight A’s.”
“You shouldn’t try doing poetry around poor people. They’ll beat you up. They don’t like poetry and they hate poets.”
“That’s just a stereotype.”
“Yeah, well there’s a reason for stereotypes. Millions of years of evolution and we still have stereotypes. That means stereotypes are worth something.”
“No they aren’t.”
“What are you huddling for?” Max shouted at them. “It’s the kickoff. You don’t need a huddle.”
“Maybe they’re doing an onside kick,” Logan said.
“Why would they do an onside kick? It’s the first play of the game.”
“Exactly. We’d never see it coming.”
Max rubbed his whiskers like he was deeply pondering this and then slunk up closer to the line of scrimmage.
Philip turned towards him. “Don’t try to listen in.”
“Hurry up,” Max said. “There’s gonna be a delay of game penalty.”
“I’ll give you a penalty.” Philip turned back to David. “Why don’t you get a job washing dishes at the school cafeteria? They’re mostly ex-cons but I think they’d take you. You don’t get more downtrodden than that.”
Max pulled a whistle out of the pocket of his sweatpants and blew it. “I’m calling a penalty!”
The huddle broke up.
“Where did you get a whistle?” David yelled.
“You don’t follow the rules!” Max shouted. “You don’t want to go to college, your poems don’t rhyme, and you’re delaying the game! You can’t even follow football rules!” He blew the whistle again. “You forfeit! Forfeit! The winners are Logan and Dad!”
“Who made you the referee?” David shouted.
Max ran over to the Turkey Bowl trophy and snatched it up.
“Put that down!” Philip screamed.
“No!”
Max bore his head down and ran. He ran up the porch steps and into the house.
A cold breeze rustled the tree branches above them.
“I guess we’re finished,” Logan said.
“No,” Barbara said. “The game must go on.” She threw her blue and white pompoms to the ground, snatched up her plastic Illinois cheerleader’s megaphone, raised it to her mouth, and turned towards the frosty dirt where she grew marigolds in the summertime. “Is there anyone here who can play football?” she asked the imaginary crowd. She lowered the megaphone, turned around, and answered her own question. “I can play football.”
“No you can’t,” Logan said. “You don’t even know the rules.”
“I’ve seen it done enough. I’ve been cheerleading all these years, I think I’ve picked up a little.”
Logan frowned. “Who’s gonna be the cheerleader?” he asked.
“I’ll still do that.”
“For both teams? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
“I’m a professional.”
Logan shrugged. “Let’s play.”
They started up the game. Philip kicked off to Logan and Barbara. David looked towards the house and saw Max peering through the window like a troll peering through the slats on a bridge.
The tradition of the Turkey Bowl continued. It was a Thanksgiving miracle.

********

Friday morning, the day after Thanksgiving, David rolled out of bed, put on his robe, and walked down to the kitchen. His parents were already there.
Barbara sat at the table, grinding coffee beans with a mortar and pestle. This way took longer but she thought it made the coffee taste better. Max sat next to her, hunched over a cutting board, chopping up turkey.
“Want some of this omelet?” he asked David.
“Sure.”
“Well, you’re not getting any. If you’re gonna waste my money and drop out of college, you don’t get any Thanksgiving leftovers.”
David looked over to Barbara. Maybe she would use her veto powers like she had yesterday.
“Your father’s right. It’s not a holiday anymore.”
“What am I supposed to eat?”
Max looked up at him. “You don’t need food. You’re a starving artist.”
“There’s peanut butter and Jelly,” Barbara said. “Make yourself a sandwich.”
David got out the peanut butter and jelly and threw a couple pieces of white bread on a plate. He sat down at the table and started slapping peanut butter on the bread.
Barbara continued grinding the coffee beans. Max looked at the turkey he had sliced, decided the pieces weren’t small enough, and started cutting them into smaller pieces.
“I’m giving you a tooth cleaning today,” Max said.
“It hasn’t been six months yet.”
“Who knows when you’ll get into a dentist’s office again? You’ll be so busy in the coal mine, you won’t have time to get your teeth cleaned.”
David got the awful image in his head of Marathon Man, Laurence Olivier performing unnecessary root canals on Dustin Hoffman without anesthetic. Is it safe?
“Will you use Novocain?”
Max laughed wryly. “You’re the one who wanted to be a poet. You have to experience great pain to be a great artist.”
********

The weather was unusually mild for the day after Thanksgiving, so David spent the morning in the park. He sat under a tree, watched workingmen cut the grass, and wrote a poem about it. They inspired him.
When it was time for his dental appointment, he walked over to his father’s dental clinic. The door was unlocked and David walked into the reception area. The receptionist wasn’t there. She had the day off. Max never saw patients on the day after Thanksgiving.
David walked down the hallway to the office. He could smell the faint odor of drilled teeth.
He stepped into the office and was surprised to see his whole family sitting there. Philip sat next to the open window. Next to him, Logan fidgeted with a magazine. Max and Barbara sat on the sofa. A man David didn’t recognize sat in a folding chair. He had a weathered face with thin lips and wore a colorful wool sweater.
David looked at Logan and Philip. They avoided his gaze.
“You’re getting your teeth cleaned too?”
Philip stared out the window. Logan set the magazine down and stared at its cover. Oprah Magazine. Oprah was on the cover.
Max cleared his throat. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the reclining patient’s chair, covered in old plastic.
David walked over to it and sat down.
The man David didn’t recognize stood up, walked over to him, and spoke in a gravelly voice.
“David, you’re not getting your teeth cleaned today. We just told you that to get you here.”
David drew in an angry breath. He might have known Max couldn’t just give him a straight tooth cleaning.
“David, this is an intervention,” the man said.
David blinked.
“For who?”
“For you.”
David sighed and slowly shook his head. “I don’t do drugs and I’m not an alcoholic.”
“You’re a poetry addict.”
“Just because I write poetry doesn’t mean I’m on drugs.”
“You’re addicted to poetry. It’s taken over your life. It’s making you drop out of school.” The man grabbed his folding chair, turned it around, and sat on it backwards, with his legs straddling the backrest. He leaned toward David, staring intensely. “My name is Pat Henderson. I’m an intervention counselor. Your parents asked me to be here today to help you through this. I specialize in interventions for people addicted to poetry.”
David sat upright. “I’m not addicted.”
“You don’t need to feel ashamed. There’s no stigma to it. I used to be a poetryholic myself.”
“You were a poetryholic?”
“You looked surprised, but it’s true. I started off with those little refrigerator magnets with the words on them, composing little poems when I went to get the milk. Then I got into haikus. Before long I only spoke in iambic pentameter, in rhyming couplets. It cost me my wife, my kids, my job, my self-respect. Everything.”
“I’m not a poetryholic,” David said firmly.
“You’ve been able to fool a lot of people with your free verse style, not rhyming or having a strict meter. That’s what addicts do. They’re charming. But you can’t fool me. I’m a fellow addict. I know all your tricks. It doesn’t have to rhyme to be poetry.”
David threw a victorious look at Max. “I told you it didn’t have to rhyme.”
“I don’t agree with what you’re doing,” Max said, his voice shaking. “I’m not gonna let you throw your life away.”
“I don’t like it when you floss at the dinner table but I’m not holding an intervention over it.”
“David,” Pat said. “Your family’s going to tell you how your poetry has hurt them. You don’t have to say anything. Just listen.”
“I haven’t hurt them.” He turned to Philip. “Have I hurt you with my poetry?”
Philip returned his stare with wounded eyes.
“We lost the Turkey Bowl because of your poetry.”
“We didn’t lose. We won.”
“Well we don’t have the trophy.”
“You’ll never find it,” Max cackled gleefully. “It’s hidden in the last place you’d ever suspect.”
“Why don’t you just stay in school?” Barbara shouted out, her voice like a pencil snapping. “You can volunteer at a homeless shelter part-time if you want to help the oppressed. You can still write poetry.”
“No.” Pat shook his head. “He can never write another poem. Addiction is for life. It’s like syphilis. It never really goes away. I’ve been clean and sober from poetry for twelve years now, and I still go to Poets Anonymous meetings.”
David imagined what a Poets anonymous group would be like. Recovering poets sitting in a circle of folding chairs, drinking bad coffee from Styrofoam cups, meeting in a church basement. He would stand up and say, “My name is David and I’m a poetryholic.”
“Hi David!” they would all say in unison.
“It’s been one month since my last poem,” he would say, like he had poet’s block.
David didn’t like this at all, not one bit. He jumped up and pointed his finger in Pat’s face.
“You’re the Taliban! You’re trying to ban poetry!”
“David, we can help you. I work at a treatment center for people like you.”
David looked at his parents.
“You’re sending me to boot camp?”
“It’s not boot camp” Pat interjected. “It’s a rehabilitation center. We already have a spot reserved for you.”
“You’re sending me to poetry rehab?”
“You’ll like it, David. It’s out in the woods, rustic and peaceful.”
David considered. It would probably be just like camp. He wondered what the other campers would be like and why they (or anyone for that matter) would go to a poetry rehab. Maybe a court ordered them to go there. It sounded like something Judge Judy would do.
It would be a good place to get away from everything, work on his poetry. Peaceful and quiet, out in the woods. But then again, he didn’t want to be the kind of poet who wrote about flowers blooming and leaves falling from trees; the kind of poetry his father would probably like if his father liked poetry. He wanted to write about dirt and grit and grime. There might be dirt out in the woods, but David didn’t think he would find much grit and grime there. Besides, they’d probably be watching him to make sure he didn’t write poetry. Not the most creative atmosphere.
"There’s a room ready for you at the center,” Pat said. “You have to leave right now.”
“I still have a month left of school.”
“So what?” Max shouted. “You were dropping out anyway. What do you care?”
“I packed a bag for you.” Barbara pulled out an old beaten up suitcase from behind the couch she sat on. “Everything you need is in it. All your clothes and spare contact lenses.”
Blood pulsed to David’s forehead. She had been digging through his underwear drawer while he was out in the park writing poetry.
“I didn’t put in any socks,” she said. “You won’t need them. They have slippers for you to wear at the hospital.”
David walked over, gripped the handle of the suitcase, and looked in his mother’s eyes.
“I’m not giving up poetry.”
He picked up the suitcase, turned around, and walked to the door.
“Bye,” he said, not looking back.
“David, don’t go,” Pat shouted. “Do you really want to see what it looks like when a poetry addict hits rock bottom?”
That stopped David in the doorway. He remembered the unwashed homeless man who always stood on the corner by Burger King. What was it he was always mumbling to himself? Was it poetry?
David didn’t care. If he was an addict, then so be it. If he was going down, he would go down hard. He would be the poetic equivalent of Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas. “I came here to poem myself to death.” That would be his mantra.
He walked out the door. He was a poet now, and didn’t need to be around such little-minded people.

********

David sat at the polished wooden bar in the middle of the empty restaurant, drinking a glass of iced tea. Next to him sat Reggie, an enormously fat man with a pink, chubby face. Reggie ran his sausage-link fingers left-to-right over David’s resume.
“Do you have any experience as a waiter?”
“I don’t want to be a waiter. I want to wash dishes.”
Reggie looked up at him and narrowed his eyebrows.
“Are you serious?”
David nodded.
“Why do you want to wash dishes? You can make more money as a waiter.”
“It’s not about the money. I want to feel what it’s like to work at the very bottom. I want to feel the sweat on my brow and the whip on my back.”
“Actually I treat everyone here pretty well.”
David nodded. His throat was very dry and his tongue felt swollen. When he got nervous, he got thirsty. He tried to take a sip through the straw but there was no iced tea left, only ice. It made the slurping sound of air being sucked through a cluster of ice cubes. Now he wouldn’t get the job. Reggie would think he was rude for making that noise.
On top of that, he drank it too fast: the whole glass in less than a minute. He should have paced himself. Reggie probably thought he was dehydrated from a long night of drinking—that he was an alcoholic in need of an intervention. He’d think David would always be showing up to work late or taking breaks to get a glass of iced tea, that the dishes would never get washed.
“Do you want some more?” Reggie asked pleasantly.
“No thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. So you want to wash dishes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any experience washing dishes?”
“I did chores.”
Reggie glanced at the resume.
“It’s not on here.”
David didn’t think to put that on his resume. His parents wouldn’t have given him a good recommendation anyway.
“Are you allergic to any kind of soap?” Reggie asked.
“No.”
Reggie sighed. “Well, it’s against my better judgment, but I’ll give you a shot. I’ll hire you on a trial basis.”
“You won’t regret it.”
David pressed his lips together to conceal his giddiness. He was finally a member of the working class. Everything was going according to plan.
Reggie leaned back and his chair creaked.
“Do you have any questions, David?”
“What are the benefits?”
“Five dollars an hour.”
“Do you offer a retirement plan?”
“No. Were you planning to make a career of this?”
“How about health insurance?”
“No.”
“How many weeks of paid vacation do I get?”
“None.”
“Are the dishwashers unionized?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“There’s no union?”
“No.”
David grinned. There would be a union soon enough. He would unionize the dishwashers and then lead a strike. They would demand better working conditions, better hours, overtime, and to be treated like decent human beings.
The dishes would go unwashed until all the demands were met. They would just stack up in the sink, mold growing and fruit flies buzzing around, like the sink of an alcoholic who got drunk every night and showed up to work dehydrated.
“Okay,” Reggie said. “Let’s get you a hairnet.”
********

Tyrone was a skinny black man with tightly braided hair. His purple shirt was unbuttoned half the way down revealing a thick patch of chest hair. David thought Tyrone might have put gel in his chest hair, but he didn’t say anything.
They were waiting for an elevator in a lobby filled with dusty artificial plants and cloudy mirrors. The tart tang of rancid garbage hung in the air. David inhaled with great vigor, like he was smelling the fresh morning air.
“So this is where the working people live,” David mused aloud.
“Naw man,” Tyrone said. “Deez people don’ work.”
“Oh.” David was disappointed. “But they’re downtrodden, right?”
“Oh yeah, dey way downtrodden.” Tyrone looked at him. “You gotta job?”
“I’m a dishwasher.”
“Dey got machines can do dat now”
“Well, I’m really a poet.”
“Dat’s good, cause you be needin somefin to do when de machine take yo job.”
David nodded. Poetry was his fallback option now. Just in case he didn’t make it big in dishwashing.
The door opened and they pressed into the tight elevator. Tyrone pushed the button for the seventh floor. As the elevator went up, David could hear the cable squealing and was sure that it would snap.
“Can I axe you a question?” Tyrone said.
“Okay.”
“What country is you from. I notice you gots a accent.”
Tyrone was right. David was from another country: the suburbs. But David didn’t want to tell him that. It might hurt Tyrone’s feelings, and then Tyrone would hurt him. So David just said, “I’m from England.”
Tyrone nodded. “I shoulda know’d it.”
The elevator door opened. Tyrone led the way down a narrow, poorly lit corridor.
David was worried. What would happen when Tyrone did a credit check on him? It would become painfully clear that he wasn’t British.
“I’m actually American. I just lived in England, that’s why I have the accent. My parents sent me to boarding school over there.”
“Like Harry Potter.”
“Yeah.”
Tyrone stopped walking. “Here’s de crib.”
“The what?”
“De crib.” Tyrone took a ring of keys out of his pocket. “De apartment.”
“Ah, yes,” David said, comprehending. “The flat.”
Tyrone unlocked the door and let it swing open. A bare mattress lay in one corner. A television with aluminum foil on its antenna sat in the center of the room. The pale orange carpet was stained with cigarette burns and several cigarette butts were scattered about. A single bare light bulb hung from the low ceiling.
David walked to the window and stared out at the crumbly brick wall, an appropriate metaphor for the life of the working class. The apartment was perfect, the kind of place a workingman would come home to after a hard day of work, get drunk, and beat his wife. A palpable downtroddenness hovered in the air and David felt his creative juices begin to flow. Now surely the muse of the downtrodden would take notice of him.
Tyrone patted the top of the television.
“Gets all de channels.”
“Ah, the telly. I don’t watch it. I’m a poet.”
Tyrone had left the door open. A large woman now stood in the doorway. “Tyrone, why you ain’t fix my toilet?” She saw David and frowned. “Who dat white boy?”
“He ain’t white,” Tyrone said. “He British.”
The woman looked back at David and smiled hospitably. “Welcome to America.”
“Thank you,” David said.
Now he would see the real America, and be its poet.
********

Juan seemed to enjoy his job washing dishes. He was always grinning and singing along to the Latin music playing on the radio station. Sometimes he would playfully spray David with the hose and then giggle hysterically.
Despite this apparent cheerfulness, David thought that Juan was disgruntled. This was because Juan always spit on the food.
Unfortunately, (or fortunately for the diner) he was only spitting on the leftover food, so the spit never reached the customer. He immediately washed the plate after spitting on it.
David thought this was a good metaphor for the struggle of the working class and their misdirected anger. He used this metaphor in a poem.
When he read the poem to Juan, hoping this would lead to a dishwashers’ union, Juan stood there, politely listening and playing with the nozzle on the hose. There was extra pressure on David to read well; the hose was the equivalent of rotten tomatoes that would be thrown at him if the audience wasn’t satisfied. David finished reading, folded up the poem, and put it back in his pocket. Juan just stared back at him blankly. The poem hadn’t had much effect—probably because Juan didn’t speak English. He hadn’t understood a word.
He just soaked David with the hose and giggled. It never got less funny to him.
********

One night after work, David sat alone on the floor of his apartment. His heater didn’t work, so he was bundled up in several sweaters, his hat, and scarf. He hunched over a notebook, trying to compose a poem. Nothing. His muse was silent.
The phone rang. Maybe it was his muse.
He rolled over and picked it up.
“Hello.”
“So, what are you doing these days?”
It was his older brother Philip’s voice.
“I have a job. I’m a dishwasher.”
“I didn’t think they gave those jobs to Americans. They’ll take your citizenship away now.”
“They can’t do that.”
“That’s what they said in Germany.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you coming home for Christmas?”
“Why? I’m just gonna get coal in my stocking.”
“Christmas isn’t about the presents.”
“Will they let me eat from the Christmas ham?”
“Christmas isn’t about food.”
“So I can have ham?”
“One slice.”
“I think I can learn the true meaning of Christmas without being there.”
“Mom wants you there.”
“Will there even be a Christmas tree or is it just another intervention.”
There was a short pause. This confirmed David’s suspicions.
“Oh my God! It is another intervention, isn’t it?”
“Act surprised,” Philip said. “And don’t tell them I told you.”
“You’re acting like this is a surprise party.”
They’d all jump from behind the Christmas tree and yell, “Surprise!” Pat Henderson, the intervention counselor would be wearing a Santa Claus hat and tell him he was addicted to dishwashing.
********

For several months, David washed dishes and wrote workingman poetry. The latex gloves they gave him to wear didn’t work; water seeped in through the wrists and he got dishpan hands. He picketed outside the restaurant, demanding better gloves. So they fired him.
Now he had hit rock bottom just like Pat Henderson, intervention counselor, had predicted. He had lost his job as a dishwasher, a job they wouldn’t even give to Americans. He wouldn’t be able to pay his rent. Tyrone would evict him. Soon David would be out on the street, muttering poetry to himself. Maybe he ought to spend a month out in the woods, drying out from poetry.
No. He was just paying his dues. This would make him stronger; help him to feel the plight of the downtrodden.
He bought a newspaper, sat in the park under a tree, and looked through the help wanted section, circling potential jobs with a red felt-tipped pen.
Then he saw it. Right there between podiatric assistant and police stenographer.
Poet.
The ad said, “Poet Wanted,” and gave a phone number to call. It didn’t give any specifics about the job, like benefits or if he could join a labor union.
He circled it. Then he decided to circle it a second time so it would stand out from the other jobs. He drew an asterisk next to it. Then he drew a couple little stars next to it. He started to go on down the column, looking for other jobs, but couldn’t concentrate. He needed to find a phone immediately and call.
He probably wouldn’t get the job. There were undoubtedly other more qualified applicants, people with advanced degrees in poetry and decades of suffering behind them. Pat Henderson, intervention counselor, might relapse and take the poetry job.
********

Elizabeth Frampton filled up David’s glass with iced tea. David was glad there was no straw. He remembered his last interview when he made the rude noise, sucking air through the ice. Reggie hadn’t minded, but this woman seemed a lot classier than Reggie. She wasn’t the type to share hairnets.
They were sitting in her garden, out in the warm sunshine. It was the largest private garden David had ever seen. All around them, Hispanic men were planting brightly colored flowers into the dark, rich soil. David didn’t recognize most of the flowers and assumed they must be very rare.
“You must call me Elizabeth,” his interviewer said. “I detest formality.”
“Okay.”
Elizabeth leaned back in her wicker chair and smiled at him. She was old, deeply tanned, and deeply wrinkled. She moved quickly and sprightly.
“Do you like flowers?” she asked David.
“Yes, I do,” he said.
He felt guilty about liking them. Their “beauty” was just used to trick workers into being happy and distract them from rising up. That was why wealthy people always funded botanical gardens and art museums.
But he didn’t tell her about that. He didn’t want to seem negative, and this woman seemed like the type who funded art museums.
“What’s your favorite flower?” she asked.
“Lily of the valley.”
Elizabeth frowned. David realized he had made a mistake. Why had he picked such a common garden-variety flower? He might as well have said dandelion.
She poured herself another glass of iced tea. The pitcher had a whole, unpeeled lemon floating in it. David didn’t think it did any good if it wasn’t peeled.
“Flowers need love,” Elizabeth said, sipping from her glass carefully. “That’s a scientific fact. Do you agree?”
She was asking him if he believed in Science. David was pretty sure that it was illegal to ask him that at a job interview, a violation of his civil rights. But he didn’t want to come across as difficult, so he said yes.
“All the best botanists agree,” she continued. “They’ve done experiments. They hooked up machines and measured the reactions of the flowers to different stimuli. They found out that flowers grow stronger and have brighter colors and more distinct scents when someone reads poetry to them. I need someone to read poetry to my flowers.”
David wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. The job was reading poetry to flowers? Was that a working class job? David wasn’t sure what class it was. It was in a class of its own.
“I need someone reliable,” she continued. “There were problems with the old poet.”
“What happened?”
“He killed my flowers.”
“His poetry was that bad?”
“No. He used a riding lawn mower. He mowed them down. That’s why I’m putting in new flowers. One day, his mind simply snapped and he went on a killing spree. I don’t know why.”
David knew why. The old poet probably felt very alienated, being in a class all by himself, having no one to relate to.
Elizabeth gazed over at the greenhouse. “The only survivors were the cactuses,” she said. “Cactuses are tough. But they still need poetry.” She took a sip of iced tea. Her face looked deep in thought. “Do you say cacti or cactuses?”
“That depends,” David said. “If I was writing a poem about them, I’d use whichever sounded right, whichever fit the mood.”
“Well, just say cactuses when you’re talking to them. They don’t like to be called cacti. They find it offensive.”
“Okay.”
“The cactologists all agree. They did experiments.”
David nodded. He didn’t want to offend the Cacto-Americans.
She looked down at his resume.
“I see you were a dishwasher.”
“Yes.”
“Was there any poetry involved?”
“I read poems to my co-worker.”
She smiled. “May I hear one of your poems?”
“Sure.”
David cleared his throat and took a sip of iced tea. He didn’t need to see the poem on paper. He knew it by heart.
“Tortellini cadavers on a battlefield of plate…” he began.
“Stop.” Elizabeth waved her hand at him. “Stand up. You should always stand when you read a poem.”
This worried David. Did she expect him always to be on his feet when he was reading to the flowers? He was always on his feet when he washed dishes, and by the end of his shift, his legs felt numb and sore. Oh well. It was all for the best. He wanted to feel the plight of the workingman in his legs and feet too.
He stood up and recited his poem. It was about brick walls blocking views, spitting on food that no one would ever eat, having dirty water thrown at you. About how some people don’t have to earn their own bread; a busboy brings it to them in a basket. They don’t even have to pay for it; it comes free with their meal. The busboy brings them all the water they can drink. Others don’t even have access to clean water and have to die of dysentery.
He finished reciting his poem and sat back down.
Elizabeth’s lower lip was quivering and her eyes filled up with tears. She was clearly very moved by his poem. She took a long swallow of iced tea and then cleared her throat.
“That didn’t rhyme,” she pointed out.
“No,” he admitted.
“How do you come up with things like that?” she asked, amazed.
“I try to take things from real life.”
Her voice was hoarse. “That’s the most beautiful poem I’ve ever heard,” she said. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“Is there health insurance?”
“Of course. I can’t take the chance of something happening to my poet.”
“Is there a union?”
“You’d be the only poet. I suppose you could have a union if you wanted, but if wouldn’t do much good. You’d be the only one.”
There would be gardeners. He could unionize them. Although they might not speak English. Maybe he should have stayed in school and learned Spanish.
“Okay,” Elizabeth said. “Time for you to meet the flowers.”
David was thrilled. He would be a professional poet, actually getting paid for it. Tyrone had been right. He couldn’t make it as a dishwasher, and now he had to fall back on poetry.
Elizabeth had Pablo, a broad shouldered barrel-chested man with a thick mustache that he prodigiously stroked, give David a tour.
Pablo showed him through the rose garden, tulip hill, and then the greenhouses. A sprinkler system sprayed mist through the hot air of the tropical greenhouse. Pablo warned David not to eat from the chocolate tree. It was bitter chocolate. He also told him to keep his hands off the bananas. The bananas weren’t bitter, but the banana tree was still off limits.
The most beautiful colorful flowers were in the tropical greenhouse, but it was so humid in there that David would just quickly recite a poem to the chocolate tree and then rush to the desert greenhouse, where he would leisurely read poetry in the dry heat under the shade of a large cactus.

********

The flowers turned out to be a difficult audience. They didn’t give David any positive feedback, just stared up at him, their stamens like confused antennas. At least when he read a poem at a coffeehouse, people would clap afterwards. Still, the flowers were a better audience than his family. Last summer, David had read a poem at the dinner table. When he finished, there was no clapping.
“It’s too long,” his father had complained.
“It’s a haiku,” David told him. “It’s only three lines.”
“It seemed like more.”
The garden started to influence David’s poetry making it more the kind his father would like. Flowery poetry.
The Hispanic gardeners wouldn’t speak to him. They just gave him dirty looks, as if reading poetry to flowers wasn’t real work. David would have a difficult time unionizing the gardeners. It would probably be easier to unionize the flowers.
Since it was so humid outside, David tried to spend a lot of time in the greenhouse where it was a dry heat, sitting under the shade of a cactus. The cactuses started to inspire his poetry and his cactus-inspired poetry disturbed him. “Your sharp pricks make me bleed inside.” Sounded kind of gay. Cactuses were definitely male plants—they were hard, unyielding, and dry. Roses were obviously female. Their petals were feminine, soft, and delicate. There was nothing phallic about their thorns; they were like sharp fingernails running down your back.
David impressed girls when he told them he was a professional poet, but they still wouldn’t go back to his apartment with him. They were afraid of his neighborhood.
His new job took up a lot more of his time. When he was a dishwasher, he had been able to leave his work at the office. As soon as he scrubbed the last pan, he went home and forgot about dishes. (Except for some bizarre dish dreams.) As a poet, he had to take his work home with him; he had to work on new poems for the flowers.
One night after work, David was alone in his apartment trying to compose poetry for the flowers. He took off his shoes and socks and stood barefoot on the stained orange carpet to get in touch with the plight of the working man. He might catch a fungus from this workingman carpet, but that was the risk he had to take.
While waiting for inspiration to seep in through the soles of his feet, someone’s knuckles rapped briskly on the wooden door to his apartment. David wished he had a peephole so he could see who it was, but this apartment didn’t have frills like a peephole. It was a workingman’s apartment.
The knuckles rapped again. David stood very still, trying to breathe silently. Maybe whoever it was would think he wasn’t home and go away. Unfortunately, the tea kettle on the hotplate decided to start whistling just then. David found that drinking freeze-dried coffee helped him empathize with the working man and had started drinking it when he worked. It helped his mind—not just the caffeine; he believed the freeze-driediness also helped.
“Open the door,” said an authoritative voice. “We can hear your tea kettle whistling.”
David turned off the hotplate and the whistling died out.
“Who is it?”
“Department of Agriculture! Open up!”
David would have pulled the door open a little bit, leaving the chain on the door, and asked to see their IDs, but his apartment didn’t have frills like a chain on the door, (it was a workingman’s apartment) so he just unlocked the door and let it swing open. Two solidly built men stood in the entrance wearing matching frayed black suits, white shirts, and bland ties. One was taller with a narrow face and angular features.
“You’re David?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He held up a badge. “I’m Agent Margolis with the Department of Agriculture.” He gestured to the man next to him, who had large jowls and blinked a lot. “This is my associate, Agent Lugo.”
“I can introduce myself, thank you very much,” said Lugo.
“Not now, Tom,” Agent Margolis said and then turned back to David. “We’d like to have a few words with you. Can we come in?”
“I guess.”
Agent Margolis looked down at David’s bare feet and at the stained carpet.
“You don’t want us to take our shoes off, do you?”
“No.”
“’Cause you seem like that kind of person—asks people to take off their shoes when they come in the house.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know…you being a poet and around flowers a lot. There’s a positive correlation with wanting people to take their shoes off at the doorstep.”
“I was just getting in touch with the working man. And how do you know so much about me?”
Agent Margolis didn’t answer but walked past David into the apartment, and strolled over to the window. He set down his briefcase, took in the view of the moldering brick wall, and whistled. “Quite a pad you’ve got here.”
Agent Lugo walked around the apartment, checking in the bathroom and behind the doors. He kept a tight hold on his briefcase. “Are you going to offer us something to drink?” he asked.
“I don’t have anything.”
Lugo stopped walking. “I heard water boiling,” he said, looking down at the tinkling kettle on the hotplate.
“Are you allowed to drink on duty?”
“We can have a cup of coffee.”
“Or tea,” Agent Margolis said, looking back from the brick wall. “I like tea.”
“I don’t have any tea.”
“Coffee’s fine.”
“I only boiled enough water for one cup,” David said.
“Half a cup’s fine,” Margolis said.
“Same here,” said Lugo.
“I don’t have any cream or sugar,” David said apologetically. “Black and bitter like the life of the workingman.”
David got the coffee and a couple mugs out of his cabinet. He wished he knew more about agriculture. Then he could speak intelligently when the agents started talking about cotton gins and harvest festivals.
“Have you noticed anything strange about your new job?” Agent Lugo asked.
David shrugged. “Not really.”
“David,” Lugo said. “We’ll get right to the point. Your employer has illegal plants in her garden.”
David knew the job had been too good to be true. Elizabeth was probably growing pot and David was an accessory to the crime, reading poetry to the dope. No, that couldn’t be it: he hadn’t noticed any marijuana in the garden. It had to be something else. The cocoa plant! Elizabeth was growing cocaine in her greenhouse. No wonder Pablo told him not to eat from the chocolate tree. Or maybe there was peyote growing on the cactuses.
David figured that they wanted him to wear a wire. They wouldn’t hear much. Just David reading poetry to flowers. Although they might steal his poetry before he had a chance to publish it. Some of it hadn’t even been written down yet; he composed them extemporaneously in the garden and there would be no way for him to prove his authorship. Agents Margolis and Lugo could steal his poetry and claim it as their own.
David handed them each half a cup of freeze-dried coffee.
“I won’t wear a wire,” he said.
“I don’t want you to wear a wire,” said Agent Margolis, taking a sip of the scalding coffee.
Agent Lugo dropped his briefcase on the bed, popped it open, pulled out a thick black binder, and flipped through it. He found what he was looking for and turned the binder towards David, showing him a glossy, full-page photograph.
“Have you seen this flower?”
The flower had a long stem with emerald thorns, tufts of golden pollen and long flowing petals like liquid amethyst.
“It’s beautiful.” David ran his finger over the photograph admiringly.
Agent Lugo pulled the binder away. “Don’t touch. Just look.”
“Sorry.”
“This is an African Moonflower,” Lugo said. “It may be beautiful but it’s also very illegal.”
“Why?”
Agent Lugo grinned slightly and caught Agent Margolis’s eye. “He’s been reading National Geographic.” Agent Margolis chuckled. Lugo turned back to David. “Let me ask you something kid: You think just because a magazine has a yellow border it has to be true?”
David shrugged.
“Do you know what an ecosystem is?”
“Of course.”
“The African Moonflower is a swamp-eater. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“When a swamp-eater gets into an ecosystem, it destabilizes everything. It disrupts the food chain. Protozoans and monerans are wiped out. And who knows? Maybe one of those swamp creatures holds the cure for cancer, or AIDS, or some other God-forsaken disease, and we’ll never know, because some African Moonflower spores got loose and messed up the ecosystem. Once they pollinate, there’s no stopping them.”
“And that’s just the African Moonflower,” Agent Margolis interjected. “There’s flowers that if they got loose could destroy America’s agriculture. That means no food. A catastrophe the likes of which we’ve never seen.”
“Agricultural terrorism,” Lugo said sadly. “Our freedom hangs in the balance.”
David wanted to help them. Sure, America wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t want the ecosystem to be destroyed and for Osama bin Laden to take over and become president.
On the other hand, Elizabeth had given him a job as a poet. He had already bragged to everyone that he was a professional poet. He didn’t want to have to go crawling back to Reggie and beg for his dishwashing job back.
“So in the tropical greenhouse,” Lugo continued. “Have you seen an African Moonflower?”
David figured he had better tell the truth. They certainly trained agents of the Department of Agriculture to spot lies.
“I don’t know.”
Wrong answer. Agent Lugo slammed the binder shut, causing David to jump.
“How can you not know?! It’s a very distinct flower!”
“I’m sorry. I don’t spend too much time in the tropical greenhouse.”
“Why not?!”
“It’s humid in there. It’s uncomfortable.”
“So? Isn’t that your job? To read poetry to them?”
How did they know all this? They must have a spy at the garden. David wondered who it could be. Maybe they had tapped his phone.
“What do you want from me?”
Agent Lugo smiled. “We want you to do your duty as an American citizen.”
********

David’s friend Merrick didn’t go to school and didn’t have a job. He lived in his parents’ basement and played the guitar. His parents offered to get him guitar lessons but he refused. He didn’t want anyone telling him how to play the guitar. His guitar was missing two strings and he didn’t replace them.
The only time he got out of the house was when David took him hiking or out to play Frisbee golf. Merrick was a good person to do outdoor things with. This was because all the mosquitoes would only go after Merrick and leave David alone. Bug spray was useless. Merrick’s attraction to the mosquitoes (and all other insects) was too strong.
If not for this, David probably would have just left Merrick at home. Merrick was always complaining. He’d say things like “Why do the mosquitoes always go after me?” or, “Stop laughing. It’s not funny. I’m allergic to bees,” or, “Get me an ambulance. Seriously. I’m dying here.”
When Merrick complained, David would try to cheer him up.
“You’re looking at this the wrong way,” David said. “You have to accentuate the positive.”
“What’s positive about being a human citronella candle?”
“You have a marketable talent. People would pay for you to stand around at their church picnics”
“No church picnic would have me.”
“Barbecues then. You should rent yourself out for lawn parties.”
“Who would be crazy enough to hire me to do that?”
David knew just the person.
Elizabeth thought it was an excellent suggestion. Now she wouldn’t have to put the mosquito netting on the gazebo.
They tested out Merrick’s mosquito-repelling radius. If he stood directly in the center of the gazebo, his range covered the entire gazebo. Elizabeth put duct tape on the ground directly in the center of the gazebo so Merrick wouldn’t forget where to stand.
On Friday evening, a party was held in the garden to commemorate Elizabeth’s eightieth birthday. Merrick stood in the center of the gazebo and David was there to read a poem to the guests. The men wore suits and ties despite the hot, sticky weather. The women wore gaudy evening dresses with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies strung all over their bodies. One of those stones could feed the entire continent of Africa for a week.
David felt out of place in his blue jeans, working boots, workingman shirt, and poet cap. Good. He didn’t want to fit in with these people. When he read his poem to them, they would realize the error of their ways.
The sun was setting, the sky was turning purple on the horizon, and the mosquitoes were out in full force. All of the guests crowded into the gazebo, into Merrick’s circle of protection. A pile of dead swatted mosquitoes lay on the floor around him. The guests held their drinks close to their chests so as not to spill them.
The caterers wore black pants and white shirts. David thought this uniform was meant to dehumanize them, so the guests wouldn’t feel uncomfortable with fellow human-beings subservient to them. The caterers strode across the grass between the kitchen and the gazebo, carrying silver trays of hors d’oeuvres: hunks of rare roast beef on rice cakes, stuffed mushrooms, squares of cheese on toothpicks, caviar on small squares of toast. When Merrick reached for a stuffed mushroom, the caterer jerked the tray away. Apparently the food was only for the guests, not the employees.
David squeezed his way through the throng of guests in the gazebo and up to Merrick. Merrick was swatting at his arms and neck, which were already covered with little red mosquito bites.
“How’s it going?” David asked.
“I’m going to quit.”
“What are you talking about? You’re doing a great job.”
“You don’t know how this feels.”
“Sure I do. I’ve had mosquito bites before.”
“No. I mean being treated this way. Everyone wants to be around me but only because I soak up all the bugs. No one will talk to me. They treat me like I’m an employee.”
“You are an employee.”
“Well they don’t have to act like it. They could try to make it more pleasant.”
“You’re not supposed to like your job. No one likes their job.”
David was a little disturbed by how much he sounded like his father.
“You like your job,” Merrick pointed out.
“I’m the exception.”
“There’s no room for advancement here. How do I ask for a raise?”
“It’s only your first day. You can’t ask for a raise yet.”
“What if a tic bites me? I’ll get lime disease.”
“All jobs have risks.”
“Yours doesn’t.”
“No,” David admitted. “Reading poetry to flowers is pretty safe.”
Merrick smacked an exceptionally juicy mosquito on the back of his neck.
“It wouldn’t be so bad if I could commiserate with other employees, but the caterers won’t even speak to me. They act like I’m not doing real work.”
“I know how you feel,” David commiserated. “The gardeners won’t speak to me. Just stick it out. This job could lead to big things.”
“No it won’t. What’s this going to look like on a resume? Human citronella candle?”
“Pretty soon you’ll be standing on the White House lawn, keeping mosquitoes away from visiting foreign dignitaries.”
“I feel woozy. I need a blood transfusion.”
“I’m gonna go get some punch.”
David squeezed through the crowd of people and out of the gazebo. He envied Merrick. Merrick seemed so in touch with the suffering of the workingman.
Now David was out of Merrick’s circle of protection. A mosquito landed on his wrist but he didn’t swat it or brush it away. He just looked at it, watching it suck his blood. Then he looked up at the gazebo. There were two swarms of mosquitoes swarming around Merrick: the actual mosquitoes and the people. David guessed that not one of them broke a sweat when working. All of them probably lived off the sweat of their workers, sucking the blood of the workingman.
David slapped the mosquito on his wrist and it splattered.
“You must be the poet,” said an old man’s voice.
David was embarrassed that he had blood all over his hand. He surreptitiously wiped it on the inside of his pocket.
The straight-backed old man had well-pronounced frown lines and bushy white hair, except for two thick dark eyebrows. He stirred the ice in his drink with a small red plastic stick, and gave David a hard stare.
“You look like a poet,” he said definitely.
“Thank you.”
“It’s not a compliment.”
The old man shook the ice and stared into his glass.
“I hate birthdays,” he said. “But she insisted I come. I’m Elizabeth’s husband by the way. Howard. I can’t stand these things, but…birthdays.” He sighed and spit in the grass. “You know Albert Einstein?”
“Of course.”
“He was my professor back at Princeton.” He began to stir the ice in his glass again. “Well, Professor Einstein never learned his own phone number. He figured: why use part of his brain to store something he could just look up? It’s a waste of brain space, you see? If he wanted to know, he could just look himself up in the phone book. Well, I never even learned when my birthday is. If I want to know, I’ll go to city hall and get my birth certificate.”
“You don’t know when your birthday is?”
“No, and I don’t care. It’s a silly holiday, made up by Hallmark to sell greeting cards.”
“Hallmark made up your birthday?”
“All birthdays!”
He took a sip of his drink, puckered his lips, and looked at David appraisingly.
“What is it you do exactly?”
David gulped. “I read poetry to the flowers to help them grow.”
“And how exactly does it help them grow?”
“Love?”
Frampton shook his head.
“What?” David protested. “It works. Scientists have done studies on this.”
“No. They haven’t. Are you a scientist? No? Well, I am, and let me tell you: there is no scientific credibility to this quack theory of flowers needing love. There’s one study done several years ago by a disgraced former professor of botany at a community college in Kansas, but that’s it. There is no scientific basis to support the theory of the existence of such a thing as Love.”
“You don’t believe in Love?”
“I believe in Physics. Love was invented by deadbeat poets. They didn’t have any marketable trade; they couldn’t get dates, so they made up love. They don’t want to work and support a family so they talk all lovey-dovey and trick unsuspecting women. Poets are nothing but two-bit con men. Hustlers.”
“Have you told Elizabeth what you think about love?”
Howard Frampton’s eyes popped wide, his face flushed, and he ground his teeth.
“My wife has some strange ideas.” He looked over to the gazebo where Merrick was wildly swatting at a cloud of mosquitoes. “You are a bum, Scupperman. A bottom feeder; one of this fish that sucks on the side of aquariums. I don’t know what they’re called because I could just look it up. In fact….” Suddenly Howard Frampton laughed to himself, smiled, and all his anger seemed to have washed away. “You know what? I’m not getting into this with you. My time is too important. My mind is too important. I have to use it to find the Higgs Boson.”
He turned and started to walk away.
“The Higgs Boson?” David said. “What’s that?”
Howard Frampton stopped and looked up at the sky. “He doesn’t know what the Higgs Boson is,” he said with an exhausted sigh. He turned back and looked David directly in the eyes. “The Higgs Boson is a hypothetical elementary particle; hypothetical because no one’s ever actually seen it. We postulate it’s there because its existence explains the mass of other elementary particles. Kapeesh? I plan to be the first one to find it.”
“And no one’s ever seen it?”
“Were you not paying attention? Were you thinking about flowers? Yes, no one has ever seen it.”
“Then the Higgs Boson is just like love. No one’s ever seen love, but it explains the way things are. Love is an elementary particle: The Particle of Love.”
Howard threw his drink in David’s face. Fortunately for David, all the liquid was gone and only a couple ice cubes flew out and clunked harmlessly against his forehead.
“Side-sucker!” he hissed. “You’re a side-sucker, Scupperman. You may have Liz fooled, but you can’t fool me. You’re a con man and I’m going to expose you for the two-bit hustler that you are. You know Stephen Hawking?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m the one who put him in that wheelchair!” He waved a knobby finger threateningly in David’s face. “You shouldn’t cross me! I’m not a man to be crossed!”
He turned and stormed away, probably to the bar to get a refill on his drink. A full glass that he could throw in David’s face. As he walked away, he snatched a platter of appetizers from a passing caterer and wolfed them down greedily.
David didn’t feel nervous or angry. He was feeling too inspired to feel anything but pure inspiration tingling over every inch of his skin. He whipped out his notebook, his blue Bic plastic pen, (it was a workingman’s pen; medium point, not bourgeois fine point,) and composed a new poem called The Particle of Love. The words just flowed.

The part of you I love
I can’t see empirically,
but the part of me in love
knows instinctively;
your particle of love
is a Higgs Boson to me.

It rhymed. It was the kind of poem his father would like. David was becoming an establishment poet and hated himself for it. The flowers were dragging him away from the plight of the workingman. He had sold out.
David looked up at the gazebo and saw the crowd laughing merrily, impervious to Merrick’s misery as insects devoured him. No one even offered to bring him a fly swatter. They snatched food and drinks off the caterers’ trays without as much as a thank you, willfully blinded by the dehumanizing uniforms.
They knew the mosquitoes weren’t biting them, but didn’t think about why. Merrick was the Higgs Boson that kept the mosquitoes away. The caterers were the Higgs Boson that brought them food and drink. The small dishes that they held in one hand were clean, but how did they get clean? The Higgs Boson dishwasher.
David felt like his eyes had opened for the first time. He looked around the garden and saw Higgs Bosons everywhere. He needed to get it on paper quickly before he forgot.
He flipped to a new page in his notebook and began to furiously write down his new Higgs Boson poem. It wasn’t a sell-out poem. It was rhyme-less, rhythm-less, gritty and grimy. It was about how it felt to be a Higgs Boson. All these physicists were trying to find the Higgs Boson. To find a Higgs Boson, you had to think like one. David knew what it felt like when your job title was also the name of a machine. Dishwasher. It was like having a job as a blender. Or an electric toothbrush. An electric toothbrush that cleaned teeth like a dentist, only more suicidal.
David wrote about the Higgs Boson of flowers: the gardeners. “Taste the sweat of Higgs Boson Gardener,” he wrote. “Doing the dirty work, handling the fertilizer, measuring the PH levels in the soil.”
His new poem, My Name is Higgs Boson, was brilliant. Not a false brilliance like The Particle of Love, but an authentic brilliance rooted in the backbreaking labor of the oppressed.
He was back. His brief flirtation with selling out was over. When Elizabeth called him up to the gazebo to read a poem, he would read My Name is Higgs Boson. It would probably horribly offend these people. They didn’t want to know how their dishes got clean, but they were going to find out anyway.
“Thanks for dressing up,” a girl’s voice said.
David turned and saw a beautiful girl approaching him. She had curly auburn hair, a dark oval face, and almond-shaped brown eyes. She wore jeans, but not workingman jeans, designer jeans. They complimented her figure nicely.
“I’m a workingman,” David said. “I can barely afford to put bread on the table. I can’t afford fancy designer name-brand clothes.”
“Don’t worry, you look fine. It’s a good look for you. It says: I’m an artist. I’m above society’s laws. I don’t have to brush my hair.”
David matted his hair down with his hand. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Natasha. I’m Elizabeth’s charge.”
“I’m David.” He shook her hand.
“Sorry,” she said. “My palms are sweaty.”
“Mine were dry. It’s an even exchange. You’re her charge?”
“It means I have to come to her birthday party.”
“You’re a professional guest?”
“I’m not a guest. I’m her ward. She’s my legal guardian.”
“I’m a poet.”
“I know who you are. I saw you reading to the flowers. That’s my room up there.” She pointed to the top of a high spire on the house. “You get so passionate when you read to them.”
“Elizabeth never mentioned you.”
She shrugged. “She probably forgot I exist.”
“How could she forget you?”
“Spur of the moment, Liz decides she wants a kid, but she’s too old to have one, so she goes to the pound and gets me.”
“The pound?”
“The orphanage. It’s called the pound in Orphan-speak.”
She was an orphan. David didn’t know what to say. He wondered if “I’m sorry” was appropriate. He wasn’t sure, so he stayed silent and didn’t look her in the eyes.
“What!?” Natasha said. “Why do people always get like that when they find out I’m an orphan. They get all uncomfortable. It’s not like orphan is contagious. It’s not like your parents are going to drop dead if I breathe on you.”
Now David was really not sure what to say and looked away uncertainly. He wanted to say something to show her that he it was no big deal; he didn’t feel at all uncomfortable with her being an orphan.
“So,” he said casually. “How’d you get picked?”
“Picked?”
“How’d you get Elizabeth to choose you? You know, when she came to the orphanage.”
She smiled. “Well, I had the experience,” she said sarcastically. “I mean, I’ve been trying to get adopted for seventeen years now, I know all the tricks. Honestly, I thought I was too old to get adopted, that I’d be in the orphanage until my eighteenth birthday, and then be thrown to the street. Happy Birthday, you’re homeless. Great present, right?”
“Better than socks.”
She grinned. “Most people want a baby,” she said. But Liz wanted the least amount of responsibility possible. Maybe she thought it would be fun to have her very own orphan, or she wanted to relive her glory days as a mother, or it was some psychological empty nest syndrome thing. Anyway, after a few weeks, the novelty of having an orphan wore off, and Liz decided she didn’t want to walk me anymore.”
“Walk you?”
“I’m using a dog metaphor. I thought you were a poet. Can’t you recognize a metaphor?”
“I’m a working class poet. I tell it like it really is. I don’t disguise the truth with metaphors.”
“You’re saying I’m hiding the truth?”
“No. Not you. Bourgeois poets. Poets who think they can have a quiet normal life and be great poets. See, inspiration comes from an unconscious part of the brain. That’s why true artists have to live their lives among the people, not in an ivory tower where it’s impossible to align the creative part of the brain with the oppressed. That’s why I dropped out of college: to get in better touch with the workingman.”
“I’m thinking of doing that: dropping out of college. After I start in the fall, I mean. Liz wants me to go.”
“You should. Drop out, I mean. Everyone should. Universities just reproduce the class system. The people who can afford it get to go and take over their parents’ place in the social hierarchy.”
“What about orphans?”
“What?”
“Will I take after my parents if I don’t know who they are?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure how you’ll turn out.”
“I don’t have to go to college, anyway. I’ve got Liz’s credit card. I’m set for life.”
“See, I think you’re missing the point of the whole dropping out of college thing.”
There was a moment of quiet silence where they stared at each other. The garden party was heard distantly.
“So,” Natasha said. “Can I read one of your poems?”
“I’m going to read one any moment now. Elizabeth wanted to show me off, so I’m reading a poem to her guests.”
“What’s it about?”
“The inevitable demise of people who throw garden parties.”
She laughed. “That’s your boss.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t care who I offend. An exploited worker is an exploited worker. I’m not going to be intimidated just because Elizabeth’s husband’s some kind of rich fancy physicist.”
Natasha laughed.
“Howard?” she said. “Howard doesn’t have money. He’s a scholar.” She said scholar with a fancy wave of her hand. “They don’t pay scholars so good.”
“So where does the money come from?”
“Where do you think? She inherited it.”
The chattering died down and everyone turned toward the gazebo. Elizabeth stood in the center of the gazebo and had her hand raised.
“You’re probably wondering how my flowers got so big and luscious,” she said and paused for dramatic effect. “I’ll tell you: Love. The answer is love. Everyone needs love. People, animals, plants. Everyone. Scientists are just beginning to understand what the poets knew all along: love greatly increases botanical yield. Scientists used to say that all plants needed were nutrients from the soil, water, and sunlight. But new studies are rebutting the myth of photosynthesis, that flowers are hyper-independent. We’re so used to associating flowers with beauty, but flowers don’t always realize how beautiful they are. They feel insecure, just like the rest of us, and need to be told. And what better way than through poetry?”
David saw Howard Frampton standing alone in the grass near the gazebo. He had a hand on his throat and was making a gagging expression; apparently he thought flowers were being too sensitive.
“And now,” Elizabeth continued. “I’d like to introduce our newest poet here at Frampton Gardens, a promising young man with a unique free-verse style: David.”
The crowd clapped enthusiastically and a few people whistled at David as he ascended the gazebo steps. A slight breeze gusted through, blowing David’s poet scarf. David squeezed his way to the center of the gazebo, between Merrick and Elizabeth.
The clapping died down and the crowd smiled at David. They were probably expecting pleasant rhymes about love and meadows, but they were going to get something else altogether: unrhyming verses about sweaty unshaven workingmen, jet black from coal mine dust. David flipped his notebook open to the page with My Name is Higgs Boson.
Behind the crowd, in the grass outside the gazebo, Howard Frampton was grabbing his neck, making a choking signal. Choke, he was telling David. You’re going to choke!
Well, David would show him. He’d show everyone who didn’t believe in him. His father Max, Pat Henderson, Fat Reggie from the restaurant, and Howard Frampton. David cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He was going to do the best recitation ever.
Howard Frampton fell to his knees and frantically scratched at his throat. Maybe he was really choking, David thought. That would explain why his face was turning purple and his eyes bulging out of their sockets.
“He’s choking!” David shouted.
Everyone smiled at him. A few people nodded their heads at their neighbors. He was such a passionate poet. The flowers were choking because the soil wasn’t sufficiently oxidized and needed to be aerated. With Love.
“Someone do something!” David shouted. He stuffed his notebook back in his pocket, pushed his way through the crowd, and hurdled the gazebo railing. He landed hard on the grass below, sending bolts of pain shooting up his legs.
“What’s he doing?” a woman asked.
“It’s art,” a man explained knowledgably.
David quickly hobbled over to Professor Frampton who was scratching weakly at his neck and whose eyes were rolling back. David went behind him, wrapped his arms around his midsection, and then remembered with dismay that he didn’t know the Heimlich maneuver. Oh well, he had seen it done enough on TV. How hard could it be? He clasped his hands together into a ball, grasped Frampton’s skeletal frame, and crushed his stomach with all his strength.
No luck. No food flew out of his mouth. Frampton went limp; he had lost consciousness. David pulled again as hard as he could, lifting Frampton high into the air. David felt his legs slip out from under him and he fell backwards, suplexing Howard Frampton on the grass.
The old man was sprawled out on his back, about to die. David’s father had been right. Poetry was useless. David didn’t have any practical skills. Poetry couldn’t clear out Professor Frampton’s windpipe.
Or could it?
David pulled the blue plastic medium-point pen out of his pocket. He pulled off the cap, bit down on the front end of it, loosening the plastic tip, and dropped the tip of the pen on the grass along with the plastic ink cartridge. He also bit off the little piece of plastic that sealed the back of the pen. He was left with a hollow plastic tube. He was going to have to perform a tracheotomy; sticking the pen into the blocked windpipe to create an alternate path for oxygen. He had seen it done on TV on one of those medical shows, ER or possibly MacGyver. It seemed like the kind of thing MacGyver would do.
There was no time to wait for someone else to help. Frampton’s face was dark purple and red streaks ran down his neck. Every second, lack of oxygen was destroying brain cells; brain cells needed to find the mysterious Higgs Boson.
David knelt over Professor Frampton’s limp figure and set the tip of the plastic tube down on the lower part of his sagging old man neck, close to the collar bones. The sagging flesh reminded David of a chicken’s neck. With the palm of his free hand, David hammered the pen into Frampton’s neck.
Crunch!
A sharp pain shot through David’s hand. He pulled his hand away, squeezed it into a fist, and grimaced. He opened his fist and saw the small circular shape of the pen, indented in his palm.
Screams came from the gazebo. David looked down at Frampton. The pen was stuck halfway into his neck, blood oozed out from the sides of the pen, but nothing came from within the plastic tube; he still wasn’t breathing. David thought he might have missed the windpipe altogether. He wasn’t very good at anatomy. Or maybe he had done it correctly but something was stuck in the pen, blocking the flow of air. Sometimes, David would drink the juice straight out of an orange with a straw. He would shove the straw straight through the peel into the pulpy insides, but he couldn’t suck out the juice because a piece of orange peel would be stuck in the straw. First, he had to suck the orange peel out of the straw. Then he could drink the juice. Maybe a piece of Howard Frampton’s neck skin was jammed in the pen like orange peel in a straw. David didn’t want to suck it out, (he didn’t know what old man chicken neck tasted like and didn’t want to find out,) but this was no time for squeamishness; a man’s life hung in the balance.
David took a deep breath. Then he realized he needed to breathe out; he couldn’t suck out the blockage if his lungs were full of air. David breathed out, pushing his lungs empty, and felt his hands shaking. He could be brave when he had his courage-gathering deep breaths, but without the calming oxygen to relax his blood, he was a coward.
But who was he to complain? Howard Frampton hadn’t inhaled oxygen in several minutes and he wasn’t complaining!
That thought gave David the push he needed. He lowered his head and wrapped his mouth around the plastic end of the pen.
“Get out of the way!”
The bartender pushed David away and he fell into the grass, hitting the ground hard and rolling.
The bartender pulled open Frampton’s mouth, peered inside, stuck his fingers into his throat, and pulled out a half-chewed hunk or rare roast beef.
Frampton coughed and then gasped in deeply, quickly and desperately: not through the pen, but through his mouth. He stared up at the starry sky, his eyes blinking frantically and watering slightly, the blue Bic plastic medium pen still sticking out of his neck.
The entire party hurried over and gathered in a circle around them. Elizabeth knelt beside her husband.
“Oh Howard,” she said, glancing at the half-chewed beef in the bartender’s hand. “You know the doctor warned you about red meat.”
Howard tried to speak, grimaced, and his hand shot to his neck.
“Don’t try to speak, Howard. You have a pen in your neck.”
He touched the pen, questioningly.
“Don’t take it out,” Elizabeth said. “Just leave it in for now. It might be holding things in. Or be in an artery. Let the paramedics handle this.”
“That’s right,” David said. “Leave it in. There’s definitely something lodged in there.”
Frampton furrowed his forehead, raised his eyebrows, and lifted his shoulders as if to say, what happened?
Elizabeth slapped at her wrist and then looked at the dead mosquito sprawled against her skin.
“Merrick!” she called. Merrick was standing all alone in the middle of the gazebo. “Could you come over here please?”
Merrick sighed, lowered his shoulders, and trudged over to the crowd in the grass.
David explained to Professor Frampton what had happened after he blacked out. How he had tried in vain to perform the Heimlich maneuver, jammed a pen into his throat, and was about to try sucking out whatever was lodged in there when the bartender came and pulled the meat out of his throat.
Howard’s face was pale, his eyes glassy and confused-looking. Maybe he had suffered brain damage, or maybe he was just exhausted from almost suffocating. He opened his mouth to speak again, grimaced in pain, and grabbed his neck. David knew how frustrating it could be not to be able to communicate; he had the same situation with Juan, the Hispanic dishwasher.
Frampton made a writing motion with his hand, signaling for something to write with. David flipped his notebook open to a blank page, handed it to Professor Frampton, and felt his pockets for his pen. Where was it?
Oh. Right. It was in Professor Frampton’s neck. But the writing part wasn’t. The plastic ink tube and the pen tip was somewhere in the grass.
“Just a sec,” David said and began combing through the grass like he was searching for a lost contact lens.
Before David located the writing part of his pen, a tall man reached into his tan sport coat, pulled out a pen, and handed it to Howard Frampton. It was a nice pen, not a cheap Bic like David’s. A dark polished wood-plated fountain pen, the kind favored by executives of heartless corporations for signing downsizing orders. When Howard took off the pen cap, David saw that the pen’s tip was plated in gold. The ball-point looked sharp; probably fine-point.
Howard dropped David’s notebook to the grass, raised the pen high above his head in a stabbing grip, and ran at David.
David stumbled and just barely jumped out of the way in time. The thrust missed his head by millimeters.
Howard Frampton, his face gnarled and twisted, ran after David, trying to stab him with the pen.
Howard was too old to run properly. He sort of shuffled after David, the blue Bic pen bobbing up and down in his neck, but he shuffled with great determination. He kept pursuing David in circles around the gazebo and all around the garden until the paramedics arrived.
David figured that the party was over, for him at least. They probably wouldn’t let him recite My Name is Higgs Boson now. He was worse than the poet who ran over the flowers with a riding lawn mower.

********

The party was breaking up. Elizabeth accompanied her husband in the ambulance, the valets brought the guests their cars, and Merrick seemed to have disappeared.
David walked down the street and over to the bus stop. He waited about half an hour until the bus came. On the bus, he saw his reflection in the glass and realized he had a couple spots of blood on his face and that his white shirt had a red blood stripe across it like a sash. The other passengers avoided looking at David and tried not to notice the obvious bloodstains on his shirt.
He got off the bus in his neighborhood and walked quickly towards his apartment. When people saw him approaching, they walked to the other side of the street.
A police car slowed down and stopped next to him. The officer in the passenger’s seat shined a flashlight on David, examined his bloody shirt, and then shined the light on his face, causing David to shield his eyes.
“Are you hurt?” the officer asked.
“It’s not my blood,” David replied.
“Well, be careful,” the officer said. He turned off the flashlight and they drove away.
David walked into the lobby of his building and waited for the elevator. When the elevator door finally opened, Tyrone came out, carrying a toilet brush.
He looked at David and was silent.
“It’s not my blood,” David explained.
Tyrone grinned and waved his toilet brush dismissively.
“Don’t have to explain to me. None of my bidness how you got all bloody.” Tyrone giggled and grinned, his white teeth flashing. “Bloody. Oh BLOODY hell! Zat really a swear word over there in Britain? Bloody!”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
“Don’t you worry. I gots just the ting to get blood out.”
Tyrone led David into his apartment. It had wall to wall purple carpeting. Purple carpeting also covered the walls and ceiling. Tyrone went over to his littered kitchen table, picked up a small bottle, and held it out to David.
“Made it muh-self.”
David took the plastic bottle. It was filled with a clear liquid and had a homemade label, made with red magic marker in big block letters. It said, “Ghetto Traveler.” Apparently Tyrone had been brewing moonshine in his bathtub.
“Ghetto Traveler?”
Tyrone grinned broadly. “That be de name o’ de product. I’m fixin a get me a copyright. The patent be all pendin, knowwa I’m sayin’?”
“What is it?”
“A patent?”
“No. Ghetto Traveler.”
“It’s my new invention. I ain’t jus’ yo’ landlord an’ janitor. I invent. You know Thomas Edison?”
“Yeah.”
“He invent things too. See here, I been scrubbin sink an’ toilet so many years, I start to use trial and error, adjust the recipe, developed my own cleaning fluid: Ghetto Traveler. A multi-purpose fluid dat cleans like nobody’s bidness. Scrub yo’ toilet, shine yo’ shoes. Clean yo’ eyeglasses, store yo’ contact lenses.”
“You store contacts in it?”
“I don’t wear me no contacts. My eyes is all twenny-twenny, but I ‘spect you could store contacts in it. You can do jussa ‘bout anyting wit Ghetto Traveler. It’s deodorant for yo’ underarm, creamer for you’ coffee.”
“You put it in your coffee?”
“Naw man, you know I drink tea. See here, you gotsta travel light. I backpacked ‘cross China. I know what I talkin’ bout. You ain’t gotta take a lotta supplies. Ghetto Traveler be the only fluid you need. Now you can be ghetto wherever you go.”
“I feel like I’m in a commercial.”
Tyrone’s face lit up.
“You’re right. I needs me some advertising.”
Tyrone pulled a small notebook and a stubby pencil out of his back pocket and began scribbling ideas.
“I needs me a celebrity endorsement. Wonder who folks’ll truss to sell ‘em Ghetto Traveler.” He chewed on the pencil’s eraser.
“How about Rudy Giulliani,” David suggested. “Everyone trusts him.”
David took off his shirt, pants, and scarf. Tyrone took them to the sink and started to scrub them, using a generous amount of Ghetto Traveler.
“Hey David. You do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“I know bloody. But dat’s it. Teach me some other swear words in British.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Come on. Go ahead. Just us boys here.”
“I’m really tired.”
“Just a couple. The nastiest ones you know.”
David didn’t know any British swear words, other than bloody, but everyone knew that one. He tried to think of some filthy Briticisms, but couldn’t. He would have to make them up. Well, he was a poet. It was his job, sort of. He was more of a word organizer than a word inventor. Now he would have to invent words.
British. David had to think British. He thought British and the first thing that popped into his mind was croquet.
“Wicket,” David said.
“Wicket,” Tyrone repeated, savoring the feel of the word on his mouth. “What is a wicket?”
David thought that a wicket was that thing you hit the ball through in croquet. He said it was something else and Tyrone howled with glee.
“Tell me mo’!”
What proceeded was the filthiest conversation David had ever had in his life. He coined several new words and phrases, including: spulgers, vulvicy, minding the gap, squidge, thuffers, and javving. He also invented several lewd acts of depravity which included crumpeting (it didn’t involve pastries,) Hufflepuffing (had nothing whatsoever to do with the dorm in Harry Potter) and fox-hunting (its only relation to actual fox-hunting was that many in Britain wanted it banned.)
“Good as new,” Tyrone said and handed David his clothes.
David was amazed. Ghetto Traveler had completely removed the blood.
Tyrone let him keep the rest of the bottle.

********

The next morning, David got an earlier bus and arrived forty-five minutes early at the garden. He went around quietly, reading My Name is Higgs Boson to the flowers.
He sat on a wooden stool in the tropical greenhouse, reading to the chocolate tree when the door squeaked open, and Elizabeth walked in.
David closed his notebook so she wouldn’t see the bloodstains on the page.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said, standing up.
“I wanted to apologize,” she said. “I’m sorry that you weren’t able to perform your poem for us last night.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
She seemed to be waiting for him to say something.
“I’m sorry I stabbed your husband in the windpipe last night,” David said.
“You didn’t stab him in the windpipe. You stabbed him in the voice-box.”
“Oh.”
“The doctor says he’ll heal, his voice will come back. Voice-boxes are very resilient.”
“That’s good.”
“Howard wants to speak to you.”
“Okay.”
“But he can’t. You stabbed him in the voice-box.”
“So how do I…”
“He has to communicate with a computer.”
“He has one of those talking computers, like Stephen Hawking?”
“No. He types what he wants to say, and you read it off the screen.”
They walked out of the greenhouse and towards the house together. There was a nice breeze outside.
“I should warn you,” Elizabeth said, “The painkillers have made him very emotional.”
“Okay.”
“So he’s using a lot of emoticons.”
They walked into the house, through the kitchen, and down a narrow hallway to professor Frampton’s study. Elizabeth rapped lightly on the wooden door. There was no answer. She gently slid open the door.
“Howard?”
They entered the room. Sunlight streamed through a circular window, casting a hazy, yellow light on the bookshelves stuffed with old books that lined every wall. The room smelled of mothballs and the old books.
Howard Frampton sat on a worn leather chair and tapped his fingers gently against the arm rest. A thick white bandage covered his throat. He picked up his laptop from a low glass coffee-table and waved David over, indicating a wooden rocking-chair for David to sit on. David sat in the rocking-chair, but didn’t rock; he wanted to stay alert, in case Frampton attacked him again.
There were no sharp objects in view, but there were some dangerous looking paperweights on the coffee table. Dangerous and beautiful: tropical fish frozen in lumps of smooth glass.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Elizabeth said and closed the door softly behind her.
“How are you?” David asked.
Howard Frampton punched at the keyboard with his index finger. He hit just two keys and turned the monitor towards David. It was an emoticon:

;(

A frown. But not a normal frown. Professor Frampton used a semicolon instead of a regular colon for the eyes. The frowning face winked at David.
What did the wink mean? David had dropped out of college before they could teach him how to use semicolons. He just knew it was the punctuation of the bourgeoisie, winking at each other, enjoying the knowledge that they would never have to do any real work; that they could just coast along on the sweat of the workingman. David preferred simple periods and honest commas. When he could, he avoided punctuation altogether.
David looked at Frampton, frowned, and winked. Frampton glared back at him, audibly grinding his teeth. He turned the laptop, pounded the keyboard with his thumb.
Maybe David was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t a wink. It was one of those complex old-man emotions. Possibly nostalgia. And Professor Frampton thought that David was mocking his nostalgia.
The professor turned the screen back, the font size was only four-point and David couldn’t read it.
“I can’t see it,” he said. “It’s too small.”
The professor waved him closer to the screen.
“No.” David shook his head. “I’m not falling for that one.”
Frampton raised his hands innocently, but David wasn’t fooled. The professor just wanted David to lean closer so he could slam the laptop shut on his face and then hit him on the top of the head with a tropical fish paperweight.
“Enlarge it,” David said.
Frampton shrugged and squeezed his eyebrows together. He was an old man and didn’t understand all these newfangled computers. But David wasn’t fooled.
“You shrunk it. If you know how to shrink it, you know how to enlarge it.”
Frampton ground his teeth and turned the laptop back towards himself. He stabbed angrily at the keys. When he turned the screen back towards David, the font was one-hundred-point. It said: GET OUT!!!

********

“Poor Howard,” Elizabeth said. “I wish there was some way to cheer him up. But he doesn’t like anything.”
David and Elizabeth sat in the gazebo, sipping ice tea. Birds sang to each other in the trees and the sprinklers sprayed the soil. It was like this for a while, until finally Elizabeth broke the silence.
“How was the party,” she asked. “I mean, aside from the choking incident. How do you think it went?”
“Honestly?”
David took a swig of iced tea and cleared his throat.
“There were two many semicolons,” he said.
Elizabeth squinted up her forehead and looked perplexed.
“Everyone was winking at each other,” David said.
“What do you mean?”
“I used to think that flowers were just there to distract people, but I’ve learned that flowers can help people to see that there’s more in life than their daily drudgery. Beautiful things. It can make people want something more.”
Elizabeth smiled. “People and flowers were meant to be together.””
“Exactly!” David exclaimed. “It was a party for rich people. How come only rich people can come to the garden? Why don’t you let the poor in? You should let the downtrodden into your garden. They won’t steal your flowers. Or pick them.”
“I just wanted to inspire my friends with the beauty of flowers.”
“Poor people like flowers too,” David said.
Elizabeth stood up and started to pace around the gazebo. She did this whenever she got inspiration. David knew what it felt like. He sometimes had to pace when the idea for a new poem came to him. It was like every neuron in the body was set off. Finally, Elizabeth stopped pacing, walked up to the glass table, and leaned over it towards David.
“I have a great idea,” she said. “Howard’s birthday is in a couple weeks. We’ll have a surprise party for him.”
David nodded. It was the worst idea he had ever heard.
“It’ll be here, in the garden. This time, everything will be perfect. We’ll invite all your downtrodden friends. And this time, you’ll get to read your poem for sure.”
“Great idea,” David said.
“You’ll bring the downtrodden people?”
David nodded, but realized that he didn’t really know many actual downtrodden people. Despite being their poet, he hadn’t managed to meet many of them. He supposed he could ask Tyrone to bring some friends. Tyrone knew lots of downtrodden people.
He wondered how Professor Howard Frampton would react when Tyrone and his friends jumped out from behind the bushes and yelled, “Surprise!”
Probably surprised; the professor didn’t even know his birthday was coming up.
David wondered what the emoticon for surprise looked like.

********

When David worked at the restaurant, he tried to start a union with his co-dishwasher, Juan. This was unsuccessful because Juan didn't speak Englsh and David didn't speak Spanish. David had to use charades to get his message across.
He pointed to Juan, then to himself. Then he held up his hands and clasped them together: the two dishwashers coming together in a union.
Juan raised his eyebrows, pointed at David, and made a limp wrist gesture.
"No no no!" David shook his head. "A Labor union."
Juan had probably gotten the wrong idea when David read him a poem.
Now David wanted Juan to come to the garden party and to bring his friends. David wondered how he could pantomime, "Would you like to come to a garden party with me?" without coming across gay.
When David walked into the restaurant, Reggie looked up from his enormous meatball sandwich.
"Well, well, well. Look who came crawling back. If it isn’t Mr.I’m an artist, I don’t have to give two weeks notice." Reggie sighed. "All right. I'll take you back.”
He held out a pair of latex gloves to David.
"I have a new job. I'm a professional poet now."
It felt good to be able to say that.
David started towards the entrance to the kitchen and dishwashing area, but Reggie stopped him, putting out his hand and getting meatball sauce on David's shirt.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm going to visit Juan."
"That area's for employees only."
David considered making a mad dash for the dishwashing area. He could outrun Reggie, but he would need some time to communicate the invitation to Juan. Plus, he didn't want to be arrested for trespassing. Poets didn't fare well in jail. So David said, "Can you give him a message for me?"
Reggie shook his head.
"I'm not going back there. Juan's got the hose." Reggie licked meatball sauce off his thumb.
"On second thought, go right ahead." Reggie stepped to the side.
David walked over, pushed open the door to the dishwashing area, and peered inside. It was quiet back there. He didn't see Juan behind the dishwashing station. Maybe Juan heard him arguing with Reggie and was now laying in ambush. Or maybe he was out in the alley, having a cigarette break.
David looked at the dishwashing station and felt a pang of nostalgia and regret. He had lost the purity of his desire to raise up the workingman. He had wanted to make real changes and now he was just trying to pretty it up with flowers.
Wasn't that what they gave to sick people? A get well card and flowers? Wouldn't it be better to get them health insurance or a better doctor so they wouldn't die? Why give them flowers?
As David was thinking this, Juan snuck up behind him with a big bucket of cold water and dumped it on David's head. David was soaking wet and Juan was giggling hysterically. But David fought through his discomfort and delivered the invitation.
David wasn't a very good mime. He couldn't communicate nonverbally to Juan the invitation to the garden party. Juan thought David was giving him a marriage proposal.
Fortunately, David was a poet of the workingman, not a mime of the workingman. His father wouldn't take it too well if David told him he was dropping out of school to become a mime. Actually it would probably be about the same. His father would get Pat Henderson to hold an intervention and tell him he was addicted to miming. "You've been able to fool a lot of people," Pat Henderson would say, "with your unorthodox miming style: using words."
It was probably better that Juan wasn't there--he might have brought a Super Soaker and sprayed the other guests.

********

Tyrone opened his door, wearing only monogrammed blue silk pajama bottoms and smoking a cheroot. His chest hair was spiked like a porcupine. He grinned, revealing the large gap between his two front teeth.
"David Hugh!"
Hugh Grant was British so Tyrone had dubbed David with the nickname David Hugh.
"Hello," David said. "I want to invite you to a garden party."
"Dat some kinda British ting?"
"Sort of."
"Dere gonna be tea and crumpets?"
"I don't think so."
"I never had me a crumpet." Tyrone scratched his ear and puffed on his cheroot. "What is a crumpet?"
"A pastry of some sort, I guess."
Tyrone smacked his lips.
"Always wanted to try me a crumpet."
"I'm sure it can be arranged."
"And tea."
"Sure."
"Earl Grey. Hot. Like Captain Picard. And barbecued ribs."
David promised Tyrone there would be tea, Earl Grey, hot, and barbecued ribs, and told Tyrone to bring his friends.
But David still didn't have nearly enough downtrodden people for his party, so he made an invitation, went to Kinko's, and made lots of copies.
David got on the bus and handed an invitation to the large, unshaven bus driver.
"What's this?" the bus driver snarled, turning the invitation around to look at it from all angles.
"We're having a party," David said. "You're invited."
"What is this? A frat party?"
"No. I'm not in a fraternity."
"Why not?"
"I dropped out of school."
"Why?"
"I'm a poet for the workingman."
"Get behind the yellow line."
David got behind the yellow line. The bus driver closed the door and started to drive.
"It's a flower party," David said.
"Yeah, I see why you couldn't get in a frat," the bus driver said.
David gave invitations to garbage men, construction workers, and even handed out invitations at the steel mill. Now plenty of people would come, but he had another problem. Since almost all of the workingmen were men, his guest list was turning into a major league sausage festival. There just weren't enough Rosie the Riveters or Gertrude the Garbage Mistresses. It was going to be a bunch of dudes, standing around, looking at flowers, with David reading them a poem, inspired by cactuses.
David went into the grocery store. All the cashiers at the checkout counters were women. And they all worked for a living.
David waited his turn, and when he got to the front of the checkout line, he saw the hefty young woman who was the cashier. Actually, she wasn’t so much hefty as she was morbidly obese. She sat on a chair behind the cash register. All of the other cashiers stood. She was just the type of person who needed to see some flowers.
"Hi." He smiled at her. "I'm David."
"I'm Marcy."
"I know. I see it on your nametag." He handed her an invitation. "We're having a party. I hope you'll be able to come."
Marcy looked down at the invitation and her eyes welled with tears.
"Who put you up to this?" she asked. "I guess you think it's funny to play a cruel hoax on Marcy."
"No. I'm serious."
She wiped her eyes with her checkered apron and squinted at the invitation. "A flower party?"
"Yes."
"Why would you want me at your flower party?"
"It's for people who work for a living. People who need beauty in their lives."
Marcy's face hardened and she glared at David.
"Do I look like I need beauty in my life?"
"Excuse me," said a short, tired-looking man in line behind David. "Isn't this the ten items or less line? I expect it to move faster."
"He doesn't even have any items," a shrill woman said. She had a shock of white in her hair that made her look like a skunk. "He's asking big Marcy out on a date."
"Look what you've done," Marcy hissed at David. "You're gonna get me in trouble."
A thin man with a wispy moustache came gliding over. He was only a few years older than David.
"Excuse me," he said. "I'm the manager. What's going on here?"
"That boy's asking her to a party," said the woman with the skunk-like hair. "She should do that on her break, on her own personal time."
The manager looked at Marcy like she was an unruly puppy who just soiled the carpet.
"Marcy, we've been through this before, haven't we?"
Marcy cast her eyes down and her face flushed.
"Yes, Mr. Jennings."
The manager turned and looked at David.
"Don't I know you?"
"No," David said.
"Sure I do. You came in here looking for a job. You wanted to bag groceries."
The manager (Rod Jennings according to his nametag) hadn't given David the job. All of the grocery bagging was done by the residents of a local "Assisted Living" center for adults with severe developmental problems. David probably shouldn't have announced his intention to unionize them at the job interview. He probably couldn't do it anyway. Flowers couldn't make up for missing chromosomes.
"I found another job," David said. "I read poetry to flowers now and we're having a garden party. All of your employees are invited."
"I love a party," said the bagger, clapping his hands. He had Down Syndrome.
“Can I come too?” asked Rod Jennings, the manager.
David supposed that middle management was close enough to working man. “Sure. Why not? Everyone should come.”

********

Saturday evening arrived. David dressed in his workingman attire: blue jeans, old scuffed-up work boots, silk poet scarf, French poet hat (beret.) His new poem written specially for the occasion rested in the front pocket of his workingman shirt, just waiting to inspire the working masses. It was the same shirt he wore at the last party. Ghetto Traveler had miraculously removed the bloodstains.
A white banner strung between the gazebo and an elm tree proclaimed, “Happy Eightieth Birthday!” in big blue letters. Elizabeth had taken Howard out to a restaurant. When they were on their way home, she would send the bartender a text message letting him know to turn off the lights and hide. It was time for the surprise party.
Plenty of other working people came to the party: bus drivers, construction workers, garbagemen, busboys, Tyrone. From the supermarket: Marcy and the other checkers, the manager Rod Jennings, and the developmentally-challenged grocery baggers. All of the baggers were live-in residents at Abbott's Home for Exceptional People, a home for people unable to take care of themselves.
The same caterers were there; dressed in white shirts and black pants with black bowties, but this time they brought around different appetizers on their silver trays: barbecued ribs, corn on the cob, watermelon.
The air was hot and humid, so the mosquitoes swarmed hungrily around Merrick, who stood in the middle of the gazebo on the duct tape, swatting around wildly. Tyrone and his friends gathered around Merrick in the gazebo, but the residents of Abbott’s Home for Exceptional People preferred to get up close to the flowers.
The guests all huddled in the gazebo around Merrick, their protection from the mosquitoes. Caterers walked among them, carrying trays and offering tea and crumpets.
Tyrone seemed to be enjoying the pastries. Crumbs spilled out of his stuffed mouth and got stuck in his gelled chest hair. He looked down at Marcy from the gazebo and whistled. He grinned and winked at Merrick.
“I’d like to mind her gap, knowwa I’m sayin?”
“No,” Merrick said. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand street talk.”
“Man, dis ain’t street talk. Don’t you know de Queen’s English?”
Bobby, one of the baggers with Down Syndrome, ran in circles around the gazebo, waving his arms like windmills and shouting, "Happy birthday! Happy birthday!"
"Who's he?" Merrick asked David.
"He's a workingman," David replied.
"That's a workingman?"
"He lives by the sweat of his brow."
"That's quite a brow he's got there."
"He has Down Syndrome," David explained.
Merrick ran a hand over his face and looked worried. "I think I have Down Syndrome."
"You don't have Down Syndrome."
Whenever Merrick heard about a disease, he thought he had it. Once he thought he had Terrets Syndrome.
"You don't have Terrets Syndrome," David had told him.
"But people always tell me I speak without thinking first."
"You don't have Terrets. People with Terrets shout out swear words and racial epithants."
"Maybe I have a mild form of Terrets."
"You don't have Terrets."
Now Merrick thought he had Down Syndrome. He felt the bones in his face nervously.
"My brow's too big."
"It's male pattern baldness," David said.
"I can't be losing my hair. I'm only nineteen."
"Is there hair in the drain after you shower?"
"I don't know. I don't look down when I shower. I don't wanna see anything down there."
"Well, you're losing your hair. Get some Rogaine. With Minoxydyl."
"My face is too flat."
"Actually it kind of juts out."
"And my ears are too small."
"Last week you thought they were too big."
"They were."
"You don't have Down Syndrome."
"Maybe I have a mild form."
"There is no mild form. You either have it or you don't."
"I think I have it."
"You don't."
David looked around at all the people standing around inside the gazebo, drinking their tea and eating their crumpets. His plan wasn't working. The workers were supposed to see the flowers and realize how much beauty there was in the world and want to make their lives better and form a labor union, but the flowers couldn't inspire them if the people just stayed in the gazebo, drinking tea and eating crumpets. They needed to get up close and smell the flowers, see the details in their petals. Only the baggers were meeting the flowers and it didn't seem to help them. Maybe if Merrick walked around the garden, they'd follow him.
"Merrick, why don't you go stand by the flowers?" David said.
Merrick looked down at the piece of tape between his feet.
"What about the duct tape?"
"Forget about the duct tape. You can leave the duct tape."
Merrick looked uneasily over at the flowers and shook his head.
"That's where the bees are. That's how Macaulay Culkin died."
"He's dead?"
"In the movie. My Girl. He got stung by bees and died. I'm also allergic to bee stings."
"You're not allergic to bee stings. People who are allergic to bee stings stop breathing when they get stung. They have to be rushed to the hospital."
"Maybe I have a mild allergy."
"You dont' have any allergy."
"I still don't like bee stings."
David suggested that they go into the greenhouse. The cactuses would inspire the workers and the bees wouldn't bother Merrick. Merrick agreed. They went into the greenhouse and the entire party followed, even the baggers. The dry heat was a refreshing break from the sweltering humidity outside. The workers carefully touched the cactus thorns, testing their sharpness. One old woman squinted her eyes suspiciously up at the big green cactus, the one that inspired David's poetry.
"We shouldn't stay in here," she said. "Those cacti look dangerous."
David grimaced. Not only did she use the botanic slur, cacti--she also said they were dangerous. David looked at the cactus to see how it would react. It didn't make any movement. Maybe it wasn't offended or maybe it was offended and didn't want to show it.
"They're not dangerous," David said.
"Then why do they have thorns?" the woman asked.
"They live in the desert," David said. "They need thorns to protect against desert predators."
"We shouldn't stay in here," the woman said. "Someone could get hurt."
Bobby, the one with Down Syndrome, looked ready to belly flop onto the cactus thorns.
"It's nice in here," Merrick said, probably just because he wanted to stay away from the bees. "David, why don't you read us one of your poems about cactuses?"
David shook his head. He didn't want to read any homo-erotic poetry in front of a group of working people.
"What's that?" Marcy said, peering into the cactus. She was looking at a small pink and white flower poking out between a cluster of thorns.
"That's a cactus rose," David said. "Sometimes cactuses grow small flowers."
Marcy's eyes filled up with tears and her lips started to quiver. She covered her face with her great big hands and sobbed. "I never realized how beautiful flowers were." She turned to the manager. "I just realized something," she told him. "I'm a beautiful flower. I'm too beautiful to stand at the check-out line, pricing items, pricing my life away. I quit! I'm going to follow my dream. I'm going to be a plus-size model."
David was concerned. Marcy might not make it as a plus-size model. She was more than big enough, but in all the wrong places. Her sizable gut spilled over the front of her jeans and her bare arms had prominent chunks of cellulose pressing out. She needed something to fall back on, in case plus-size modeling didn't work out--a teaching degree maybe.
Then David reproached himself. He sounded just like his father. Never encouraging, always cynical. He should encourage her.
"Good for you, Marcy," he said.
Everyone else stayed quiet.
Marcy smiled at him, then bent over as if to kiss the flower, but stopped an inch away and inhaled its scent.
"I quit!" a squeaky voice slurred out. It was Bobby, the bagger with Down Syndrome. "I'm not gonna take it anymore! I'm wasting my life putting food in bags. I'm gonna follow my dream. I'm gonna be president of the United States."
David thought Bobby should definitely get a teaching degree to fall back on.
"Good fo' you, little man," Tyrone said, his mouth full of crumpet.
"He couldn't be worse than Bush," a man said.
“I’m quitting my job too,” Merrick said.
“What’s your dream?” someone asked him.
He tried to think of what his dream was, and then said, “Forget it. I rescind my resignation.”

********

David went out of the gazebo to walk around. Everyone was quitting their jobs and he didn’t want to get caught up in it. He liked his job.
A black man wearing a Chicago Bears jersey stopped David and gargled out something incomprehensible. David couldn’t understand a word the man said, but tried to be polite: he smiled, tried to nod and grunt in the right places. He felt his way through the conversation like a blind man. David wondered if this man came with Tyrone or from the residential home.
Two familiar-looking men crossed the grass to the tropical greenhouse. They weren’t on the guest list. Agents Margolis and Lugo weren’t wearing their trademark black suits. They had disguised themselves as workingmen, wearing overalls smeared with white paint. Agent Margolis’s hair, usually neatly parted, was carefully disheveled.
David hustled over to them. As short, stocky Agent Lugo was opening the swinging door to the greenhouse, David pressed his hand on the screen and slammed it shut.
“What are you doing here?”
“We came for the party,” Agent Margolis said, stretching his thin, angular frame and cracking his knuckles.
“You’re not invited.”
“We’re working people,” short and dumpy Agent Lugo said. “We make less than some of these baggers.”
“How’d you find out about the party anyway? It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“We have our sources,” Lugo said.
“What sources?”
“The flyers you printed out and gave to everyone.”
“Oh.”
“Just get away from the door. We’re going in there.”
“Don’t you need a warrant?”
“Nope. Read the Patriot Act.”
“I thought you were like vampires. You can’t come in unless someone invites you.”
“Patriot Act says we’re not vampires anymore.”
Lugo pushed David out of the way and burst inside. Margolis followed. David went in after them. The moist air struck him. Dark vines crept down from the ceiling. The dim lights from outside flickered through the opaque cloudy glass and thick brush.
Agent Margolis walked up to a patch of flowers, knelt down, and lowered his nose into the cup of a flower with alternating velvety petals of navy blue and forest green. He sniffed deeply and purred at the pleasant smell.
“Tasmanian Feather Poppies, he said. “A rare breed. Smells like cinnamon. The ancient Tasmanians worshipped their pollen as a deity.”
Margolis popped his mouth around the head of the Tasmanian Feather Poppy and started to chew.
“Stop it!” David shouted. “What are you doing?!”
“Tastes good,” Margolis gurgled, his mouth full of petals.
“You just gonna watch?” Lugo asked David. “Or you gonna help?”
Lugo grabbed a long stemmed purple flower and slapped its petals off. Margolis flopped on the soil, continued munching on the Tasmanian Feather Poppies, and kicked at long-stemmed white flowers with his feet.
“You’re the Department of Agriculture!” David shouted. “You’re supposed to protect plants!”
“Don’t act so disillusioned,” Margolis gurgled through the petals. “Everyone knows that Freedom requires trampling a few flowers.”
“But you’re killing defenseless flowers.”
“Look,” Lugo said, roundhouse kicking the pink leaves off of a sky blue vine. “You can’t just side with the underdog. The weaker side isn’t always right.”
“But these are rare flowers! They’re endangered species!”
“I don’t care!” Lugo shouted. “I’d club a snow leopard to death if it got in my way!”
Lugo glanced at a meter-high reed-like plant with a bright red sharp-petaled flower and sun yellow center. He licked his upper lip and strode towards it. David jumped in front of the flower.
“If you want to kill the flowers, you’re gonna have to kill me first.”
“Look,” Margolis said, sitting up in the soil. “She hasn’t contacted her supplier because she doesn’t need any new flowers. We’re going to make it so she needs some new flowers. Then we can find out who he is. Now she’s going to contact him.”
“No she won’t,” David said. “She’ll know it was sabotage.”
“No she won’t. She’ll blame it on her special guests.”
“Special,” lisped Lugo
“Or your urban friends,” Margolis said. “She’ll blame it on them. This party’s the perfect cover.”
“You’re gonna use them as a scapegoat?”
“That’s the plan,” Margolis said.
“It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause I’m gonna tell Elizabeth.”
They froze. Lugo leaned in close, eyeball to eyeball with David.
“You’re not going to tell her anything,” Lugo rasped, his stinking breath cascading up David’s face. “You tell her and we’ll lock you up as an accessory to agricultural terrorism. Do you know what the penalty is for accessory to agricultural terrorism? It’s the same as if you did the terrorism yourself. By the time you get out of the penitentiary, you’ll be an old man Walt Whitman type writing about leaves of grass. Guantanamo Bay is full of poets just like you.”
David’s throat was dry. He swallowed a lump the size of a grapefruit.
“All right. Just leave the flowers alone now and I won’t say anything. You’ve done enough.”
“I’ll decide when they’ve had enough,” Agent Lugo said, reached into his pocket, and pulled out an aluminum baton. He walked up to the chocolate tree and began knocking its pods off like baseballs. One came flying at David’s head and he ducked just in time.
“What are you doing!? Chocolate isn’t illegal!”
Lugo sighed. “If we only go after the illegal plants, she’ll know it wasn’t the special guests. She’ll know it was a planned attack. We’re making it look random. I’m acting randomly.” He let out a crazed random squeal. “Hwweeeehhhaaiiiii!!!!”
Then he continued whacking at the chocolate pods while Agent Margolis trampled flowers.
They continued to kill the flowers. David couldn’t just stand there and let the Department of Agriculture agents massacre the rare flowers. He had to do something, so he leapt on Lugo’s back, wrapped his legs around his gut, his arms around his neck, and squeezed with a sleeper hold.
“You just made a big mistake, flower boy,” Lugo growled.
Lugo grasped David’s legs to cut off any escape route, flopped down on his back, and crushed David under him. David’s lungs flattened painfully but he kept a tight grip around Lugo’s neck. They wrestled, rolling through the moist tropical soil, steamrolling rare flowers underneath them. Agent Margolis helped his partner by kicking David in the ribs.
Suddenly, everything went pitch black. David thought he was dead. A nuclear terrorist attack had killed him so quick he hadn’t even felt anything.
No. That wasn’t it. Aside from sight, his other senses were there. He felt the piercing pain of Margolis’s steel-toed boot in his groin, smelled the acrid armpit stink of Lugo’s headlock, tasted the bitter mud when Lugo shoved his face into the ground, and heard Margolis voice squeal, “EAT IT!!! EAT IT!!!” His senses became sharper, in fact.
He wiggled away from Lugo’s grip, grabbed the large sturdy branch of the chocolate tree, and tried to pull himself up. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw the two agents as dark figures swimming through the dim, filtered moonlight. All the lights outside had shut off.
David remembered the party and dropped to the ground. “There here,” he said.
“Who’s here?” Margolis asked.
“Didn’t you read the invitation?” David asked. “It’s Howard’s surprise party. We’re all going to jump out and shout surprise.”
David felt his way across the greenhouse, stumbled over stray cocoa pods, and pushed the tin door open. The cool evening air blew over his face. He scurried through the dark, moonlit garden, past the tulips, past the roses, towards the gazebo. The two agents followed after him. Lugo panted heavily and his footsteps were uneven; he seemed to be limping.
“Are you okay?” David asked.
“You should see the other guy,” Lugo said.
“I’m fine,” David pointed out.
Lugo punched David in the mouth. David heard his teeth crunch and tasted salty blood. He barely stifled a scream. He would have kicked Lugo in the shin, but he didn’t want to alert Howard.
“Quit it,” he said and then felt embarrassed at the whiny tone of his voice.
Agent Margolis set a hand on Lugo’s shoulder. “That’s enough,” he said. “We have to hide now. We’ll settle this later…in the ring.”
They got up to the gazebo and saw it was completely stuffed with crouching, hiding people.
“No room fo’ you,” Tyrone said. “You gotta find somewhere else.”
A car door slammed in the driveway.
“Come on!”
David grabbed Lugo and Margolis by their collars and pulled them after him, his eyes darting around, looking for a hiding spot. They dove behind the strawberry bush just as two dark figures rounded the corner of the house towards the garden. Howard’s skinny frame and sunken shoulders came shuffling along next to Elizabeth’s airy glide. It was too dark to make out their faces.
“Can’t you show me tomorrow?” Howard asked. He could speak again, but his voice rasped and crackled.
“I stabbed him in the neck,” David whispered to Agent Lugo.
“Ooooohh,” Lugo mocked. “Scary.”
“Shhhhhh!” Agent Margolis said.
“I want you to see it right now,” Elizabeth said.
“Last time I went in the garden, Florence Nightingale stabbed me.”
“This flower’s special. They just delivered it this evening. You won’t believe your eyes.”
They stopped walking a few feet from the strawberry bush. David held his breath and made his body still.
“Why are the lights off?” Howard asked.
“Because of the new flower,” Elizabeth said. “It only grows in the densest jungles where barely any sunlight can get through. It doesn’t like light.”
“Well, what are you going to do when the sun rises?”
“I’ll put a blanket over it tonight. That’s only a temporary solution, of course. Tomorrow I’ll get it a new greenhouse and paint the greenhouse black.”
“But you don’t have a blanket.”
“The flower deliverers said they’d leave a blanket next to the greenhouse, right next to the door.”
“How am I supposed to see the flower if there’s no light?”
“They also left infra-red goggles for us.”
“All right.” Howard sighed a raspy sigh and started to walk into the garden. “Your gardeners better not have left a rake out. I don’t want to step on it and get hit in the face.”
Elizabeth sashayed after him.
“Please God no,” Agent Margolis murmured. “Not the Congo Skull Blossom.”
“She didn’t really get a new flower,” David whispered. “She’s just saying that to get him into the garden.”
“I can’t take that chance,” Margolis said. He lifted up a pant leg and pulled a small pistol out of an ankle holster. Its cold steel flashed in the moonlight. “We’re making our move.”
Lugo also pulled out a pistol from his ankle holster and the two agents briskly walked after the Framptons. David scurried after them.
Elizabeth walked straight across the lawn towards the gazebo and Howard followed after her.
“Why are we going this way?” Howard asked. “The greenhouse’s over there.”
Suddenly, bright lights lit up the whole garden. David had to shield his eyes. Everyone in the gazebo jumped to their feet and screamed, “SURPRISE!!!” The garbage men popped out from behind the garbage bins and screamed. The baggers came running out of the rose bushes and screamed. Even Lugo and Margolis managed to grunt out a “Surprise.”
Howard straightened up, his eyes popped wide and he looked up at the group in the gazebo. Tyrone, Merrick, Downs Syndrome Bobby, Marcy, and the rest.
David saw that Howard was wearing a grey suit, yellow shirt, and no tie. Thick gauze was taped over his Adam’s apple.
Howard sucked in a couple quick breaths, clutched his chest and a pained expression spread across his face. His eyes rolled back in his skull. He fell over dead, face first onto the grass.
Several people screamed.
“It’s a heart attack!” Marcy yelled.
“Naw, he just fainted,” Tyrone said. “Fortunately, Ghetto Traveler is also a smelling salt. And even mo’ fortunately, I always carry a bottle. Just in case.”
Tyrone ran down the gazebo steps, taking them two at a time, pulled a bottle of Ghetto Traveler out of his jacket pocket, broke the seal, and unscrewed the cap. He slid in the grass, stopping next to motionless body. He waved the bottle under Howard’s nose. There was no response. The professor remained limp, one eye half open, his mouth gaping.
“Well, that’s a first,” Tyrone said disappointedly. “Ghetto Traveler has met its match.”
“Yeah,” said Merrick. “Death.”
Elizabeth pulled out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
Certainly agents of the Department of Agriculture knew First Aid. David turned to the agents, and saw them fleeing out towards the driveway.
“David, do something!” Elizabeth shouted. “You have the most experience!”
David knelt down and pressed two fingers on Howard’s neck. There was no pulse, or maybe the bandage was blocking the pulse. He ripped the bandage off with a single pull, taking out a good chunk of Howard’s neck hair with it. Howard was surely dead; he didn’t react to having his neck hair pulled out, didn’t shout “OW!!!” didn’t even cringe. David pressed two fingers against the scarred throat. Still no pulse. David shook his head sadly.
“CPR him!” Elizabeth shouted.
David didn’t know CPR. He had no First Aid training, but he had seen it done on TV. Now he could redeem himself for stabbing Howard in the neck.
He needed to pump Howard’s heart to get it moving again, but he couldn’t remember exactly where the heart was. During the Pledge of Allegiance, he put his right hand on the left side of his chest. Was that where the heart was or just where the right hand naturally rested? Maybe it was in the center of the chest.
He realized he had unconsciously placed his right hand on the left side of his own chest. Everyone was staring at him, wondering what he was doing and why he wasn’t performing CPR.
He placed his hands on Howard’s chest (halfway between the Pledge of Allegiance heart and the center of the chest) and started to pump.
“One! Two! Three! Four! Five! CLEAR!!!”
He pressed his fingers into the scarred neck.
Nothing. Still no heartbeat.
He squeezed Howard’s hairy nostrils shut and gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Howard’s breath was surprisingly minty-fresh.
But Howard didn’t start breathing again. David continued for several minutes: pumping Howard’s chest and blowing in air while the workingmen looked on.
A siren screamed in the distance. Its wailing got louder until the ambulance crashed through the hedges, its flashing lights lighting up the garden like a strobe light. It skidded to a stop on the lawn.
The back door of the ambulance opened and a burly paramedic hopped down. Another medic, short with a slim moustache on his upper lip, hurried after him, holding a small leather bag. They opened the bag, pulled out a small plastic-coated machine and went to work on Howard, shocking him with a defibrillator and shoving a plastic breathing tube down his throat.
Several tense minutes passed. The burly paramedic shook his head, switched off the defibrillator, pulled out the tube. They started to pack up their equipment.
“There’s nothing more we can do,” the burly paramedic said. “He’s dead.”
“I want a second opinion,” Elizabeth said.
The burly paramedic zipped up his defibrillator bag. “It’s not my opinion,” he said. “It’s a fact. See for yourself.” He gestured at the corpse lying on the grass.
Elizabeth looked down at Howard and shrugged. “Maybe he’s in a coma,” she said. “How would I know? I’m not a doctor.”
“Well I am a doctor and I can tell you: he’s dead.”
“You’re not a doctor,” Elizabeth said. “You’re a paramedic.”
“Same thing. I just can’t prescribe medication.”
“It’s not even close to the same thing.”
Elizabeth called 9-1-1again and asked for another ambulance. They refused to send another. Their policy was one ambulance per emergency. There was no one else to call; 9-1-1 had a monopoly on emergencies.
Soon, the county coroner arrived and pronounced Howard dead. He tried to give Elizabeth the death certificate, but she refused to take it. She wanted a second opinion. The county coroner said she would have to go to another county; he didn’t tolerate second opinions on his turf.
The guests started to shuffle towards the valet; the party had died along with Howard. The baggers stood in line for their short bus.
Tyrone climbed up on the ambulance’s roof. “Stop!” he shouted. “The party has to go on! The professor woulda wanted it that way!”
“No,” Natasha said. “He wouldn’t.”
She was right. He would want them to be miserable.

********

When David got on the bus home, his heart was racing and his palms were sweaty with inspiration. He whipped out his notebook and wrote about the tropical greenhouse massacre, describing it in literal and graphic detail.
When he got into his apartment, he looked over what he had written and realized it was no good. It was too realistic. He had planned to tell Elizabeth what Lugo and Margolis had done; he couldn’t let Tyrone’s friends and the baggers take the blame. But now…he wasn’t so sure.
Anyone who heard his poem would know what had happened, and if Elizabeth in her weakened state found out about the dead flowers, it could drive her over the edge into an abyss of despair, insanity, and catatonia. He had to hide the truth from her, at least temporarily. His plain, realistic workingman style wouldn’t do any good here; he would have to use metaphors.
The goddess of agriculture’s bouncing breasts (Lugo and Margolis—he couldn’t use their real names) burned down the rainforest (tropical greenhouse) killing all the endangered Bengal tigers (flowers) to make living space for farmland (protect America’s agriculture.)
Some day, after he became a famous poet and was long dead, people would look for secret codes in his poetry. They would find the secret meanings. For now, however, if someone starting reading into it, he would have to say, “You’re crazy! It’s just a poem!”

********

The next morning, David was reading his new poem, Jungle Fire, to the tulips, when Elizabeth came up to him. She wore all black, mourning clothes, and her face looked puffy behind her black gauzy veil.
“How are you,” David asked.
“My husband just died,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to read your poem again.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry too. About Howard, I mean.”
She nodded. “Howard wasn’t religious. He wouldn’t want a preacher. I think it would be best if you gave the eulogy.”
“Isn’t there someone else who would be better?”
“No one who’s a poet. I thought you could do it better than anyone else.”
“But I have no experience,” he protested. “I’ve never given a eulogy before.”
But his inexperience wasn’t what worried him—he had no idea what there was nice to say about Howard Frampton.

********

David went to the library to find a book on the subject of eulogies: something like the Idiot’s Guide to Eulogies, or Bereavement for Dummies. He found one helpful book on public speaking that had a chapter on eulogies. It advised the eulogizer to find a life-affirming meaning in the deceased’s life. But what was the moral of Howard Frampton’s life? Maybe it was: don’t round up a bunch of odd-looking strangers and have them jump out and scream at an old man. Especially when he doesn’t know it’s his birthday.

********

Lugo had chipped several of David’s teeth when they were fighting. David grinned into the mirror at his broken teeth and wondered if he should leave them that way. Workingmen didn’t have dental insurance; their teeth were yellow and crooked. Meanwhile, the wealthy winked at each other and smiled with perfect straight white teeth. The emoticon was a semi-colon followed by an end-parentheses.

;)

No. He had to get his teeth fixed. His vanity demanded it. Unfortunately, the health insurance that Elizabeth gave him didn’t cover dental, so he had to get his father to fix his teeth.
He went to Max’s office on the seventh floor. The waiting room was stuffed with people. There weren’t enough seats and many people had to stand.
“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary asked.
“He’s my father,” David said.
The receptionist was new. Max made it a point to fire his secretaries every six months. He didn’t want them getting too comfortable. Patients who came for a checkup twice a year never saw the same one. Max thought this was classy.
“Why do you need to see him?”
David smiled, exposing his shattered teeth. The secretary screamed.
Everyone in the waiting room jumped. The door to the office swung open and Max ran out, brandishing a dental drill.
“What happened?!” he shouted.
David smiled, baring his teeth.
Max walked close, peered into David’s mouth, and grimaced. “They didn’t like the poem?”
“I didn’t get to read it,” David said.
Max gestured to the waiting room. “I’ve got a full schedule. Why didn’t you call ahead?”
“And give you a chance to call Pat Henderson?”
“All right. Come on.”
Max walked back into his office and David followed him. They heard the waiting people complain angrily at this brazen display of nepotism. There was no budging, they claimed. One woman threatened suicide.
In the antiseptic office, David heard the familiar easy listening music. Max thought art should be easy to listen to. Well, David’s art wasn’t easy to listen to. The truth was never easy.
David went over to the sink, took out a disposable toothbrush, and began to brush. Max took stainless steel instruments out of the cabinet and set them on a small table.
“Did you get in a fight with a Venus fly-trap?” he asked.
“No,” David said.
“You know how I feel about fighting.”
“I know. Don’t fight unless you know you can win.”
“Well? Did you win?”
“You should see the other guy.”
“Who did this to you? Was it that old lady? Were you hurt doing some strange flower cult initiation ceremony?”
David couldn’t involve his family in this. He didn’t want to see them in Guantanamo Bay, stacked in a naked human pyramid.
“I can’t tell you.”
“What do you mean you can’t tell me? What are you—a battered woman? Do I need to find you a women’s shelter?”
“I was beat up by an agent of the Department of Agriculture because I tried to stop him from destroying rare, tropical plants.”
Max sighed. “Well, I can’t force you to tell me.”
David spat in the sink and rinsed out his mouth. Then he went and lay down on the examination chair. Max pushed the pedal with his foot, lowering the chair, and fastened a paper bib around David’s neck.
“I’m going to read a poem at a funeral,” David said.
“The guy you were in a fight with?”
“No. Someone else.” David explained how Howard had had a heart attack, and Elizabeth asked him to deliver the eulogy at the garden.
“She made you high priest already?” Max asked.
“High priest?”
“Of your cult. You’re giving the eulogy at a funeral.”
David couldn’t respond; Max was pricking his gums with a needle. The swelling pain of Novocain filled his mouth.
“There’s nothing wrong with religion,” Max said. “Sure, it’s a scam to take money from weak-minded people, but if you’re the one getting the money, it’s fine.” Max worked in silence for a little while before speaking again. “You shouldn’t be in a cult. You should pick a more established religion. Maybe Islam. It’s the world’s fastest growing religion, you know. And Muslims are always dying. They need lots of eulogies.”
Max turned on the drill and went to work.

********

The morning of the funeral was cool and cloudy, threatening rain. Wealthy people from the first party mingled in the rose garden. The workingmen from the second party seemed to prefer the mums.
On the lawn, rows of metal folding chairs faced a small wooden stage. In front of the stage, Howard’s polished oak coffin rested on the exact spot where he had dropped dead: a chalk outline.
Elizabeth stood a few feet from the open coffin, wearing a black dress and black veil, dutifully accepting condolences. Merrick stood next to her to keep the mosquitoes away, but there were no mosquitoes; the cool weather had chased them away. The flies were out, however, and buzzed around Merrick’s head.
David walked up to Elizabeth and tried to think of some comforting words. She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Don’t say a word,” she said. “Save it for the poem.”
David nodded. He had finally decided what to do for his poem. He would stand up on the platform and say, “Howard inspired me to write this poem.” Then he would read My Name is Higgs Boson.
“He was my favorite Physicist,” David said. Then he approached the casket and looked at Howard. The interior of the polished oak coffin was red satin. Howard wore a navy blue suit and tie with a large nineteenth century ruffled collar that completely covered the neck. A neck wound made a bad impression at an open-casket funeral, so the undertaker had been creative in hiding it. Howard looked like a British Lord.
“Never been to a British funeral before,” Tyrone said.
David jumped, startled. Tyrone was standing right next to him.
“He’s not British,” David explained.
“So why’s he…oh, right. You stabbed him in the throat. Still a silly outfit he’s got on, though.”
Tyrone was no one to comment on how other people were dressed; he wore the ugliest brown suit David had ever seen.
“Is that burlap?” David asked, rubbing the coarse material between his fingers.
“It’s sackcloth. Tailored it myself.” Tyrone grinned his gap-toothed grin. “Before there was suits, what’d folks wear to the funeral? Sackcloth! I’m startin’ my own clothin’ line. It’s called Sackcloth and Ashes.”
David had to admit: Sackcloth and Ashes was a classy name for a high-end men’s clothing store. It had a ring to it.
Tyrone scratched his side and frowned. “It’s kinda itchy. That’s the only problem. Scuse me. Lots o’ rich folks around. Maybe I’ll find some investors, want to invest in Sackcloth and Ashes.”
Tyrone walked off to find investors, scratching himself as he walked. David was shocked that Tyrone would use the professor’s funeral as a way to make business contacts. He couldn’t criticize though; he himself was doing the same thing. He had a stack of business cards in his pocket, advertising his poetry services.
David looked back at Elizabeth and saw a thin man in an expensive suit handing her a bouquet of flowers. The man looked familiar (he had been at the first party) and the flowers looked familiar too.
“Please accept my condolences,” the man said and handed Elizabeth the bouquet. Elizabeth took it hesitantly and squinted at the yellow and pink tulips, their stems wrapped together in newspaper.
“Are those mine?” Elizabeth asked.
“They’re for you, yes.”
“That’s not what I mean. Did you steal them from my garden?”
That’s where David knew the tulips from: he read to them every day.
“You’re crazy,” the man said, but he looked nervous and his voice started to skip. “I got them at a flower shop.”
“Which flower shop?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You have a receipt?”
“I can’t show you the receipt. You’d know how much I paid for them. That wouldn’t be right.”
“So if I go over to the tulip patch, I’ll find it intact?”
The man looked around frantically for help, but there was no one to assist him; he was caught. He straightened up and stared straight at Elizabeth.
“I take back my condolences,” he said.
“You can’t take back condolences,” Elizabeth told him.
“And my flowers.”
He grabbed the bouquet of flowers, but Elizabeth held on tight. They both tugged with all their might, grunting and squealing. They dug their shoes into the grass tearing it up. The paper holding the bouquet together tore and the flowers fell to the grass.
Elizabeth stared down at the mangled flowers and her face froze in a catatonic stare. This was what David had been afraid of, what he had been trying to avoid: Elizabeth seeing dead flowers that would send her over the edge.
“All right, fine,” the man said. He knelt down and began gathering the flowers together. “I’ll put them back.”
He stormed off to the tulip patch.
Several people gathered around Elizabeth and tried to console her. David saw that Merrick was also not faring too well: he was surrounded by a swarm of flies and swatting wildly at them. David walked up to him and asked how it was going.
“They’re trying to climb in my ears!” Merrick moaned. “Why are they coming after me? There’s a dead body right there!”
“Shhhhh!” David said.
“What? He’s dead. He can’t hear me.”
“Elizabeth’s right there.”
She was only a few meters away, accepting condolences. She pretended not to hear or maybe she was too upset to notice what Merrick said.
Merrick moved his mouth close to David’s ear and whispered.
“How come they’re not buzzing around him?”
“The mortician probably used special chemicals to keep the bugs away.”
“I need to talk to this mortician. I need some of those chemicals.”
“They’re only for dead people.”
Merrick glared at Howard’s corpse.
“Lucky stiff.”
“You should be grateful you’re alive.”
“What’s with you poets and gratitude?”
“What’s wrong with gratitude?”
A cold, gloomy wind blew through the garden, rustling the tree branches and rushing through flower petals. Dark storm clouds moved in front of the sun, dimming the garden. A couple raindrops drizzled down and then stopped. David hoped the funeral wouldn’t be called off due to rain.
Some people suggested moving the funeral inside, but Elizabeth refused; she was set on having it out in the garden, and it was only a couple drops. She sent someone to bring out umbrellas. She had hundreds of umbrellas in her house for just such an eventuality.
Elizabeth didn’t want to move the funeral inside, didn’t want Howard rained on, didn’t want to close the coffin, and didn’t want to cover him with plastic wrap, so she asked that the casket be carried up into the gazebo. David enthusiastically grabbed the front right side and heaved; glad to move it off its chalk outline spot.
They lugged it up the steps, into the center of the gazebo, and set it down on the duct tape. David’s lower back hurt and he was pretty sure he had a hernia. He had forgotten to lift with his legs.
Natasha was standing by herself over in the cherry blossom grove. David walked over to her.
“How you doing?” he asked.
She burst out in a sob. David put his arm around her shoulder to comfort her.
“He died on his birthday,” she sniffled. “That’s the worst birthday present ever.”
David was about to say, “What about socks?” but he managed to restrain himself.
“At least I’ve got you,” Natasha said, hugging him tightly. “I’m so glad you’re here. You’re like a brother to me.”
David’s heart sank. “Thanks,” he said through gritted teeth.
David looked over to the shadowy pine trees and noticed Tyrone and Loquacious Washington whispering to each other conspiratorially.
“Look at that,” David said to Natasha.
Tyrone reached into his sackcloth jacket and pulled out a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew. Loquacious held out a drinking glass. Tyrone corked the bottle and poured Loquacious a full glass.
“So what?” Natasha said. “They’re having a drink. I don’t see why funerals don’t serve alcohol. They force people to bring their own. I wish I had my flask.”
“It’s not that,” David said. “Loquacious is a teetotaler.”
“A what?”
“She doesn’t drink alcohol. Once, many years ago, she got really drunk and took a solemn vow never to touch alcohol again…and she never did. Loquacious takes her vows seriously. Something is going on here.”
Loquacious glided casually next to the rose bushes, through the crowd of wealthy people. She swirled the wine in her glass and sniffed it, making exaggerated facial reactions. My! That’s some nice smelling wine! I would never expect wine to smell so nice! Suddenly, Loquacious “accidentally” stumbled, fell forward, and spilled her red wine all over the front of a man’s white shirt.
The man looked down at the red stain spreading over his chest pocket. His tie and shirt were ruined. An angry look came over his face.
“You ox!” he shouted. “YOU CLUMSY OX!!!”
“Now Pete, take it easy with her,” a man said, placing a hand on Pete’s shoulder.
“No!” Pete shook the man’s hand off his shoulder. “This is my favorite shirt! It’s filled with sentimental value!”
Loquacious shook her head and clucked her tongue. “That’s a shame,” she said. “Nothin’ gets red wine out.”
“Who drinks wine at a funeral?!” Pete screamed.
“If only we had some Ghetto Traveler,” Loquacious said. “That’d do the trick.”
“Ghetto Traveler?” Pete said. “What’s that?”
Tyrone came running through the crowd, holding out a bottle of his patented multi-purpose cleaning fluid.
“Ghetto Traveler comin’ through!!!” he called. Everyone backed up and gave him some room. Tyrone tore off the cap, and splashed a generous amount of the front of Pete’s shirt.
Pete screamed, tore off his blazer and tie, and ripped at his white shirt. “It burns! IT BURNS!!!”
“That means it’s workin’,” Tyrone said. “The tingling sensation.”
Pete threw his stained white shirt on the grass, swatted at his chest like he was trying to put out a fire. Then he stopped, dropped, and rolled around in the grass. That didn’t help. He jumped up, hooted and hollered and hopped up and down, then ran to the refreshment table and started ladling punch onto his chest with the serving ladle. That was going too slow, so he picked up the glass punch bowl and dumped the pink liquid on his chest. He sighed pleasantly and collapsed to a sitting position on the grass. His chest was now smooth; the punch had rinsed it clean of hair.
“Ghetto Traveler also removes hair,” Tyrone said. “No mo’ nicks ‘n cuts.”
Loquacious knelt down and rubbed Pete’s hairless chest. “So smooth!” she marveled. “Where does one get such a product?”
Tyrone picked the white shirt up off the grass and started to massage the stained area with his fingers, working the Ghetto Traveler through the fabric. The stain faded and then disappeared. Everyone applauded. Pete staggered to his feet, and Tyrone handed him his shirt back.
“Good as new, sir.”
Pete held his shirt up and stared at it, dumbfounded.
“What an amazing product!” Loquacious exclaimed. “Is there anything Ghetto Traveler can’t do?”
Tyrone looked at Howard’s coffin sadly. “One thing,” he said.
Suddenly, the sky lit up with a flash of lightning. Seconds later, an impressive roar of thunder shook the garden and the birds flew out of the trees. Without warning, water poured in sheets. Everyone ran to the nearest available shelter: those closest to the house ran inside, a couple people crouched under the refreshment table, David and Natasha ran into the gazebo, followed by a large crowd that included Merrick, Tyrone, and Loquacious. Soon, the entire gazebo was full. The rain soaked those closest to the edge, so they pushed towards the center. David and Natasha were crushed up against the oak coffin and about to be smothered; they had to climb up on top. David tried not to step on Howard’s neck or face, but his muddy shoes dirtied up the red satin. Howard didn’t seem to mind; his face remained calm.
Lightning crashed so brightly they had to close their eyes, then thunder so loud they had to cover their ears. Natasha grasped onto David tightly. Hail began plunking down on the gazebo’s wooden roof and then the little balls of ice started to fill up the yard. The winds roared and a huge crash of lightning exploded simultaneously with its thunder. The storm was right on top of them. David’s heart pounded and felt like it would explode. They were all about to die. It was the apocalypse. The world was going to end before David got to read his poem.
He grasped Natasha’s shoulders and kissed her forcefully on the mouth. She jerked back at first, startled, but then returned his kiss, passionately. The lighting crashed, the thunder shook the air, and the hailstones pounded the gazebo roof, but all that didn’t seem to matter.
Everyone was frantic, except for Howard who lay there tranquilly. He didn’t seem to mind that the side-sucker was now sucking on his stepdaughter’s face. David wasn’t fooled by the professor’s calmness. His calm demeanor and stoic face seemed to say, “I’m going to haunt you.”
A bolt of lightning cracked inches from the gazebo and Merrick let out a yelp; he had the most to be worried about. Lightning always went after him. He not only absorbed insects, but electricity as well. He was a human lightning rod as well as a human citronella candle. Lighting had already struck him twice in his life. Merrick suspected that this was because there were metal implants in his body, most likely placed there by aliens.
Merrick ran down the gazebo steps and made a mad dash for the house, crunching over the hailstones and slipping through the wet grass. His body jiggled madly as he ran. He was halfway to the house when a bolt of lightning struck him, making an exploding sound and sending him flying ten feet up in the air. He landed on the foldout table, breaking it and sending the deli meats to the grass. There was silence and no one dared breathe as they looked down at Merrick’s limp body, waiting to see if he would move.
Merrick sat upright, his face dazed and his hair frizzy. Two more bolts of lightning struck him in rapid succession, one in the leg and one in the shoulder.
“OW!!!” he screamed. “STOP IT!!!”
Merrick staggered around. David ran out of the gazebo and helped pull his friend inside the house away from the lightning.
Dark clouds drowned out the sunlight, the wind howled, and sheets of rain blew through the open sides of the gazebo. The mourners screamed and rushed for the house, running in a zigzag pattern to confuse the lightning. Elizabeth slammed Howard’s coffin shut and ran after them.
Inside the house, the electricity went out. They lit candles, saw the lightning show in the garden, and heard the wind cackle. Elizabeth lit a silver candelabrum and took it up the stairs with her to go change out of her drenched mourning clothes. The other people didn’t have spare clothes, so they dried off as best they could with towels from the bathroom. Tyrone loosened his tie and took off his jacket; wet sackcloth was quite uncomfortable.
Merrick examined himself by candlelight in the television screen’s reflection. He licked his hand and tried to flatten his frizzy, electrocuted hair, but it was no use; electrocuted hair was hard to tame. Then he tried to angle himself so he could see the reflection of the lightning burns on his back.
“Dat ain’t so bad,” Tyrone said, hanging his wet sackcloth jacket on an umbrella stand. “You gots nuffin to worry ‘bout. Ghetto Traveler’s an excellent salve.” He pulled out the bottle and slathered a generous amount on Merrick’s back.
“IT BURNS!!!” Merrick screamed.
“Means it’s workin’.”
Loquacious lifted up her skirt and scratched her knee. “I have a rash,” she said. “Do you think Ghetto Traveler could help?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Tyrone said.
“Yes it could!” Merrick whimpered.
Elizabeth came down the stairs wearing dryer and more cheerful clothes: jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. She turned to the man who had given her the bouquet. He was sitting on a sofa, holding a blue candle, and staring absently out at the garden. When he noticed Elizabeth staring at him, he quickly blew out his candle and tried to be quiet so she couldn’t find him. It didn’t work. Elizabeth touched her flame to his wick, relighting his candle.
“You,” she said. “You tried to give me my own flowers.”
“Now look, I said I was sorry.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Fine. I take back my apology.”
“I’m the one who should apologize to you. You were right. They weren’t my flowers.” She turned and gazed out at the lightning storm. “They belong to everyone. I was just keeping them locked up in my garden all for myself. And look what happened.”
“Well, okay,” the man said. “That’s very big of you. I accept your apology.”

********

The gray clouds parted and a beam of sunlight shone on the gazebo. The wind died down and a rainbow spread across the brilliant blue sky. David opened the sliding glass door, stepped out onto the patio, and saw that the wet grass had never looked so green. Birds chirped cautiously. Flower petals floated through the flooded lawn. All the flowers seemed to be dead; there was no one left to hear David’s poems. After all his work helping them grow, they were gone. The greenhouses were metal skeletons, their glass roofs shattered. Hail scars pitted the gazebo’s wooden roof, chipping away the white paint and exposing flecks of raw wood. The storm had blown open the coffin and filled it with rainwater. Howard did the back float.
Elizabeth pushed past David and splashed through the flooded lawn. She tripped and fell, going completely under the water and soaking her hair. She leapt back up and ran to the gazebo, ran up the steps, up to Howard’s coffin where she cupped her hands and bailed water. David ran into the gazebo and helped her bail the water. Others joined in. Soon the water level dropped and Howard began to descend back into his coffin.
“That’s the end of the garden,” Elizabeth said, breathlessly bailing water.
“You can rebuild,” David said. “You can get new flowers.”
“No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “After all the tragedy that’s happened here, I couldn’t stand to see the garden anymore. Too many bad memories. Howard choking, Howard dying, Howard’s funeral rained out. I don’t like being here any more.”
David figured she was going to give up the garden and dabble her way on to some new hobby. She was firing him. He would be unemployed, forced to go back to Reggie and beg for his dishwashing job back.
“You can’t fire me,” David said. “I quit.”
“I’m not firing you.”
“I rescind my resignation.”
“Excellent. I have another job for you. I can’t get enough people here into my little garden. If we can’t bring the people to the flowers then we’ll bring the flowers to the people.”
"I'm gonna be a flower delivery boy?"
"No.” She giggled madly. “You’ll still read poetry to them and help them grow. But we’re going to pack up all the flowers and put them on the back of trucks. We’ll travel around the country, drive to small towns, places where the people have never seen a flower before. We’ll share the beauty of flowers with these gray little towns.”
“What about the cactuses?”
“We’ll take the greenhouse. The gazebo too.”
“Why are we bringing the gazebo?”
“You never know when you’ll need one.”
David thought it sounded like fun. Traveling around the country having adventures—it would be just like Scooby Doo. Merrick did kind of look like Shaggy. They just needed a dog. When people saw the flowers, they would quit their jobs to follow their dreams. It would be a great adventure—traveling around the country in a flower caravan, leaving a trail of unemployed people in their wake.
“Merrick will come, right?” David asked.
“Of course. We’ll need someone to keep the mosquitoes away. He’ll always be welcome until he finds out what his dream is.”

********

David went back inside and told Merrick about the plan to take the garden on the road. Merrick moaned and stared at him blankly.
“I’m not going.”
“It’ll be just like the Partridge Family,” David said. “Only without music.”
“You watch the Partridge Family?”
“It was on Nick at Nite. I had insomnia.”
“What if we run into some backwards town where they sit in rocking chairs and whittle wood?”
“We’ll show them the flowers.”
"We don't take kindly to flowers 'round here," Merrick said in his best redneck voice.

********

Merrick ended up deciding to come. Although Merrick wasn’t enthusiastic about a cross-country trip to share the beauty of flowers, Merrick’s parents were. They wanted him out of their basement. Merrick had no choice and reluctantly agreed to come.
David’s family, however, wasn’t so excited about the idea. David called up his father and explained the new job to him.
"So you're homeless," Max said. "I knew this would happen."
"I'm not homeless. I'll be sleeping in a mobile home."
"You're living in a trailer?"
"It's a mobile home."
"So you're white trash now?"
"Movie stars live in mobile homes."
"David, are you in a cult?"
" Of course not!"
"I've been researching this on the internet, and I saw how they do it. They recruit on college campuses. They look for lonely, isolated students, the misfits."
"I'm not a misfit."
"You read poetry to flowers—you’re a misfit.”
“I’m not a misfit. I’m a traveling bard.”
“I read all about these cults. They love bomb you. That's what the experts call it: love bombing. They give you hugs and friendship and drugs and flowers and then you believe any crazy thing they tell you."
"Have you been talking to Pat Henderson again?"
“That man knows what he’s talking about.”
David hung up the phone.

********

David found Tyrone sitting in the back alley, soaking his feet in a kiddy pool.
“I’m leaving town,” David told him. He hoped to convince Tyrone to return his security deposit even though he hadn’t given any notice.
“Goin’ back t’England?”
“No. I’m going to be traveling in a convoy of flower trucks and showing the flowers to people all over the country. Then they’ll see how beautiful flowers are and realize how beautiful life can be.”
“Gonna give ‘em crumpets?”
“No. Just flowers.”
“A travelin flower show?”
“Yes.”
“You got groupies?”
“No.”
“You needs to get you some groupies.”
“Only musicians have groupies. We don’t have music. Just flowers and poetry.”
“Yo man, what you tink music be? It’s poem widda beat. You just needs a beat, then you say the poem, and you got yo’self music. Den comes de groupies.”
Tyrone slapped his palms rhythmically against the seat of his plastic chair and splashed his feet around in the pool.
“Go on man. Act like I a daisy and read me yo’ poem.”
David began reciting his poem about the beautiful flower to the beat that Tyrone made. It sounded good. The combination of David’s lyrics and Tyrone’s percussion was quite catchy.
When they finished, Tyrone sighed and said, “David Hugh. What a’ adventure you is gonna have. Travelin about, showin folks yo’ daisies. Wish ah could join ye.”
“You can. I’m sure Elizabeth would invite you. You can drive one of the trucks.”
“Naw man, it’s a figure o’ speech. I don’t wanna come witcha. Crazy flower people.”

********

David found Elizabeth and Pablo, the head gardener, having a heated dispute next to where the tulip patch had been. There were several dozen potted tulips laying on the lawn; preperations for the flower caravan. Pablo was pulling furiously on his thick mustache and pacing back and forth.
“I have a family here,” he shouted. “I’m not one of your flowers that you can rip out of the soil and put on a truck. I have roots here. I’m not a flower.”
“I know that,” Elizabeth said. “But it’ll be fun. We’ll get to see the whole country and go wherever the wind blows us.”
“The wind’s not blowing me. I don’t like wind.”
“Why Pablo? Why don’t you like wind.”
“Do I look like some kind of leaf that you can just blow off the branch and then rake me?”
“No, Pablo. You’re no leaf.”
“Then stop treating me like I’m a member of the plant kingdom.”
“You want me to treat you like an animal?”
Pablo slapped his hand against his thigh.
“I quit!”
“Are you going to follow your dream?”
Pablo started kicking the tulip pots, sending them up in the air in little arcs. The plastic pots didn’t shatter when they landed, but the dirt spilled out. David was surprised. Pablo was usually the calmest and most mild mannered of all the gardeners. Sure, sometimes he slacked off and just smelled the flowers, but usually he was very diligent and methodical.
David tried to slink away, but it was too late. Elizabeth looked over and saw him.
“Do something, David!”
David froze. Poetry hadn’t prepared him to deal with feral gardeners. Maybe if he recited a poem that made Pablo realize how beautiful the flowers were, Pablo wouldn’t want to destroy them.
Or maybe words weren’t the answer this time. Picking on a flower was a cowardly act and someone had to stop it. David had a special responsibility. Not just because his job was to help the flowers grow, but he had bit the head off of one and needed to redeem himself. Pablo was a bully, picking on defenseless tulips. David stuck out his chest and said, “Why don’t you pick on the cactuses?”
Pablo stopped kicking the tulip pots. He turned towards David with a hard look in his eyes and then looked down at his work boots. David thought that Pablo was about to go into a rhino charge, but then Pablo just turned and walked away, his head hung low.
Elizabeth knelt down, and began to pick up the tulips and return to their soil and pots.
“He took it rather well,” she said. “Some of the other gardeners were really angry.”
Now they needed to find new gardeners. They also needed people who could drive the trucks. David knew of a working class person who might be looking for work.

********

David figured that Marcy hadn’t yet succeeded as a plus-size model and might need a job. He got her home address from the manager of the supermarket for only a small bribe.
Marcy’s apartment looked like the kind of place Tyrone would own. There was a large hole in her wall, next to the refrigerator, as if a wrecking ball had taken one whack and then decided the building wasn’t worth it. A family of pigeons had moved in and covered the carpet with their droppings. David and Marcy sat down at the folding table and Marcy poured them both some steaming hot water.
“I don’t have any tea bags,” she said apologetically.
“You look good,” David said, sipping his hot water. It was true. She looked better. She had definitely lost some weight.
“I look terrible.” She said. “I’m not eating enough. I’m losing weight. If I keep losing weight, I won’t be able to be a plus-size model. I’ll have to be a regular model.”
“You’ll make a fine model, whatever your size,” he said. This was true. She would make a good model. She had already developed an eating disorder. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“I spent all my savings on headshots and plus-size modeling classes. Now I don’t have beef money. I never should have quit my job. It’s hard to become a successful supermodel.”
“You need a job now?”
She nodded. “While I pay my modeling dues.”
“Would you like to drive a truck?”
He explained the plan to bring the flowers around the country, bringing beauty to the people.
Marcy shook her head determinately. “I have to be where superstar agents will discover me.”
“This is the best chance for you to get exposure.”
“Who gets discovered at a truck stop?”
“It won’t just be truck stops. We’ll be going to all sorts of places. My garden is going on the road. We’re going to show the beauty of flowers to whoever will look. Everyone can have the great experience from flowers just like you did. The wind will blow us like leaves. Maybe a superstar agent will rake you up.”
Marcy smiled. “I can be one of those beautiful flowers that brings beauty into peoples lives.”
David smiled back at her. “That’s right.” She could think of herself as a flower if she wanted to, as long as long as he didn’t have to read poetry to her.

********

Most of the gardeners quit. Only Manuel, Frederico, and Hey Zeus agreed to become truck drivers. David recruited Marcy, but they were still short on employees so Elizabeth decided to put an advertisement in the newspaper. She asked David to write the ad, since he was a writer.
David didn’t want to. Help wanted ads were a waste of his creative juices and he hated wasting creative juice. It would start him down the wrong path: the path of writing dry nonfiction, legal documents, and instruction manuals that nobody read. He supposed his close friends and family would read an instruction manual if he wrote it, just to be nice. They would tell him how great it was, how clearly he explained the steps of putting together an electric fan. It would be the first thing he wrote that his father actually liked.
On the other hand, if he wrote the ad, at least he would be published. He supposed a help wanted advertisement counted as being published. Elizabeth was having it printed in all the major newspapers and it would be distributed all over the city.
So David agreed to write the ad. His first published poem was titled: “Help Wanted.” He tried to make it creative. Drivers were wanted, the poem said, like water on thirsty lips. Generous compensation. Generous like a drunken philanthropist. Or a philanthropic drunk. Comprehensive health insurance, covering everything, like the feathers of a penguin, or the burka of a Muslim. Valid driver’s license needed. Needed like the earth needs the rains, the stargazer needs the stars. The salary competitive. Competitive like a sporting event, with balls and sticks and rackets, running, jumping, leaping! Onward Ho Ye Mighty Flower Caravan!
Then there was a phone number for people to call if they were interested. Interested like a narcissist in a hall of funhouse mirrors.
David bought copies of the newspapers and gave them to his family and friends. He was now a published author. Tyrone was impressed. “Makes you tink bout what really impo’tant.”

********

David wanted to show off his first published poem, so he went to his parents’ house under the guise of saying goodbye before his long road trip. He walked across the yard carrying a newspaper under his arm, pushed open the sliding glass door, and walked into the kitchen. Max was sitting at the breakfast table, eating burnt toast and sipping green tea. He looked up at David and frowned.
“You just sneak into people’s houses?”
“It’s not sneaking. I wanted to surprise you.”
“You wanted to give me a heart attack? It won’t do you any good. I already wrote you out of the will.”
“I didn’t want to give you a chance to call Pat Henderson.”
David’s mother Barbara walked into the room and smiled. She gave her son a big hug and kiss.
“How does your garden grow?” she asked. It was how she always greeted him since he started working at Frampton Gardens.
It was a rhetorical question, of course. She didn’t really want to know how it was growing: that agents of the Department of Agriculture trashed the tropical greenhouse and that the storm completely demolished the garden.
“It grows well,” David said.
He helped himself to a mug of freeze -dried coffee (workingman coffee) and sat down at the breakfast table with his parents.
Max frowned and stirred his green tea.
“Have you come to your senses and left the cult?” he asked.
It was a trick question. Either way, if he answered yes or no, he was admitting he was in a cult.
“I’m published,” David said. He stood up and recited Help Wanted for them.
David’s father was not impressed.
“You’re an addict,” he announced. “This poem is a cry for help.”
“No it isn’t,” David said.
“Then why is it titled, “Help Wanted?”
“It’s a help wanted ad.”
“You said it’s a poem.”
“It’s both. It’s functional poetry. The idea that art is just there to look pretty is used by owners to mistreat their employees. Remove beauty from the daily grind and people think their jobs ought to be miserable. Then they tolerate it.”
“And I suppose rhymes are a tool of the oppressor? You know, if you have some hole inside you, there’s pills you can take. Or you can join Islam. It’s the world’s fastest growing religion.”
David shook his head. “Just ‘cause they’ve got a billion people doesn’t mean they’re not a cult.”
“Islam is not a cult,” Max said. “Most of them are decent people who just want the same things as me; just to live in peace and raise children without any of them joining a flower cult. Look what you’ve done to your poor mother. You’re giving her gray hairs.”
“She doesn’t have any gray hairs.”
“She plucks.” Max looked at his wife. “Go on. Show him.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a gray ball of hairs about the size of a tennis ball. She offered it to David. He shook his head. He didn’t want to take it.
“That’s a normal part of the aging process,” David said.
Max shook his head, picked up the hairball, and passed it from hand to hand. “I’ve known your mother for twenty-five years. I know her aging process, and this isn’t part of it.”
Barbara handed Max a manila envelope. He opened it up and pulled out some papers.
“I was speaking with Judge White the other day,” Max said, uncapping a black pen. “He says we can’t have you committed. That it’s only if we can prove you’re a danger to yourself or others. Apparently throwing away your future isn’t sufficient grounds to have someone committed nowadays. You’re an adult now and we can’t make your decisions for you. So you’ll have to sign this.”
Max slid a document across the table and marked an X where David should sign. He held out the pen out and waited for David to take it.
“I’m not having myself committed.”
“It’s only for a couple months,” Barbara said. “There’s a nice place out in the woods. You need to be deprogrammed. Pat Henderson has a deprogramming program. It’ll help you leave the cult.”
David pushed the papers back at Max.
“I won’t sign it.”
“Then you can’t stay,” Max said, putting the pen cap back on. “When you’re in my house, you live by my rules.”
“That’s only if I live here. I’m just visiting.”
“And it was mighty nice of you to stop by. You can take your beverage to go. I’ll get you a paper cup. You’re not taking the mug.”
Max dropped the pen in his shirt pocket, stood up, and strutted to the cabinet above the sink.
“Max no,” Barbara said.
“Oh yes.” He dug through the cabinet, pushing cups and dishes to the side. “Where are the paper cups?”
“We don’t have paper cups,” Barbara said.
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t give coffee to go. Only crazy people and Dunkin’ Donuts do that.”
“Well can you pick some up next time you go to the store?”
“Put it on the list.”
Max took out his pen and scribbled “paper cups” on the notepad on the refrigerator.
“All right, you can take the mug,” Max conceded. “But you have to bring it back next time.”
“I’m not going to be back for a while. We’re taking the flowers on the road.”
“You can keep the mug,” Barbara said.
“But it counts as Christmas and Hanukkah,” Max said. “So they made you into an evangelist? The cult has you recruiting new members now?”
“It’s my job. I don’t say your job’s a cult. I don’t tell you to leave the dental cult.”
“Dentistry is not a cult. I don’t go around the country giving people free dental exams.”
“Maybe you should. A lot of people need dental care. There’s a lot of bad teeth out there.”
“You’re not going to convert me.”
“I’m not trying to convert you.”
“Sign the paper.” Max held out the pen.
“No.”
“All right. I can see we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”
Max ran around the table, forced the pen into David’s hand, and tried to press David’s hand with the pen onto the document. Max had the advantage of surprise and got the pen to make a couple scratches on the paper. But David was stronger; he gained control and began to pull the pen up from the paper. Suddenly, Barbara came to her husband’s aid and together both of them pushed their son’s hand down on the paper.
Sweat poured down David’s forehead and his arm muscles burned as he tried to keep the pen tip off the signature line.
“It’s not legal!” he protested, but his parents paid no attention.
David was out of shape; reading poetry to flowers was his only exercise. Still, he was able to summon one burst of adrenaline. He charged upwards with all his might, knocking his parents back. Something pulled the pen out of his hand. His head smacked into the linoleum floor and he felt suddenly nauseous.
Barbara screamed. David sat up and saw Max staggering against the kitchen table, a dazed look on his face. The pen was protruding out of his neck and a trickle of blood dribbled down from it.
“Now I don’t need your signature!” Max laughed victoriously. “You stabbed me in the throat! You’re a danger to yourself and others, particularly me!”
Max could still speak; David hadn’t hit the voice box. Maybe it had gone into the trachea this time. A successful tracheotomy.
Max grasped onto the pen, gritted his teeth, and pulled.
“Don’t pull it out!” David shouted. “It could be in an artery!”
“He’s right,” Barbara said. “It’s like a bullet. Sometimes it’s better to leave it in.”
“So I have to go through the rest of my life with a pen sticking out of my neck? Wearing turtlenecks?! Even in the summer?!!”
“We’ll get a doctor to do it,” Barbara said.
“Nonsense. I’ll do it myself. I’m a doctor.”
“You’re a dentist,” David pointed out.
“A dentist is a type of doctor. Same thing. I know what I’m doing. It’s like removing a tooth. I just need some Novocain.”

********

David and Merrick strolled around in the cool evening, watching the last of the flowers being packed into the trucks. The garden looked like it had when David first saw it, when the disgruntled poet had torn up all the flowers with a riding lawnmower; all of the flower beds were bare.
When they saw Marcy come along, Merrick was surprised to see her. She would be driving the truck with the greenhouse mounted on the back.
“She’s lost weight,” Merrick pointed out.
“I thought she had anorexia,” David told him. “But she just couldn’t afford food. This is supposed to be the greatest country in the world and yet some people don’t have enough to eat.”
Merrick furrowed his brow and rubbed his chin. Then he said, “I think I have anorexia.”
“You don’t have anorexia.”
“Then how come every time I look in the mirror, I think I’m too fat?”
“You are too fat.”
“It’s not my fault. I don’t like to sweat.”
The sound of an industrial-strength bolt gun boomed through the air. Elizabeth was grooves put into the floor of the gazebo where chairs could be put in. When they entered a town, she would sit up on the gazebo like a conquering general leading them into the battlefield.
“There’s no windshield on that gazebo,” David told her. “You’ll get bugs in your teeth.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and scratched her chin thoughtfully.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’ll have another chair put up there for Merrick. Then he’ll absorb the bugs and they’ll go in his teeth.”
“That won’t work,” Merrick said.
“Why not?” Elizabeth asked.
“My powers don’t work at high speeds.”

********

The truck with the gazebo mounted on top led the convoy down the two-lane highway. It was followed by two dozen trucks filled with the flowers. David read poetry to the flowers through a staticy Citizen’s Band radio. CB radios were installed in the front cabins with the drivers, in the passenger sections where they slept, and in the back with the flowers so David could read poetry to them.
The sunlight rippled through an endless sea of corn on both sides of the road.
David finished up reading his poem. The last line had a metaphor comparing orange Cheeto powder to flower pollen.
Elizabeth wiped a tear. “That was beautiful,” she said.
“Let me talk into the CB,” Merrick said restlessly. “I want to read a poem.”
David tried to hand the CB receiver to Merrick, but Elizabeth snatched it out of his hand.
“You can’t talk on the CB,” she said. “You don’t have a handle.”
All of them had handles, code names that they used to identify themselves over the CB radio. Elizabeth was Grey Goose, Marcy was Butterfly, David was Mr. Mxyzptlk. Only Merrick didn’t have one.
“I don’t want to change my name,” Merrick pouted. “My parents gave me this name.”
Elizabeth was insistent. She wouldn’t let Merrick speak on the CB until he chose a handle. Finally, he conceded and chose the name Toby. For some reason, David found the name Toby hilarious and started giggling uncontrollably.
Elizabeth handed Merrick the CB radio and he recited his poem.
“We got a great big convoy, rockin through the night. Yeah, we got a great big convoy, ain’t she a beautiful sight?”
“You didn’t write that poem,” David said. “That’s the convoy song.”
“No. I wrote it.”
“You couldn’t have written it. You weren’t even born when it was written.”
Merrick continued to recite the song in a droll monotone.
“You gotta join our convoy, ain’t nothin’ gonna get in our way. We’re gonna roll this great big convoy, across the USA.”
“Stop it!” screeched a voice through the CB radio. “You’re singing is horrible.” The voice wasn’t one of the gruff voices of the drivers, but nonetheless, David recognized it immediately. It was the next president of the United States, Down Syndrome Bobby.
Elizabeth grabbed the CB receiver from Merrick.
“Bobby, is that you?”
“Tell him he needs a handle,” Merrick said.
“It’s me,” Bobby said.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m a stowaway.”
“Where are you?”
“With the flowers.”
Elizabeth looked at David with a concerned look in here eye. “There’s no seatbelts back there,” she told him. She pressed down on the radio and told the drivers to pull over to the side of the road.
After the convoy came to a halt, they tried to figure out which truck he was in.
“Bobby,” Elizabeth spoke into the radio. “Bobby, which truck are you in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you describe the surroundings?”
“There’s flowers.”
“I need you to describe the flowers for me.”
“They’re pretty.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“They make me feel warm in my heart.”
“What color are they?”
“Green.”
Elizabeth looked at David. “Of course,” she said. “The cactuses. He’s in the greenhouse.” She pressed the button. “Bobby, whatever you do, don’t touch anything.”
When they opened up the greenhouse and brought Bobby out, his skin was flushed and his grey sweatshirt was soaked with sweat.
“It’s so hot in there,” Bobby moaned. “How do people live in greenhouses?”
“They don’t,” Merrick said. “And you need a handle.”
“Not now,” Elizabeth said. “Let him drink something first.”
They gave Bobby a water bottle and he swallowed it down greedily.
Elizabeth decided he could join them. Who knew when they would need someone to put something in a bag?

********

David stared out at the passing scenery, looking for inspiration. The view didn’t change: corn, corn, corn. An appropriate metaphor for the life of the workingman. Nothing but corn.
Maybe the view didn’t change because they were going in circles. Just like the life of the workingman. The same thing over and over again.
“Just think,” David said. “A thousand years ago, all this was rainforest.”
“No it wasn’t,” Merrick said. “Buffalo didn’t live in rainforests.”
David saw an unpainted shack sat in the middle of a clearing in a field. It’s wood was grey from years of rain.
“Bet they don’t have flowers,” Merrick said.
Elizabeth saw the dilapidated shack and her eyes lit up behind her goggles. She smiled broadly.
“It’s flower time,” she said. She grabbed the speaker for the CB radio. “This is Grey Goose. We’re stopping at the shack over in that field to the right. Everyone to their battle stations. Over.”
A chorus of ten-fours rang out from the drivers.
“We can’t stop here,” Merrick protested. “This is how horror movies start: pulling off the road and going to an isolated farm house.”
“No,” David said. “This is how farmer’s daughter jokes start.”
“I’m serious,” Merrick said. “I saw a movie about this. Some teenagers stumble onto a farm and find out that the farmer grows marijuana there. The farmer points a gun at them and gives them a choice: they can either stay and pick the crop or he’ll shoot them.”
David thought that might not be so bad. If he picked crops in the field, he could really feel the plight of the working man.
“What did they do?” David asked.
“Huh?”
“They picked the crop?”
“I don’t know. I fell asleep.”
The trucks turned into the narrow dirt path, stirring up a cloud of dust.
“It’s just corn,” David said to Merrick, reassuringly. “If it was marijuana, they wouldn’t need our flowers.”
“Corn’s even worse,” Merrick said. “We can’t even smoke it.”
“You can make a corn-cob pipe.”
The caravan pulled to a stop in front of the empty shack and a man in dusty overalls who was probably a farmer walked cautiously out of the rustling corn. David was glad to see the farmer didn’t have a gun in his hand, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one nearby. It could be in his tractor or in the shed. Rural people had guns. Guns and paranoid fantasies. Today, all of the farmer’s paranoid fantasies were about to come true. The flower caravan had arrived.
Everyone got out of the caravan and gathered around the man. The trees swayed in the breeze.
The farmer had broad shoulders and a ruddy complexion. He smiled at them with yellow snaggled teeth. His teeth weren’t just crooked; they weren’t even in the right order. Some of the top teeth were on the bottom and the bottom teeth were on the top.
“Would you like to see some flowers?” Elizabeth asked pleasantly.
The farmer’s smile melted into a frown. “Cain’t ye read the sign?” he demanded, his voice hoarse. “It says no salesmen.”
He pointed at a sign nailed to a tree. But the sign didn’t say no salesmen. It said no dumping. David felt embarrassed for the farmer who was obviously illiterate. Then David felt useless, like a discarded bottle cap. What was his poetry anyway? Just a bunch of words. It didn’t do any good for people so oppressed they couldn’t even understand words. But flowers could inspire even an illiterate hillbilly with their beauty. Another point for flowers over poetry. David should have been a flower arranger.
“Where’d you get the sign?” Merrick asked the farmer.
“You sayin I stole it?”
“We’ve got flowers,” David said quickly, feeling like a hostage negotiator. “We’re not selling them. We just want to show them to you.”
“That so? Reckon if I were to offer you a dolla fer one o’ yer flowers, you’d say no?”
“That’s right,” David replied.
“S’pose I say two dollar?”
“The flowers are priceless,” Elizabeth said. “Bobby, get some flowers out of the truck. We’re going to show this man some flowers.”
Bobby clapped his hands together and skipped over to one of the trucks. Now he would get a chance to use his bagger skills. Although strictly speaking, taking things out wasn’t exactly the same as putting them in.
The farmer spat into the dry dirt.
“You’d best keep your flowers in your trucks. You don’t wanna get your flowers so close or they’ll get sick. They’ll get what my corn’s got.”
“What does your corn have?” David asked.
“The corn sickness.”
“What’s the corn sickness?”
“See for yourself.”
The farmer turned and walked towards the corn. They followed after him. Merrick looked a little pale, like he was worried about catching the corn sickness.
David looked through the thick leaves of the corn and saw little multi-legged creatures scurrying up and down the green stalks. They looked liked centipedes. Or millipedes maybe.
“Corn weevils.” The farmer announced, shaking his head. “They’re eatin’ up the crop. I’ve tried everything. Pesticides, herbicides, every type of poison there is, but the corn just keeps on a-dyin’. I’ve looked at this from every angle there is. I don’t know what else to try.”
“Ghetto Traveler,” David suggested.
The farmer glanced at David and then glanced at the shed, probably where he kept his gun.
David doubted Ghetto Traveler would kill the bugs. It would probably just kill the corn.
“How do you keep the bugs away from your flowers,” the farmer asked.
“We have Merrick,” Elizabeth said. “The bugs go after him and leave everyone else alone.”
“Wish I had a Merrick,” the farmer said.
Elizabeth scratched her head and then nodded.
“I suppose you could borrow him until the harvest.”
“No,” Merrick said. “Take David. He’ll read poetry and the corn’ll grow. Your corn just needs love.”
The farmer shook his head and spat on the corn. “That corn gets enough love as it is. From the bugs. They just love corn.”
“I love corn,” Bobby said and clapped his hands.
The farmer sighed. “I suppose I should invite you to spend the night. That would be the hospitable thing.”
“It’s only ten in the morning,” Merrick said.
“You’re early then, ain’tcha?
“I suppose you can sleep in the barn,” the farmer continued. “There’s hay you can sleep on.”
“We can’t stay the night,” Elizabeth said. “We have to get going as soon as we show you the flowers. How many people are on the farm?”
“It’s just me.”
“You’re all alone.”
“I’m a hermit.”
No one said anything for a moment. Then Merrick asked, “Why?”
“I forget. Seemed like a good idea at the time. But now…I just don’t know. It gets lonely, being a hermit.”
“Don’t you have any family?” Elizabeth asked.
“None to speak of.”
“Do you have a daughter?” Merrick asked, looking towards the shed.
The farmer spat at Merrick’s feet. “You takin a census?”
David’s heart leapt. Census. David got nervous when people used words ending with the letters U and S. What if the hermit said censi? What if things got plural? Fortunately, there were no censuses around to hear this surveyal slur, but still, David had to lighten the mood.
“No family, eh? That might not be such a bad thing. My family’s pretty crazy. But you must have some friends, right?”
“Nope,” the hermit said. “No friends.”
“Loser,” Merrick muttered.
“What was that?” One of the hermit’s eyes almost popped out of his head.
“The luge,” David said, coming to Merrick’s rescue. “The Olympic sport in the winter. Like the bobsled, only faster. He called you a luger. On the bobsled, there’s four people. On the luge, there’s only one. You’re a luger. All alone.”
The hermit’s lower lip quivered.
“Always wanted to be in the Olympics. That used to be my dream. Then I became a hermit.”
“Why don’t you join us?” Elizabeth suggested. “You can follow your dream of being in the Olympics. We’re all following our dreams here. Marcy’s going to be a plus-size supermodel, David’s going to start a revolution with his poetry, Merrick’s going to…” She trailed off for a moment but then started up again. “Bobby. Bobby’s going to be president.”
“Yaaay!” cheered Bobby.
The hermit peered closely at Bobby and then shook his head. “You can’t be president.”
David cringed. Hermits were so politically incorrect. You weren’t supposed to point it out when someone had Downs Syndrome.
“Why not?” Bobby asked.
“President has to be American,” the hermit said. “You’re a Mongoloid.”
A light breeze rustled through the corn stalks. David could actually hear the corn weevils chewing on the stalks.
The hermit nodded. “All right. I’ll come on your flower caravan.” He looked around at them appraisingly. “Who wants to be on my bobsled team?”
David didn’t want to be on the bobsled team. He shrunk in his shoulders, trying to disappear so the hermit wouldn’t pick him to be on the bobsled team.
“I’ll be on your bobsled,” Marcy said.
David didn’t know if that would work. He doubted Marcy would be able to squeeze into a bobsled. Plus he was pretty sure that men’s and women’s bobsled were separate Olympic events; there was no co-ed bobsled. Although he couldn’t be sure. David didn’t know much about sports. He was a poet.
“I guess I should invite you inside for a cup of tea,” the hermit said. “I suppose that would be the hospitable thing to do.”
The hermit turned and walked towards the dilapidated shack. They followed after him. David saw that Merrick looked a little pale, possibly worried that being a hermit was contagious.
Maybe Merrick already had hermit. He was basically a hermit in his parents’ basement, just sitting there, strumming his guitar. Merrick rode the proverbial luge.
“Merrick,” David whispered. “You should be on the hermit’s bobsled.”
Merrick looked at him and squinched up his brow.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“It’s good exercise. You need the exercise.”
“It’s not exercise. You just sit there.”
“You have to shift around, back and forth. You have to scrunch up inside the hollowed-out log to cut down on the wind resistance.”
“I’m not getting in a log with him.”
They went into the shack. The place was a real dump. It looked like the kind of place Tyrone would own. It had a dirt floor littered with broken glass. A torn blanked covered a lump of dried straw that looked dry enough to draw blood.
The hermit set a blackened kettle on a small portable gas stove which he then lit with a match.
“Hope you like corn tea.”
“That will be fine,” Elizabeth said.
David looked at the selection of mugs resting on a wobbly wooden table. They all seemed to have a black mold growing on them. It was inspiring. If only David could spend the night there, drinking corn tea, he felt sure he could get a good poem out of it. He picked up a mug with a good amount of black mold and sniffed. Plight. It smelled like plight. David realized he didn’t know the hermit’s name; didn’t know whose plight he was smelling.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The hermit opened his mouth to speak but then froze. His eyes went wide. He seemed to have forgotten his name. The hermit looked embarrassed and David felt embarrassed for him.
“I’m David,” David said. He’d stall for time. He’d introduce everyone and maybe by the time he finished introducing a couple dozen drivers, the hermit would remember his name. “This is Merrick. Toby actually. He has two names.”
“He has two names?” The hermit said petulantly. “Why’s he get two names?”
“One’s his handle.”
“I ain’t got a handle. I ain’t got nothin to hold onto. Can’t even remember my name. And he gets two?”
The kettle shook in the hermit’s hand, his lips trembled, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears.
“Don’t cry,” Elizabeth said. “You can have one of Merrick’s names.”
“What!? No!!” Merrick kicked at a pile of dried corn cobs, sending them scattering. “You’re giving my name away?”
“Let him have Toby.”
“No! Toby is my name!”
“Toby,” the hermit mused. “Yeah. That’ll do nicely.”
David couldn’t help giggling. Toby was such a funny name. Merrick shot David an angry glance.
“So Toby,” Elizabeth said to the hermit, “Is there a place close by where we can find more people? More people like you?”
“Ain’t nobody like me. I’m unique, like a snowflake.”
“Other people we can show the flowers to?”
“There’s a little town up the road a stretch. Sometimes I head there to trade corn for some sour candy and licorice. But they don’t like flowers there.”
“Really?”
“Don’t remember ever seein a flower there. Not a one.”
“Well, that’s about to change.”

********

The caravan sped down the road toward the town. David read a poem to the flowers through the CB radio about how everyone was a snowflake, everyone was unique, and when they came together with other snowflakes, they became snow and made a path for the bobsled. David wasn’t sure what the bobsled was a metaphor for, but it sounded good. He tried to focus on his poem, but was hard to concentrate with Merrick and Elizabeth arguing.
“Why’d we bring him along?” Merrick asked. “What do we need with a hermit? Are we going to bring everyone along that wants to follow their dream? The caravan is cramped enough as it is.”
“We need someone who knows how to take care of flowers,” Elizabeth said. “Especially since we lost Pablo.”
“How can he take care of flowers? All his corn died.”
“Because you wouldn’t help him. You should have made the bugs come after you.”
“I couldn’t. I can’t tell the bugs what to do. If I could, why would I tell them to bite me? I’d send them to picnics to steal me sandwiches.”
“You can’t stop the bugs from getting in our teeth either. Apparently you’re losing your powers. You’re having a slump.”
“Why does he have to be Toby? Toby’s no name for a hermit.”
“He’s not a hermit anymore.”
“He can be Herman. Herman the hermit. Or Kermit. Kermit the hermit. Oh, gimme the CB. I just made a poem.”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “You can’t talk through the CB until you have a handle.”

********

Just before entering the town, they stopped the caravan. They bolted chairs inside the gazebo and David, Merrick, and Elizabeth sat in them.
As the caravan entered the narrow street of the small town, a group of dirty barefoot children ran alongside it, leaping like gazelles. The truck slowed down so as not to run them over. The children reminded David of wild animals on an undiscovered continent that had never seen people before and hadn’t yet learned to be afraid of them. David felt like he was sitting on a tank instead of a gazebo, looking down at the newly-liberated people. Except they wouldn’t be greeting him with flowers—he would greet them with flowers.
David smiled and waved at the children.
“Candy! Candy!” they shouted.
“It’s not a parade float!” David called back. “It’s a gazebo.”
“Candy! Candy!”
David turned to Merrick.
“Merrick, give me some candy.”
“I don’t have any.”
“I just saw you eating Mentos.”
“Mentos aren’t candy. They’re breath mints.”
“No they’re not. Anyway, your Mentos are fruit-flavored.”
“No.”
“Come on. I’ll get you some new ones.”
“Merrick,” Elizabeth said. “Give the children some candy. We have to make some sacrifices.”
“Why am I the one who always has to make the sacrifices? I had to give up my name. Now you want me to give up my Mentos?”
“We’re guests in their town. We should be nice.”
“We’re not guests. We’re strangers. They can’t take candy from strangers.”
“Come on, Merrick,” David pressed. “You have a whole back full of candy. Throw them some.”
“What about stranger danger?”
“Merrick…”
“Fine.”
Merrick pulled a Snickers bar out of his knapsack and threw it at the children. It hit a little girl in the face. She slumped to the ground like a sack of flour and knocked up a cloud of dirt. Her pigtails bounced on the ground a couple times and then were still.
“You killed her!” Elizabeth shouted.
“What did you do that for?!” David screamed. They had just arrived in their first town and had already killed someone.
“You told me to throw it at them.”
“I told you to throw it to them! Not at them!”
Elizabeth grabbed the CB. “This is Grey Goose. We’re pulling over. There’s been a casualty.”
Merrick shook his head frantically. “Just keep driving!”
“No. We’re not doing a hit and run.”
“So we’re gonna do a hit and stop?! That’s even worse!”
“Maybe we can help her.”
“How? With flowers?”
The caravan screeched to a halt. David pulled off his goggles and scarf, tore off his seatbelt, and hopped down the stairs of the gazebo, landing with a tooth-jarring shock on the rocky ground. He ran up to the little girl. She was sitting up now and had a large bump the size of an egg on her forehead.
A little boy’s round face was smeared with chocolate and he was licking the last of the Snickers out of the torn wrapper.
The girl looked up at them dreamily.
“Are you carnies?” she asked.
“No,” David said. He would check to see how bad the blow to the head was. He didn’t know first aid, but he figured he’d better do something before Slim Henry tried the Heimlich maneuver. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“The thumb isn’t a finger.”
“I’m not holding up my thumb.”
She squinted closely at his hand. “So you ain’t,” she said wonderingly.
“I’ll just wait in the van,” Merrick said.
David saw that Merrick was looking towards the end of the street as if he was expecting an angry mob to come over the horizon at any moment with torches and pitchforks. David doubted that would happen. It was early afternoon and the sky was clear; there was no need for torches. And nobody used pitchforks anymore. This was the twenty-first century—there were more advanced ways of checking for fugitives hiding in stacks of hay.

********

There was an empty square in the center of town where most of the foot traffic passed through. It was the best place to set up. They parked the truck with the gazebo on it in the center of the square, took the flowers out of the other trucks, and made a large circle of flowers on the ground around the gazebo. That way folks could stand in the gazebo, out of the sun, have a cold beverage, look down, and get a good look at all the flowers. The gazebo also made it seem more like a permanent garden and less like a show that packed up and left. They weren’t carnies, after all.
The townspeople peered out of the small shops lining the road and gawked at this strange new sight. Some approached for a closer look, and some even hopped up onto the gazebo for a bird’s-eye view. For many of them, David supposed, this was their first time seeing a flower. They had probably only heard about flowers before in storybooks.
Bobby brought out rare African violets, Marcy set down a basket of roses, Toby helped with the poppies, David set down a large tub of purple petunias, Hey Zeus lugged out a cactus, and Elizabeth wheeled out the dandelion cart. Everyone pitched in and helped set up the flowers. Except for Merrick, of course.
“You want to help?” David asked him.
“Not in my job description,” Merrick swatted at a swarm of mosquitoes swirling around him.
“You can help and absorb the mosquitoes at the same time. A little hard work might take your mind off the mosquito bites.”
“I would prefer not to.”
“Come on Bartleby. It’s good exercise.”
“I’m conserving my electrolytes.”
A car came crunching up the gravel road. It was a police car but its lights weren’t flashing. It rolled slowly towards them and jerked suddenly to a stop, just inches from the Mongolian mums. The driver’s door swung open and a short, wiry man slid out. He wore a tan policeman’s uniform, two ivory-handled guns in a worn leather holster, and a shiny star pinned to his chest. The policeman took off his mirrored sunglasses and squinted his beady eyes. Tan lines tattooed the shape of the glasses to his face. He put the sunglasses back on, and turned his head towards David.
“Howdy,” David said pleasantly.
“Carnies?” the policeman croaked out.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Why does everyone keep asking us that? Did you have some problem with carnies?”
“No and we aim to keep it that way. Now who are you?”
“David. Who are you?”
“I’m Sheriff Cody.”
David’s heart jumped. They were going to be arrested for assaulting a little girl with a Snickers bar.
Sheriff Cody’s handshake was soft and wet. David tried to suppress a shudder. It felt like an eel was sliding over his palm.
“You carnies?” Sheriff Cody asked.
“No,” David answered. This town had something about carnies.
“Sure about that?” the sheriff asked.
“Yeah.”
“Not carnies?”
“We’re not carnies.”
“Are you a motorcycle gang?”
“No.”
“We don’t have any motorcycles?” Merrick pointed out.
The sheriff looked at the trucks and squinted his eyes. “What you got in those trucks then?”
“Flowers,” David said.
“What sort of flowers?” the sheriff asked suspiciously. “Motorcycle flowers?”
“Beautiful flowers,” David said, wondering what in the world motorcycle flowers were.
“And what do you plan to do with these so-called beautiful flowers?”
“Inspire people to see how beautiful life is. So that they’ll follow their dreams.”
“So it’s a revival meetin’ then?”
“No.”
“You’re a faith healer then?”
“No.”
“I love gettin’ saved.”
“I’m not a faith healer.”
“I’ll go get Gimpy Barry. He needs a healin’. That boy just sits in that chair.”
Sheriff Cody turned on his heel and started to walk away.
“David,” Elizabeth whispered into his ear. “Are you sure you can do this? Gimpy Barry isn’t a flower.”
“Of course I can’t. I’m just a poet.” David ran after the sheriff. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I can’t heal a crippled person. I’m not a faith healer. I’m not here to preach. We’re not having a revival.”
“Gimpy Barry’ll be disappointed. And that boy’s had more than enough disappointment. I guess one more won’t make much of a difference.” Sheriff Cody sighed. “Well then, who are you fellows?”
“Well, I’m a poet, he’s a human citronella candle, he’s a hermit…”
“Former hermit,” Toby corrected him.
“Right. Former hermit. Now he’s a future gold-medalist in the bobsled…”
“You carnies?” the sheriff asked. His face was dead serious. He seemed to have forgotten that he had already asked this question.
“No,” David explained patiently. “Our trucks are stuffed with flowers. We came to show them to people and inspire them to realize how beautiful everything is.”
“You Muslims?”
“No.” David shook his head.
“I am,” Toby said.
“Really?” David was surprised. He never would have suspected that this ex-hermit and future gold-medalist was a Muslim. It just went to show that you couldn’t judge by appearances. Muslims looked just like everyone else. They weren’t all Middle Easterners with turbans and long beards.
“Are you a moderate?” the sheriff asked cautiously.
Toby shrugged. “I guess.”
“What’s in those trucks?”
“Flowers,” David said. He decided not to mention the cactuses. It might set the sheriff off. “We just want to share the beauty of flowers with you. Can I show you?” David turned to walk to the truck.
“Hold it.” The sheriff grasped David’s shoulder. “You got a permit to show those flowers?”
“No. We didn’t know we needed one.”
“Well, now you know. ‘Fraid you can’t be showin’ any flowers. You need a flower-displaying permit to display your flowers, beautiful or otherwise.”
David felt his anger growing. Usually he tried to sublimate it into a tight little ball in the pit of his stomach, and release it in his poetry, but every once in a while some of it slipped out, like what was happening now.
“There’s no such thing as a flower-displaying permit!” he shouted. “There wasn’t any permit fee when you thought we were revivalists! You’re just trying to run us out of town!”
“Easy there fella,” the sheriff said. “I can sell you a permit.”
Elizabeth pulled David away from the sheriff. “Let me handle this,” she said.
David took a few steps away and let her handle the sheriff. He was embarrassed that he let his anger take over. His hands were still shaking.
“That’s very kind of you, Mister Sheriff,” Elizabeth said. “How much is the permit?”
“How much you got?”
David was wrong. This wasn’t Canada. It was communist Russia. Oh well, at least it was one of the tundra countries. They’d be able to find a bobsled. David kicked dust at an imaginary umpire. Everyone in the flower caravan looked shocked that a sheriff would abuse his position in this way. Only Elizabeth didn’t seem to understand what was happening. Her face remained pleasant and uncomprehending, her head slightly tilted, her eyelids flickering erratically, and a merry grin plastered on her face.
“That’s nice,” she said. “You charge on a sliding scale so that no one is turned away. Well, I’m very rich. Charge me the maximum.”
David suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous. He was sure he was going to pass out or have an epileptic fit.
“The maximum, eh?” the sheriff squinted at her like he was a carnie, trying to guess her weight. How much could he squeeze out of her? “The maximum is get out of town. You’re not havin’ no flower picnic or whatever you call it. You’re gonna pack up those flowers back on your trucks and get outta town right this minute.”
“Why?” Down Syndrome Bobby asked. “Why don’t you like flowers?”
“Oh, I like flowers just fine.” Sheriff Cody shot a gap-toothed smile down at Bobby. “Sometimes I go for long strolls in the meadow just to look at the flowers. What I don’t like is folks who think they’re better’n us, lookin’ down on us an’ our lives, presumin’ that we need to look at their flowers.” He snatched off his sunglasses and glared at David. “I don’t like you comin’ into my town, presuming to have yourself a flower show. Not even askin’ permission first, just settin’ up your flowers.”
“May we have a flower presentation?” Elizabeth asked politely.
“No. You mayn’t. It’s too late for that now.”
“Please?”
“Not even pretty please with a spoonful o’ sugar on it. You ain’t havin’ a flower show, no way no how.”
David took a deep breath. The sheriff was a hard man, but flowers and poetry would win the day.
“Didn’t you ever have a dream?” David asked.
“I have a dream,” the sheriff said, doing his best Martin Luther King impression, “that one day you will pack up your flowers. You will put them back in your trucks. You will drive away and never look back. I have a dream today!”
Several of the onlookers from the town giggled uncomfortably.
David said, “I don’t suppose you like bobsleds?”
The sheriff’s eye’s bulged in their sockets.
“You want me to lock you up?!”
David considered this question. He had never been in jail before. It would be a great chance to experience the plight of people so downtrodden that they had to turn to crime.
On the other hand, he knew what they did to poets in jail. He would have to find a patron to protect him from the other inmates. But the patron would demand favors in return. Flowery favors.
On the third hand, it would make a great story to be put in jail because of his poetry. To actually be locked up for his writing! That would certainly help his career.
David straightened his back, lifted his chin, and stared down the sheriff. “We’re not going anywhere,” he said, “until you smell these flowers.”
“Funny thing,” the sheriff said. “I’m suddenly feeling all stuffed up. Fraid I won’t be able to smell anything.”
The sheriff pulled a pair of handcuffs off his belt.
David looked back at the rest of the flower caravan and saw them backing away slowly. “Come on!” he called to them. “Stand your ground. He’s only got one pair of handcuffs. He can’t arrest us all.”
“I can use a rope,” the sheriff said.
David didn’t think the sheriff was planning to tie their hands with the rope. There was going to be a hanging. The sheriff was going to take him for a stroll in the meadow and use him as flower fertilizer. At least David’s poetry would become famous if he was killed for it. Everyone would read his poetry then. Artists became more famous after their deaths. He would become like Socrates, Galileo, and Curt Kobain.
David breathed deeply and looked at the bright cloudless sky. He was about to be martyred for his belief in poetry and flowers. He hoped he would die well, but knew he probably wouldn’t. If only he had known he was going to die today, he would have fasted and cleared out his system; then he wouldn’t soil himself at the execution. Dirty pants took some of the glory out of martyrdom. That was probably why they let death row inmates have whatever they wanted for their last meal: to humiliate them.
The sheriff pressed his hands down on the ivory handles of his twin pistols and spoke coldly and deliberately. “Don’t make me get the volunteer fire department.”
David’s heart sank. The threat was clear: the firemen would spray the flowers to death with a fire hose. (Or maybe use buckets of sand; David didn’t see any fire hydrants.) Sheriff Cody had found their caravan’s weakness, the Achilles Heel, kryptonite, the part that was as delicate as…well, as a flower. David thought this was cheating: getting the fire department to do the police department’s job.
When David looked over at a row of geraniums, he saw their sad petals drooping slightly and knew he couldn’t allow anything to happen to them. He would have to swallow his pride for the sake of the flowers.
“All right.” He met the sheriff’s gaze. “You win this round…”
“Ain’t no second round. This ain’t no two-out-of-three-falls cage match, kid. This is a Texas-Death-Match and you lose. You just go on, git, git, and git gone.”
David detected a slight wavering in the sheriff’s voice. Maybe he was bluffing and there was no volunteer fire department. Why would a town so small need one? The houses didn’t look particularly flammable; they were made of stone. And who would be on the volunteer fire department? Gimpy Barry? Joey Bob the fake sheriff?
No. They would have to pack up and go. Even if there wasn’t a volunteer fire department, it would be easy for the sheriff to round of a posse of firefighters to put out this fire: the fire of flowers.
THE FIRE OF FLOWERS! David’s face lit up. Inspiration struck in the strangest of places. There was a poem in this. David started to compose it in his mind. The fire that no posse can lynch. Flower Fire: unquenchable, unlynchable, un…somethingable.
“What are you grinnin’ at?” the sheriff demanded.
David hadn’t realized he was grinning. That happened sometimes in a fit of creativity: he lost all sense of his physical body and got all tingly. The sides of his face ached from grinning.
“Thank you sheriff. You’re my muse.”
The sheriff took a step back. He looked uncertain and a little afraid. Then he breathed deeply into his chest, spat on the ground, and ground the spittle into the dry earth with his boot heel.
“We ain’t no relation.”
He clicked open the handcuffs and approached David. He snapped the cold metal around his wrists.
Just then, a dirty white van pulled up into the town square and skidded to a stop. David recognized it as the same white van that had been tailing them on the highway.
“Who’s that?” Sheriff Cody asked David. “Your reinforcements?”
“No,” David said. “They’re our groupies.”
The van parked. The side door slid open and about a dozen people slid out, their eyes vacant, their clothing unwashed. The men had scraggly beards and the women had knotted, unkempt hair. They were the grubbiest bunch of people David had ever seen.
Each person carried a wooden stick with a piece of white poster-board taped to the end of it. David smiled so broadly that his face hurt. It was a strike! They were going to picket! Finally, the workingman was standing up and refusing to take it anymore.
Then David saw what was scrawled on the poster-boards and his heart sank.
“Stop the Flower Show!” one sign said in angry red marker.
“Set the Flowers Free,” said another in navy blue.
“Animalists Go Home!”
“Plant Rights Now!”
“Born Free!”
“Tear down the gazebo!”
It wasn’t a strike; it was a protest. And the protest was against them, against their flower show.
The protestors thrust their picket signs like spears. One hefty young woman in an orange dress handed out homemade Xeroxed pamphlets to the confused townspeople. A townie in a straw hat politely accepted the pamphlet and scratched his whiskers. Was this part of the show?
Elizabeth stomped straight up to the oldest protester, a thin man with stringy gray hair.
“I know you!” she shouted. “You stole my begonias!”
The gray haired man jumped back but then quickly composed himself. He smiled and David saw his teeth were yellow with black spots. “No I didn’t,” he said. “I liberated them. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do too. I know it was you. Why don’t you go away, leave us be, and let us have our flower show.”
“We have a constitutional right to do express our opinion.”
“The Founding Fathers never intended this.”
Natasha was shaking her head and looking down.
“You know them?” David asked her.
“The Founding Fathers?” Natasha said.
“No. The protesters.”
“Sure. They’re just some crazy cult that always harassed us. They don’t think people should own flowers. They say we shouldn’t keep them in captivity.”
That was pretty crazy. David thought they needed to enter Pat Henderson’s deprogramming program. He wished he had brought some of those pamphlets with him. Maybe if someone splashed Ghetto Traveler in their eyes…
“I’ll talk to them,” David said.
“Don’t get too close,” Natasha warned. “They might have rabies.”
David, wrists still in handcuffs, walked up to the man with stringy gray hair.
“Look,” David said. “There’s no need to protest. We’re just trying to inspire these nice people here. We’re sharing the beauty of flowers.”
“Sharing the beauty of flowers?” the man scoffed. “That’s a nice euphemism, but they’re not yours to share. How would you feel if someone shared the beauty of you?”
“Flattered, I guess.”
“You wouldn’t be flattered if someone owned you, if you were his property. You can’t own plants.”
“They’re not mine,” David explained. “They belong to Elizabeth.”
“No,” Elizabeth corrected. “They belong to everybody. We’ve come to share the beauty with everyone else.”
“No,” Gray Hair said. “They belong to nobody. They only belong to themselves. You can’t keep plants in captivity. It’s wrong.”
The protesters cheered and thrust their signs.
“It’s not captivity,” David said. “It’s soil. It’s their home.”
“It’s a flowerpot,” Gray Hair said. “Flowerpots are flower jail.” He turned up his head and shouted, “FLOWERS YES! FLOWERPOTS NO!”
The rest of the protesters picked up the chant and thrust their picketing signs.
“FLOWERS YES!!! FLOWERPOTS NO!!! FLOWERS YES!!! FLOWERPOTS NO!!!”
They continued to chant and the townspeople stared at them; they had never had such action in their sleepy little town. Larry Shoemaker, the driver of the gazebo truck, picked up a potted orchid and prepared to launch it at the protesters.
“Flowerpots yes,” he said.
“Don’t!” Natasha shouted and grabbed Larry’s arm in mid-throw. Larry didn’t get a good follow-through and the orchid only reached halfway to its intended target (the protester’s skull) before it shattered on the ground.
“Don’t lower yourself to their level,” David said.
“What? You’re just gonna stand there and let them get away with this?”
“No. I’m not. But I’m not going to use violence. I’m going to use poetry. Just let me try.”
Larry shrugged. “Go for it.”
David tried to get the protesters attention, but they were still chanting, “FLOWERS YES!!! FLOWERPOTS NO!!!”
“QUIET!!!” David screamed. It felt like he tore something in his throat.
There was an instant hush. David recited The Fire of Flowers:

Forest Fire:
Tropical rain forest fire
Burning the dense gray jungle of tedium and oppression
to make room for Agriculture.
The crop is not corn, but fields of flourishing flowers:
a harvest yielding truth, love, and beauty.
The Great Chicago Fire of Flowers:
a cow knocks over a lantern and burns down the city,
the cow is a poet
his udders squirt the milk of poetry
that drips off tender petals
and down the sturdy stem
the calf is a flower
suckling milky verses from the poet’s torso
Traveling Arsonists Shouting:
Fire of Flowers in a crowded theatre
yellow pollen sparks
kindle dried-out hopeless hearts
Burning, blooming, billowing
lighting up the Earth like Jupiter, a big ball of flaming gas.

It had sounded better in his head, before he said it out loud. David had been a little apprehensive about some of his metaphors, particularly the one comparing himself to a cow. It might seem a little arrogant, putting himself in the poem. He hoped that they liked it.
“What was that?” Gray Hair asked. “Was that supposed to be a threat?”
“No. It was a poem,” David said.
“It didn’t rhyme.”
“It doesn’t have to rhyme. And who says threats can’t rhyme?”
“You said you’re going to burn my house down. That’s a threat.”
“No I didn’t. I said that the Fire of Flowers is going to burn down the forest.”
“Well, I live in a forest.”
“Really.”
“Yep.”
“You’re a hermit?” David asked. “Do you know Toby?”
Then he realized it was a silly question. Just because he was a hermit didn’t mean he knew all the other hermits.
“I’m not a hermit. We all live together. We have a cabin in the forest.”
“Well, I wasn’t talking about your forest. I was using the forest as a metaphor.”
“A metaphor? So it’s a veiled threat. It’s still a threat.”
“No it isn’t. What I was trying to say was…”
David trailed off. He had promised himself that he would never become one of those poets who said, “What I was trying to say was….”
“Sheriff,” Gray Hair said shrilly. “We’re peaceably assembling here, as is our constitutional right, and this right wing extremist is threatening to burn our house down.”
“I’m not a right wing extremist,” David said. “I read poetry to flowers.”
“So did Genghis Khan,” Gray Hair said. Then he explained his theory about how people shouldn’t hold plants in captivity.
Sheriff Cody rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He looked down at the flowers, looked at David, looked at the protesters thrusting their signs, looked back at the flowers. “What have I done,” he muttered.
David saw that the sheriff’s eyes were filled with tears.
The sheriff straightened himself up and wiped his eyes. “You’ll have to pardon my tears,” he said. “I’m allergic to carnies.”
“Carnies?” Gray Hair asked.
“You,” the sheriff said.
“I’m not a carnie. I’m a Plant’s Rights Activist.”
“Do you have a permit?”
“A permit? No.”
“Well, don’t fret. I can sell you one. Ask me how much.”
“How much?”
Sheriff Cody slapped Gray Hair in the face with the back of his hand.
The protesters gasped as Gray Hair fell backwards, landing on his rear end in the dusty street. He rubbed his face and glared at the sheriff.
“Now git,” the sheriff said. “Get out of my town. I don’t like long-haired, dirty hippies tellin’ us we can’t look at flowers. Those flowers are beautiful, and if you can’t appreciate it, then you’re the one who’s Genghis Khan.”
Gray Hair stood up and dusted himself off. “We’re not going anywhere!” he screamed. Some of the other protesters clearly wanted to go; their knees were knocking and they kept glancing at their van.
“Don’t make me get the volunteer fire department,” the sheriff said.
The gray haired man laughed this threat away. “We have a right to make our voices heard,” he said, shooting spittle with every word. “We shall not be moved.”
The sheriff shrugged. “All right. You asked for it.” He turned towards the assembled townspeople and asked them, “Is there anyone here knows how to put out a fire?”
“Water!” called one person.
“Yeah! He’s right!” called another. “Water’s the way to do it!”
There was a chorus of agreement. Water would put out a fire nicely.
“That’s not what I meant!” the sheriff said. “I’m askin’ fer volunteers to help put out this fire. The flames of these here flower-haters.”
“Oh boy!” shouted one young freckled lad. “There’s gonna be a dousin’!”
They all cheered and volunteered to help.
The sheriff slapped a meaty palm on David’s shoulder. “Tell you what, son. You got a choice. You join the volunteer fire department and I’ll pardon ye’. You won’t have to go to jail. What’s it gonna be?”
David’s childhood dream was to be a fireman; even as a young boy he had empathized with the workingman. You didn’t get more workingman than fireman. Now he finally had the chance.
“I’ll do it.”
“Great.” The sheriff unlocked the handcuffs and slid the cold steel off David’s wrists. He rubbed his sore wrists.
“You don’t have a hose, do you?” the sheriff asked him.
“No.”
“Neither do we. This could be a problem.”
“We have watering cans,” Teddy Schweitzer, the driver of the tulip truck, pointed out.
The sheriff nodded. “That’ll have to do. Follow Travis. He’ll show you where to fill up.”
They grabbed some watering cans and followed the lanky, bowlegged Travis over to a faucet. Some stood in line waiting to fill up. Others went into the buildings to find a sink.
While they were filling up their watering cans, the protesters were making preparations of their own. They took several lengths of rusty chains out of the back of the van, and dragged them over to the gazebo. They began chaining themselves to the wooden gazebo posts.
“Ouch!” said the slim young woman being chained to one of the front posts by the stairs. “Randy, these chains hurt! Why’s it always have to be chains? Why can’t we use rope? Or handcuffs?”
“Quit whining,” Gray Hair said, tightening her chains. “It’s for the greater good.”
“But Randy, why do they have to be so rusty. Now I’m gonna get tetanus. And I already had a tetanus shot. I don’t want another.”
The townspeople and caravan people lined up in formation in the street, holding containers of water: watering cans, buckets, vases. The sheriff bent into the driver’s seat of his police cruiser and switched on the siren. Flashing red lights lit up the square. This was the bugle that started the charge; the townspeople started walking towards the gazebo. Everyone was there. Even the little girl with the pigtails, apparently over her concussion, carried a small glass of water.
The protesters started to chant.
“PLANTS ARE NOT YOUR SLAVES!!! PLANTS ARE NOT YOUR SLAVES!!! PLANTS ARE NOT YOUR SLAVES!!!”
When the townspeople were just inches from the protesters, and about to drench them, there was an earsplitting scream.
“AAAAIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!”
Everyone turned and looked. Rolling toward them at great speed was a man in a wheelchair with pencil-thin legs and massive arms that pushed the wheels frantically. He zoomed towards the protesters at top speed, lifted up the fireman’s axe from his lap, and began to swing it over his head. His eyes gleamed madly.
“Barry! It’s Barry!” the townspeople called.
This must be Gimpy Barry, David thought, the one they wanted him to heal.
Barry soared right at the protestors, swinging the axe with his powerful arms. They dove out of the way to avoid his powerful axe chops, and then scurried away in all directions. The young woman chained to the gazebo screamed hysterically.
The skinny freckled lad ran after Gray Hair, holding a paint-splattered aluminum stepladder like a battering ram. This wasn’t a proper fireman’s ladder, but it worked just as well to get cats out of trees or anti-flower protesters out of town. He came to a sudden stop, set the ladder upright, and kicked it open. He climbed to the top step, jumped off the ladder, and dropkicked Gray Hair in the back of the head. Gray Hair fell forward and hit the ground face first. The crack of his jaw breaking echoed through the town square.
Everyone used their watering cans to soak the protesters. Only Larry Shoemaker used his tin watering can to hit a pudgy young protester over the head.
Gray Hair, grabbing his bleeding mouth, leapt into the driver’s seat of the van and started the engine. The others leapt in as it started to move. Those who were chained up wiggled out of the chains like Houdini and rushed to the van. They all managed to get inside and slam the door as Gray Hair drove away.
“Fascists!” the protesters shouted behind them, except for Gray Hair who couldn’t speak because of his broken jaw.
Gimpy Barry threw his axe at the van, hitting one of the back tires, and popping it with a loud bang like a gunshot. The van sped away, one back side dragging, the metal frame shooting out a trail of sparks. David expected the gas tank to explode, but it didn’t and they drove out of sight.
A big cheer went up from the townspeople and they shook their watering cans high in the air. The sheriff bent into his police car and turned off the siren and flashing lights.
“Now,” he said. “LET’S SEE SOME FLOWERS!!!”
The townspeople picked up the potted flowers and danced around with them, circling around the gazebo. Even Gimpy Barry danced, doing wheelies in his wheelchair. Then he pulled himself out of the wheelchair, stood on his head and walked on his hands, his legs flopping limply to the side. There was talk of setting this date as an annual festival. Even Merrick managed to seem happy, dancing around with a giant potted sunflower.
Only David felt deflated. The protestors had spoiled the metaphors in The Fire of Flowers. In his poem, the flowers were the fire that burned away the timber of evil. Now the fire was the protesters (the force against the flowers) and the volunteer fire department put out the fire. The poem was ruined. David was no longer a cow.
“What’s wrong?” Natasha asked him. “You look like you’re gonna cry.”
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“I know what you need,” the sheriff said, placing his hands on David’s shoulders as if to start a Congo line or give him a massage. “Flowers!”

********

They were driving along a long stretch of narrow highway, surrounded by barren rocky fields on both sides, when Larry Shoemaker’s voice came over the CB radio.
“Hitchhiker up ahead. Should we stop and pick ‘em up? Over.”
David looked and saw that the hitchhiker wasn’t a man, but a skinny, mangy dog panting along the shoulder of the road.
“Grey Goose here. He looks all alone. Let’s stop and take a look. Over.”
“Roger that.”
The trucks slowed and pulled over. Most of the flower caravaners got out and approached the yellowish-brown dirty mutt, but Derrick stayed up in the truck.
“Be careful,” he said. “It might have rabies.”
“It’ll be fine,” Natasha said. She leaned down and stroked the dog’s brown floppy ears.
“He’s foaming at the mouth!” Derrick shouted.
“It’s not foam.” Natasha giggled as the dog licked her face. “It’s slobber.”
“It’s the same thing! You’re gonna have to get a series of painful injections in the stomach!”
Natasha ran her hand along the side of his dirty yellow-brown coat where his ribs pressed out. The mutt looked up at her with sad brown eyes.
“Poor thing,” Natasha said. “He’s starving.”
“Derrick, give him a candy bar,” David said.
“No!”
“Come on.” David jumped back inside and went for Derrick’s satchel, but Derrick pulled the bag away protectively.
“He won’t even taste it!” Derrick complained. “He’ll just wolf it down!”
“He doesn’t need to taste it. He needs the nutrition.”
Derrick grudgingly unwrapped a Snickers bar and tossed it to the mutt who swallowed it like a pill.
“He doesn’t have a collar,” Elizabeth said. “Who do you suppose he belongs to?”
“He’s an orphan,” Natasha said. “Let’s adopt him.” She and the dog both looked at Elizabeth with pleading eyes.
David figured the dog was abandoned. His working class owners couldn’t afford to put dog food in his bowl, so they had to get rid of him. They didn’t want to take him to the pound where he’d be put to sleep, so they released him into the wild, where at least he’d have a fighting chance. Maybe some wolves would find him and let him join their pack.
Well, they were right, except this pack of wolves was a flower caravan.
“I hear dogs look like their owners,” David said. “He must belong to us. We’re a mutt. People from all walks of life: poets, hermits, plus-size models, citronella candles, orphans. All mixed together.”
They decided to take him along; he became the newest member of their flower caravan.
“What’s his name?” asked Larry Shoemaker.
“Spot,” David said. “Or Rover. It should be something simple. This is a workingman’s dog, not some fancy pampered pink poodle named Foofie.”
Toby the hermit had a suggestion. “Let’s call him Derrick.”
“No!” Derrick shouted. “That’s my name! It’s the only one I have left!”
“I have a good name for him,” Elizabeth said. “We should name him in honor of my late husband, Howard.”
Elizabeth was the boss, so they named the dog Howard.

********

They drove from town to town setting up the flower show. It was always the same routine and always without much luck. No homicidal sheriffs tried to run them out of town, but they didn’t get any ecstatic receptions either. Everyone told them how “pretty” the flowers were, but no one wanted to drop everything and join an aspiring bobsled team. Elizabeth thought they were cursed.
They ate at greasy little truck stop diners. Since Elizabeth always picked up the tab, Merrick always ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. All of the truck stop diners were similar: a layer of grease coated every surface: the tables, the plastic-tiled floors, the plates, the silverware. It was as if they used deep-fat fryer grease for mop water and to clean the table-tops and dishes, their own multi-purpose cleaning fluid, a truck stop Ghetto Traveler.
David’s shoes stuck to the plastic tiles and made suction cup sounds when he lifted his legs. He wanted to get in touch with the working people so he took off his shoes and socks, and walked around, leaving greasy footprints on the plastic tiles until the waitress told him to stop; the health inspector demanded the wearing of shoes.
Just like the gardeners and caterers before them, the truck drivers shunned David and Merrick, thinking that reading poetry to flowers and absorbing mosquitoes wasn’t real work. David hoped this would change with time and the truckers would accept him as one of their own. Dian Fossey wasn’t accepted overnight when she joined a tribe of gorillas. These things took time.
And Dian Fossey’s parents probably didn’t support her decision to join the gorilla tribe. They probably called Pat Henderson (or a Pat Henderson equivalent) and he probably told her that she was addicted to Anthropology.
David and Merrick were sitting alone at a window booth facing the highway. Merrick took a packet of Sweet n Low from the sugar carrier and rolled it around in his hand, grinding up the crystals inside into a fine powder. Then he packed it back in with the other sugars and Sweet n Lows.
“Stop that,” David said. “People are gonna use those.”
“So? I’m not hurting it.”
“You shouldn’t manhandle other people’s food.”
“I’m not manhandling, I’m not even touching it. There’s a wrapper between me and the Sweet n Low.”
“People are gonna see it’s all powdery and they’ll think there’s something wrong with it.”
“What’s the difference? It’s all gonna dissolve anyway when they put it in their coffee.”
“Just stop doing it, okay? As a personal favor to me, stop grinding up the Sweet n Low.”
Merrick threw a packet of Sweet n Low that hit David on the nose and fell in his minestrone soup.
“Sorry,” Merrick said. “Got carried away.”
He plunged his fingers into David’s minestrone soup and pulled out the pink packet of Sweet n Low. He wiped the reddish-orange liquid off with a paper napkin and squeezed the packet back into its container.
“Don’t put it back!”
“Why not? I wiped it off.”
“You got the Sweet n Low all soupy!”
“No I didn’t. It’s inside the bag. And there’s a wax coating inside to protect the granules.”
“You still shouldn’t put it back.”
“You want me to waste it?”
“I can’t eat my soup now after you stuck your hand in it.”
"Why not?”
“You’re disgusting. I’m going to go sit with Toby.”
David hopped up and stormed over to the booth where Toby sat alone. Toby was still a hermit even within the caravan. His only friend was Howard the dog. The truck drivers didn’t like him because Toby would never order off the menu. He wasn’t used to such a wide range of food and always asked for corn. Just plain corn on a plate. “Who does he think he is?” the truckers would grumble. “A movie star?”
“Hi,” David said, sitting down.
“Hi,” Toby mumbled.
“So,” David said, trying to start conversation. “You’re a Muslim, eh?”
“Yep.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“I converted.”
“Oh.” David watched Toby spoon corn into his mouth with a soup spoon. “Was that before or after you became a hermit?”
“After,” Toby said. “There was this fella travelin’ through. First I thought he was a salesman. I don’t like salesmen.”
“Right. I know.”
“He stopped an’ tol’ me all bout his religion, how all I had to do was believe on this Jesus feller and be saved. So I figured, what have I got to lose, so I went and joined.”
“Oh.”
“Yep.”
Toby took a big spoonful of corn and chewed it up happily.
“I think you might have converted to Christianity,” David said.
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s a different religion.”
Toby shrugged. “I get ‘em all confused. Bein’ a hermit, sometimes I mix things up. And the corn don’t correct me.”
David felt disappointed. Now he couldn’t say that one of his friends was Muslim. It lessened his desire to befriend Toby and made him wish he hadn’t sat down at the table in the first place. He felt uncomfortable for the rest of the meal.

********

David was washing his hands at one of the truck stop diners when two men entered the bathroom and locked the door behind them. They wore blue jeans, faded flannel shirts, and had several days of stubble on their faces. They looked exactly like truckers, except for their matching black briefcases. It was agents Margolis and Lugo from the Department of Agriculture.
"What do you want?" David said. "We don't have any illegal flowers."
Lugo raised his hands in a harmless expression.
"Didn't say you did. We're here for something else."
Agent Margolis pressed the button on the electric hand-dryer and it blew out hot air. David didn't want to accept any special favors, so he wiped his hands dry on his pants.
"Write any new poems?" Lugo asked.
David doubted they had come to hear his poetry, but he wasn't going to turn down a chance to read for a human audience. He pulled out his notebook and cleared his throat.
"This one's called The Fire of Flowers."
"Give it here." Lugo held out a pudgy hand.
"I'll read it to you."
"No. I'd rather read it myself."
David had become used to reading his poems to others. (Flowers couldn't read to themselves--they were illiterate.) But Agent Lugo was right: a poem had to stand on its own and couldn't depend on a poet's stage presence. Ultimately, a poem was just words on paper, alone against the world.
David flipped to the finished version of The Fire and Flowers and handed Lugo the notebook.
"Thanks," Lugo said. "I needed some reading material." He walked into a toilet stall, closed the door, and dropped his pants.
"Hey!" David shouted. He kicked the stall's door, but it was locked. "Give that back!"
"There's no toilet paper," Lugo said.
"Use your socks!"
Agent Margolis popped open his briefcase and pulled out a pocket-sized packet of tissues, which he slid under the stall's door to his partner.
"Thanks," Lugo said.
Margolis pulled a black binder out of his briefcase, slammed it down on the corner of the sink, and started flipping through pages of photographs.
This time it wasn't pictures of flowers, but rather pictures of people.
"Do you recognize her?" Agent Margolis asked.
The woman in the picture had her arms up and was screaming, her long blonde hair fluttering behind her. She was on an amusement park rollercoaster. David had never seen her before so he shook his head.
"You're sure?" Margolis pressed. "She wasn't at the protest?"
"What, you're spying on them now!? It's illegal to protest!?"
"When did you join the ACLU?" Lugo grunted from inside the stall. "From what I hear, you hosed them down pretty good."
"I didn't have a choice. They made me join the fire department."
"It's a volunteer fire department," Lugo said. "Of course you had a choice."
"David," Agent Margolis said softly. "Do you know what the PLA is?"
David shook his head.
"It's an acronym," Margolis explained. "It stands for Plant Liberation Army. It's the militant wing of the so-called Plant Freedom Movement. They're terrorists, the prime suspects in a string of flower shop burglaries. They "liberate" the flowers." He made quotation marks with his fingers. "Take them from "captivity" and "return" them to their "natural environment," off in a forest or meadow. Most of the flowers can't even survive in the "natural environment.""
“Ooh God,” Agent Lugo moaned painfully from inside the stall.
“You all right in there?” his partner asked.
“No, I’m not. This poem…it’s terrible.”
Agent Margolis snickered under his breath and flipped pages in the notebook. The next picture was of an obese, florid man walking along a beach and eating a submarine sandwich. Agent Margolis glared at the picture hatefully.
"This is Terry "the terrorist" Grawgowski," he said. "The brains behind and spiritual leader of the PLA. A notorious terrorist. He's number one on the most-wanted list."
"I thought that was bin Laden."
"That's the CIA's most-wanted list. We're the Department of Agriculture. We have our own list."
"Number one on the most-wanted list?!" David scoffed. "For a couple broken windows at a couple flower shops?!"
"They don't just want to free flowers. They want to abolish agriculture. They think growing corn or wheat in rows is a form of captivity."
"So why don't you just arrest them?"
"We can't find them. They live in the forest. They subsist by hunting and gathering and refuse to eat anything grown by agriculture. Only time they leave the forest is to do a terrorist attack. Makes them hard to catch. That's why we need to find a connection between the terrorists and the protesters."
"Don't you think you're overreacting? I mean, spying on protesters? Even if they want to abolish agriculture, how much damage can they really do? Shoplifting a few potted plants?"
Agent Lugo burst out of the stall, hitching up his pants and waving the notebook wildly.
"They're terrorists!" he shouted. "They want Americans too afraid to set foot in flower shops, to drive hardworking florists out of business. The Red Chinese'll take over the global flower market. Is that what you want?" He poked David in the chest with the notebook. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"I'm on the side of poetry and flowers."
"Well if the terrorists get their way, there won't be any more poetry and flowers. When the PLA abolishes gardens, you'll have to go out in the forest if you want to read poetry to flowers."
David gulped. This was exactly the type of poet he didn't want to be: a Romanticist, sitting on a log in the forest, writing poems about Nature.
There weren't even any workingmen in the forest for him to inspire. Except for lumberjacks, of course.
Of course! He could be a poet to the lumberjacks! By day, he would chop and saw and shout "Timber!" In the evenings, he would write poetry to inspire his fellow lumberjacks; make them realize that the forest really belonged to them.
"Do they think lumberjacking is a form of agriculture?" David asked.
The two agents shared a confused glance.
"The PLA," David said. "Do they consider lumberjacking a form of agriculture?"
Lugo shrugged. "They only attack soft targets like flower shops and botanical gardens. They don't bother large men with axes. The terrorists are cowards."
David remembered how the protesters had scattered when Gimpy Barry came at them with the axe. Cowardly.
"There's more," Lugo said. "We suspect they're trying to develop a nuclear weapon."
"They're hunters and gatherers," David said. "How are they going to develop a nuclear weapon?"
"It's a chance we're not willing to take."

********

“The scent of your pollen makes me feel like a honeybee,” David said. He was reading a poem to Natasha. The poem talked about how if he were a honeybee, he wouldn’t take her pollen back to the hive to make honey for the queen—he would run away from the hive and keep all the pollen for himself.
David told Natasha that she was the inspiration for the poem, that the flower was a metaphor for her. This was a lie. The poem was about an actual flower in the flower show.
He hadn’t meant to lie to her. It just slipped out. David felt guilty for lying to her. It took him several days to build up his courage to tell her the truth. He told her in one small town as people looked at the beautiful flowers.
"You know that poem about the beautiful flower?" he asked her.
She smiled. "Did you write a sequel?"
"There's something I have to tell you about that poem."
Her face dropped and she nodded her head. “I knew it was too good to be true. You didn't write it, did you? It’s just like Cyrano de Bergerac. Some hunchback with a gift for poetry is in love with me. He got you to pretend that you’re him.” She shook her head. “It was Derrick, wasn’t it?”
"No, I wrote it, but the poem isn't about you?"
"There’s another girl?”
“No.”
“It’s Marcy, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Oh God, it’s Elizabeth.”
“There’s no other girl. The poem’s about a flower. A real flower."
"I'm not a real flower?"
"You are, but not in the biological sense. I’m talking about a real flower, with cell walls and photosynthesis.”
"What are you, some kind of pervert? A flower pervert?"
"No."
"Is that why you read poetry to them?"
"It’s my job."
“And you enjoy this job, don’t you?”
“I didn’t mean to deceive you. But you just assumed the flower was a metaphor for you and I didn’t want to tell you it was an actual flower, that I wasn’t using a metaphor.”
"Aren't poems supposed to have metaphors?"
"You sound just like my father. Poems don’t have to have metaphors. I’m trying to be realistic so working people can see real beauty, not fictional beauty. Flowers have beauty you can touch and see and smell, not an imaginary made-up beauty that you get after you die if you behave yourself and respect the private property of your oppressors."
After this, Natasha wouldn’t speak to him. Not a word passed between them as they traveled around the country showing the flowers.
David was devastated. In one small town, he sat in the dirt next to the potted tulips, weeping as he read to them. He improvised the poem as he went.
“You’re ugly,” he told the tulip. “Nobody loves you. All you do is soak up sunlight and nutrients from the soil. Everybody hates you. Why don’t you just kill yourself and leave the nutrients for other flowers?”
The weather was mockingly perfect—warm sunshine and a refreshing breeze. Puffy clouds painted the rich blue sky. Birds sang happily to each other in the trees. They weren’t alone. Only David was. He popped the flower off its stem, shoved it in his mouth, and chewed up the bitter petals.
Later he tried to make things up with Natasha.
“The flower I wrote the poem about,” he said. “It’s dead. I killed it.”
This didn’t help. It only made things worse.
“Stay away from me, creep,” she said.

********

One day, as they were packing up the flower caravan, they found Howard the dog lying under the tulip truck, curled-up and twitching, wheezing like an asthmatic.
“I told you he had rabies,” Merrick said. “I think I have it too.” He wiped his own mouth with the back of his hand, checking for foam. His hand was dry; he wasn’t foaming at the mouth, yet.
“David, do something for Howard,” Elizabeth said.
“Why me?”
“You have the most medical experience.”
She was right. He had given Howard (the professor) a tracheotomy, unsuccessfully, and performed CPR, unsuccessfully.
Using his best bedside manner, he knelt down and gazed reassuringly into Howard’s crusty, hopeless brown eyes. He choked when he got in range of Howard’s noxious dog-breath. Hopefully, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation wouldn’t be necessary. Maybe it couldn’t even be done. How could you form an airtight seal over a dog’s snout?
The dog was definitely sick, but David didn’t know with what.
“I’m gonna have to refer him to a specialist,” David said.
“Excellent,” Elizabeth said. “What sort of specialist.”
“A veterinarian.”
They threw Howard into the truck and sped towards the vets. When they got there, Toby ran in with Howard in his arms. David ran in after him. The receptionist asked if they had an appointment.
“We’ve got a sick dog here,” David said.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked, twirling her hair.
“It’s an emergency!” Toby shrieked.
“Fill these out.” The receptionist dropped a stack of forms on the counter.
Since David was a writer, he filled out the forms. He worked as quickly as he could.
Finally, they were admitted into the office. The vet, Dr. Erwin, had a thick yellow beard, big blinky eyes, and scruffy hair. He looked over the form that David had filled out.
“He’s been vomiting blood?” the vet asked.
“No,” David said.
“You wrote here that he’s been vomiting blood.”
“That’s a metaphor.”
“A what?”
“It’s a literary device. It’s when you…”
“I know what a metaphor is. What’s it doing on the description of symptoms?”
David stared down at his shoes. Finally a chance when his literal workingman style would come in handy and he didn’t use it. He was so used to using metaphors that he did it unconsciously.
“I’m a sellout,” David admitted.
“Now, don’t be so hard on yourself, son,” the vet said. “At least you didn’t drink antifreeze.”
“Antifreeze?”
“But your dog did.”
“What?”
“Yeah. That’s what I said.”
“There was an antifreeze leak in the tulip truck the other day,” Teddy Schweitzer said. “He musta licked it up off the pavement.”
“Why would he do that?” Natasha asked.
“’Cause it tastes so sweet,” the veterinarian said. “Antifreeze tastes great. Dogs can’t get enough of it.”
Doctor Erwin pulled down a chart which showed a cross-section of a dog’s internal organs. Only the dog’s face wasn’t cross-sectioned. It was a grinning Golden Retriever with a perfect set of white teeth. The vet pointed at the chart with a stick that looked like it was used to play catch.
“Once antifreeze reaches the liver, the liver separates it into different chemicals. One of those is chloroform, a toxic chemical that causes death.”
“Chloroform,” David said. “That’s the thing on the rag that knocks people out?”
That was also one of Ghetto Traveler’s many uses.
“Once the Chloroform gets to the kidneys, it does more than knock you out,” the vet said. “It destroys the kidneys, leading to the four Ds: dizziness, drunkenness, depression, and death.”
“What can you do?” Natasha asked.
“If noticed immediately, I could have made him throw up and put charcoal in his stomach to soak up the antifreeze. I also could have administered a drug that would make his liver not separate the antifreeze.”
“Stop livin’ in the past, Doc,” Toby said. “What can we do now?”
The vet shook his head. “He’s in the late stages of antifreeze poisoning. There’s nothing I can do. I recommend that you make your peace with him. This is the end.”
Toby knelt beside the gurney, wrapped his arms around the dog, and sobbed violently.
“Aw Howard! I’m sorry I let you drink antifreeze! I wish I had played catch with you more often. I wasted my life.” Toby started to beat fiercely on his own chest. “I never realized until now what was really important! All those years I wasted in my hermitage! I love your dog breath!”
He kissed Howard on the forehead. He sniffed, wiped his nose, then he wiped the dog’s dripping nostrils.
A dying dog was like poetry and flowers. It made people think about what was really important in life.
Dr. Erwin cleared his throat. “Yep,” he said, rubbing his fingers together. “Nothing I can do.”
Natasha glared at him. “Are you asking us for a bribe?”
The vet shrugged. “I gotta earn a living too.”
Elizabeth gave him a ten dollar bill.
“Well now, let me see.” The vet rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose I could give him dialysis. But it’s not gonna be cheap.”
Elizabeth held out another ten dollar bill.
“That’s not going to cover it.”
“Do you take credit cards?” Natasha asked.
“Of course.”
The vet hooked Howard up to a dialysis machine, a crazy contraption of tubes and needles.
“This is just temporary,” the vet said. “He’ll need a kidney transplant. It’s tough to find an organ donor. It has to be a DNA match. An appropriate blood-type. Preferably someone from the same family. Does he have any family members?”
“He’s a hermit,” Toby said.
“He means he’s an orphan,” Natasha said. “We’re the only family he’s got.”
Dr. Erwin nodded sadly.
Toby sighed deeply. “All right. I’ll do it. I’ll donate a kidney.” He started to unbutton his shirt.
“You can’t give him a kidney.”
“But we’re his family! The only family he’s got!”
“The donor has to be a dog.”
“Why?”
“It greatly decreases the chance that his body will reject the new organ if the donor is of the same species.”

********

David, Merrick, Natasha, Toby, and the rest of the flower caravan waited nervously outside the operating room at Animal Memorial Hospital.
Elizabeth had found the best veterinary canine renal surgeon in the world, and flown him in from Milwaukee. Dr. McGee told them not to worry; he had never lost a dog. This was a joke of course, referring to “lost dog” posters. In reality, the majority of Dr. McGee’s canine patients died when he operated on them.
Toby paced around nervously. Natasha worried that they would send her back to the orphanage if something happened to Howard. Elizabeth was devastated at the prospect of losing another Howard. Marcy looked at her reflection in the window. She shifted around, trying to get the best angle. David tried to write a poem in his notebook, but he couldn’t concentrate. His mind kept jumping around.
He started reading a poem to the plant in the lobby. It was a plastic plant, but it was the only plant around.
Dr. McGee came out the swinging doors into the waiting room. The chest of his blue scrubs and his plastic gloves were covered in blood. He pulled down his paper face mask.
“I have good news and bad news,” he said. “Which do you want first?”
“The good news,” Natasha said.
“No. Take the bad news,” Merrick said. “Get it out of the way.”
“Take the good news,” David said.
Toby said, “I suppose we could all use some good news, what with Howard bein’ sick an all.”
The surgeon nodded and clapped his hands together, splattering blood in all directions. “The good news it is then! But first, I’d just like to say how nice it is to meet you people. And really, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter if the operation was a success or not. What’s important is that we bring kindness and happiness to those around us.”
“Doctor. What’s the good news?” Natasha prodded.
“The good news is that Howard is going to live. His condition is stable and his vital signs are strong.”
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. David hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.
“What’s the bad news?” Merrick asked.
“Follow me.”
Dr. McGee turned and walked through the swinging doors. They followed after him through the door and down a stark hallway.
“The kidney transplant was a success but we have to stop his body from rejecting the new kidney later on, so he’ll have to take immunosuppressive pills. These drugs will suppress his immune system so that the immune system won’t reject the new liver. However, without an immune system…”
“It’s like AIDS,” David said.
“Exactly like AIDS,” the surgeon said. “Only without the stigma.”
They stopped at a medical supply closet. Dr. McGee went in and brought out a large clear plastic ball, about waist-high. There was a part that could flip open on the side. It looked like a giant hamster ball.
“This is the bad news,” Dr. McGee said and started to bounce the ball. “He can’t be exposed to other dogs and their germs. If he catches the common cold, he could die. Whenever he’s around other dogs, you’ll have to put him in this bubble. It’s state of the art, lets air in, but completely waterproof and germproof. As long as you keep giving him the immune-suppressive drugs and keep him in the bub...”
Dr. McGee’s voice cracked and tears filled up his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he sniffled, wiping his eyes with his bloody hand. “It’s just that, all these dogs drinking antifreeze. I just can’t take it anymore. It’s driving me crazy. All these sick animals. All I see is sickness and death. I just…”
His voice caught; he couldn’t continue speaking. He collapsed on the bubble and sobbed onto it, slamming his head against the plastic ball, over and over again. He turned his head up, opened his mouth wide, and screamed:
“ANTIFREEZE!!!”

********

Smiling Acres Animal Hospital in Milwaukee, Wisconsin had the most exclusive rehabilitation program in the world for dogs that drank antifreeze; only the wealthiest could afford to send their dogs there. There were no Dalmatians. Firemen couldn’t afford to send their dogs to places like this. (Howard was lucky his owners were only volunteer firemen.) There were no sheepdogs. Shepherds couldn’t afford to send their dogs here. Howard was the only mutt. The other dogs were all purebreds, the pets of the wealthy.
Several dozen dogs in plastic bubbles rolled around the large grass yard, practicing their bubble navigation, and trying in vain to sniff each other’s backsides. Toby couldn’t play catch with Howard anymore. The stick would bounce off the bubble before Howard could grab it in his mouth. So they were forced to play a different game. Toby set up bowling pins and Howard rolled at them and tried to knock them down. At first, he didn’t have very good control over his bubble navigation, and this earned him the unfortunate nickname, “Gutter Ball.”
The rehabilitation staff said bowling was an excellent way to improve bubble navigation skills, but the dog-owners would have none of it. They didn’t want their dogs taking part in this blue-collar sport or associating with Gutter Ball. Their unhappy dogs looked on longingly as Howard sped at the bowling pins.
David sat to the side of the yard, his notebook open, trying to compose a poem about how even the dogs of the rich were treated better than the workingman.
One of the other owners wasn’t just wealthy; he was royalty. The Earl of Sandwich had a half dozen hound dogs. One afternoon, while foxhunting on his estate, a clever fox knocked over a container of antifreeze and the pursuing hounds lapped it up. They soon found themselves under Dr. McGee’s knife. Now they were encased in plastic bubbles.
“I’ll get that fox,” the Earl of Sandwich muttered into his steaming tea. This made it hard for David to concentrate on his poem.
“Hey Earl, can you keep it down?” David said. “I can’t hear my inspiration.”
“I told you, don’t call me Earl.”
“Sorry. Could you keep it down, Mr. Sandwich?”
Earl snarled and ground his teeth.
“So, what kind of dog is Gutter Ball anyway?” Earl Sandwich asked.
David didn’t want to admit that Howard was a mutt, so he said, “He’s a blend.”
“A blend?”
“Yeah.”
Earl gave a look of concern. “He’s been neutered, right?”
David’s ears pulsed and his jaw tensed. He hated royalty.
“Don’t worry,” David said. “He can’t impregnate your bitches through their bubbles.”
Earl’s fist cracked into David’s jaw. The next thing David knew, he was lying on the grass, being kicked in the ribs.
“Not so clever now? Are you, Mr. Fox?”
He kept kicking David in the ribs.
David grabbed Earl’s leg and held it tightly to his chest. He twisted the leg sideways and Earl fell on his stomach, face down in the grass. David sat on Earl’s back and held his arms behind him, restraining him.
“Let me go!” Earl demanded.
He tried to wiggle free, but David’s grip was strong.
“Are you gonna be good?” David asked.
“Turn me loose!”
The hounds noticed their master’s situation and ran to his rescue. (Actually, they rolled to his rescue.) The dog-laden balls charged at David. The hounds’ rabid barking was muffled by the plastic bubbles.
David released the Earl of Sandwich’s arms and got off of him, but the hounds continued to charge.
“Call them off!” David shouted, helping Earl to his feet and dusting him off.
Earl slapped David’s hands away, and bared his crooked teeth. “The hunt…is on.”
David turned and bolted across the yard, headed for the administrative building. They wouldn’t be able to follow him in there.
David was out of shape (reading poetry to flowers was his only exercise) and the dogs were quickly gaining on him. His side hurt from running and perhaps from the Earl of Sandwich’s steel-toed boots. He stumbled and fell hard, scraping his palms and elbows. Looking up, he saw one hound with saliva foaming from his jaws about to steamroll him.
David pulled himself out of the path of the bubble just in time. The dog tried to stop, but the inertia of the bubble kept him going until he crashed into the steps of the administration building, bouncing up the first couple and then rolling away.
David pulled himself to his knees and dove out of the way of another bubble. He ran up the steep two-story marble staircase that led to the administrative building’s entrance. He stopped halfway up the stairs and gasped. The dogs banged against the bottom of the stairs and tried in vain to climb up. Earl Sandwich was now blowing his hunting bugle.
David crawled up the remaining stairs and pushed open the heavy oak door. A wave of air-conditioning washed over him, instantly congealing the sweat on his face. He staggered into the cool shade of the long stark corridor and collapsed to the floor. The marble tiles felt cold against his cheek. The door slammed shut behind him and he couldn’t hear the dogs barking anymore.
“You look dehydrated,” a familiar man’s voice said. “Come with me.”
David raised his eyes up and saw Dr. McGee standing above him, wearing a clean pair of lavender medical scrubs.
“I’m fine,” David said, not moving from the ground. “I don’t need an I.V.”
“How about a cup of juice,” Dr. McGee suggested.
“Sounds good.”
David sat up and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Dr. McGee pulled David to his feet and they walked to a small kitchenette. Dr. McGee opened the mini-fridge, took out a large metal jug, and filled two Styrofoam cups with a red liquid. He handed one to David.
“To hydration,” the doctor said and clinked the Styrofoam glasses together.
“Hydration,” David croaked and took a sip. As soon as the liquid touched his lips, he spit it out and began to gag. It tasted like aspirin dissolved in his mouth. The cup fell to the ground, splashing their legs and David stuck his head in the garbage can, afraid he would vomit.
“What was that?” he moaned.
Dr. McGee set his own cup down on the counter. He hadn’t taken a sip from it. He dropped some paper towels on the floor to soak up the spill, picked up David’s Styrofoam cup, and pushed the sodden paper towels around with his foot.
“Mixed fruit juice,” the doctor said. “With a secret ingredient.” He leaned in close, lowered his voice, and whispered conspiratorially. “The bitterest substance know to man.”
David staggered to the sink, stuck his head under the faucet, and poured water straight down his throat.
The doctor continued. “It’s used as a nail polish by compulsive nail-biters. To stop them from biting their nails. See?” He held up his hand and wiggled his fingers. The nails were perfectly manicured. Then he kicked off his tennis shoes and pulled off his socks. He wiggled his toes, displaying a magnificent pedicure.
“Only a single drop in the entire jug. Can you believe it?”
“Why?” David asked.
“Why?” The doctor’s eyes bugged incredulously and he shook his head. “I’m not a member of the clergy. I don’t deal with questions of WHY. I’m a man of Science. I deal with the HOW. The question is: how is it so bitter?”
“I mean why’d you put it in my drink?”
Dr. McGee looked down at his bare feet. “Such a nice day out,” he said. “While I have my shoes off, I think I’ll take a walk on the grass.”
The doctor left his shoes and socks there and walked out of the kitchenette, across the marble tiles towards the front door.
“Come on,” he called to David. “Take off your shoes and join me!”
“What about the dogs?” David asked.
“Don’t worry. They’re in bubbles,” Dr. McGee said. “You won’t step in anything.”
The doctor pushed open the door and stepped out into the sunlight. David followed him out. As soon as the dogs saw David, they started to bark again and try to climb up the stairs, their bubbles banging into the bottom step.
Dr. McGee looked down at his bare feet, at the grass, sighed, and started to walk determinedly down the stairs.
“Dr. McGee!” David grabbed the doctor’s shoulder. “What are you doing? Be careful!”
“I didn’t take my shoes off just to put them back on.” The doctor broke into a run down the stairs, straight at the angry dogs in their bubbles. When he was almost at the bottom, he leapt high into the air, did a double-somersault, and stomped on a hound’s bubble with his bare feet. The bubble gave a little and seemed about to pop, but then it sprung the doctor high into the air like a trampoline. Dr. McGee spun around in the air, executing a double corkscrew turn, spread his legs wide in the splits and landed in a sitting position on another bubble. He bounced high into the air once again.
Everyone looked on in awe. He flew through the air like a circus performer.
The hounds barked frantically and tried to get out of the way, but Dr. McGee seemed to be able to anticipate the hounds’ movements before the dogs even knew what they were thinking. (He was the best canine renal surgeon in the world, after all.)
The dogs scurried off in separate directions. They probably figured if they split up, he couldn’t bounce on them all.
Dr. McGee landed on one hound’s bubble and bounced on it, flipping in the air and landing on the bubble over and over again as it rolled through the yard.
The hound tried to turn sharply to the side, but the bubble kept rolling, tossing the hound around inside, while Dr. McGee continued bouncing and flipping above him. Finally, in the middle of the yard, the bubble slowed to a stop. Dr. McGee flew high up in the air with a quadruple backwards somersault and landed a perfect two-point landing with his hands raised up to the sky like a championship gymnast.
There was applause from everyone and they ran up to him, clapping their hands and whistling. The dogs didn’t bother David. They knew they were beaten. They went running to their master for comfort, whimpering. But they couldn’t slow down and he couldn’t rub their ears or pet them through the bubbles. They ran right over the Earl of Sandwich.
“Wow,” David said to Dr. McGee. “How’d you do that?”
The doctor grinned and breathed heavily. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.
“Lots of practice,” Dr. McGee gasped. “You don’t spend years around dogs in bubbles without learning a few tricks.”

********

It was dark outside, late in the evening, and the bright stadium lights were turned on so the dogs could practice their bubble navigation in the yard. David and Dr. McGee stood on the roof of the administration building and looked down at the dogs rolling their bubbles around the green grass. Howard came rolling at the pins and knocked them all down. A strike.
“He’s getting better,” Dr. McGee commented.
Howard had been practicing for several weeks now and was able to literally run circles around some of the other dogs. Soon he would be ready to leave the rehab center and the flower caravan could continue.
Dr. McGee reached into his pocket and brought out a small, unlabeled plastic bottle with a clear liquid inside. “One drop’s all you need.”
“What’s that?” David asked although he had a feeling he already knew the answer.
“Remember that drink I gave you?”
“The bitterest substance known to man?”
Dr. McGee nodded. “Just put a drop in each tank of antifreeze, in all of your trucks. Then, if you get a leak, no dogs or small children will drink it.”
“Thanks,” David said and put the bottle in his pocket. “How come the antifreeze at the store doesn’t have this in it?”
Dr. McGee laughed sadly. “Antifreeze is made by heartless corporations. For them, antifreeze isn’t about regulating engine temperature—it’s about money. The fraction of a cent extra per bottle is worth more to them than the children and dogs that die from drinking their product.”
Down in the yard, Howard rolled at the pins. His aim was great; he hit the head pin and went straight through the middle, but two of the pins didn’t fall—they just wobbled and stayed upright. A seven-ten split.
“There’s got to be some way to change this,” the poet said. “Some way to make the corporations put bittering agents in their antifreeze.”
“They’ll never put bittering agents in the antifreeze,” the doctor said, “until there’s a law that they have to.”
“So why isn’t there a law?”
“Who do you think controls the government?”
“Who?”
“The Antifreeze Lobby, that’s who.”
“The Antifreeze Lobby?”
“Antifreeze is big business. Everything with a motor uses antifreeze. Cars, buses, trains, airplanes. They’ve got all the money they need.”
“Yeah, well there’s one thing they didn’t count on,” David said.
“What’s that?” the doctor asked.
“The Flower Lobby.”
Howard hit the side of the seven-pin and sent it flying at ten-pin, picking up the spare.

********

During David’s first and only semester at college, he took a Political Science course on American Government. He learned that you couldn’t just walk in off the street and make a law—you needed a member of the Senate or the House of Representatives to sponsor your bill, which would then be debated and had the chance of becoming law. But where would they find a politician willing to introduce a bill mandating bittering agent in antifreeze? Where would they find an honest politician in Congress—someone who wasn’t corrupt, who wasn’t in the pocket of the Antifreeze Lobby?
There was one man who was perfect: the only homeless member of Congress. He had nothing, so there was nothing the Antifreeze Lobby could take from him.
Gary Ackerman had never had any great ambitions to become Congressman. He was happy as a simple high school history teacher in Queens, New York. Every day he would show up for work with a fresh white carnation on the lapel of his suit. Then everything changed when his wife gave birth to their first child. Gary wanted to spend time with his newborn daughter, so he decided to take some time off. If his wife was taking maternity leave, then he would take paternity leave. At this time no one in the United States had ever done such a thing. Paternity leave didn’t yet exist.
His wife begged him to return to work. She was nursing the baby, and they had many expenses and no income. But Gary wouldn’t give in. There were some things more important than money. He had to stand up for what was right, no matter what the consequences. It was a matter of principle. Why should women be able to take time off and not men? It was sexism.
His wife understood and accepted his decision. Her husband was a man who always stood up for what was right, no matter what the consequences. That was why she loved him.
But if neither of them were working, did they have to live so luxuriously? Did he have to wear a white carnation on his lapel if he was just staying home and playing peek-a-boo with his daughter?
He did.
Well then could he at least cut back a little? Did he have to buy a fresh-cut white carnation every morning? Maybe just once a week he could get a fresh one and then keep it in the refrigerator in some water at night to preserve its freshness.
Nothin’ doin’. He would keep buying a fresh carnation, each and every morning.
She understood. He was a man who stood up for what was right. That was why she married him.
Unfortunately the school board was less understanding. They fired him. Now it wasn’t just paternity leave; it was permanent leave. So Gary sued the school board, demanding his job be reinstated.
A long, dramatic court battle ensued. At the end, the court found in Gary’s favor and forced the school board to give him his job back.
They reinstated Gary as a teacher and he immediately quit. He didn’t want his job back, had never wanted it back. But there was an important principle here. A man should have the same rights as a woman. And Gary had to stand up for what was right.
Now he was unemployed and wife gave birth to their second daughter. Gary showed no signs of looking for gainful employment. It seemed the only thing he could do was buy expensive fresh-cut white carnations to put on his lapel and stand up for what he believed was right, neither of which were marketable skills.
His wife gave him an ultimatum: get a job or get out of the house. He reluctantly took a clipboard and notepad, and went door to door collecting signatures to get his name on the Congressional ballot.
Election time came and Gary Ackerman was the surprise winner! The voters had liked his straight-shooting style, boyish good looks, and white carnations.
He arrived in Washington D.C. and it turned out he had a knack for being a congressman. He quickly gathered a reputation as someone who stood up for the downtrodden and stood up to the lobbyists.
He had now been in Congress for seven terms and served as the head of the House Committee on Middle Eastern Affairs as well as the India and Pakistan committee. While his family lived in Queens, he lived on his boat (christened the Unsinkable 2) in Washington Harbor. He had never bought a proper home in Washington D.C. and that was how he came to be known as the Homeless Congressman.

********

At night in the small towns where they showed their flowers, the constellations lit up the sky. But here, in Washington D.C., although it was a cloudless night, the pollution blocked out the stars and they could only see a blurry crescent moon. The flower caravan drove slowly along the Washington Harbor docks and they searched for the Congressman’s boat: a needle in a haystack. All the fishermen had gone home for the night; the only sound was water slapping against the wooden dock. A cold fog hovered. The smell of salty, rotting fish filled the air. The tide was pulling out, trying to drag the boats to sea, but sturdy ropes held them fast to posts on the dock.
“There it is.” Natasha pointed to an old dirty boat with peeling green paint. It was about ten meters from bow to stern. Light poked through the boarded up portholes of its small cabin. On the side of the boat was written with black paint: Unsinkable 2.
The caravan stopped and they got out of the trucks. David climbed down from the gazebo. There was no doorbell to the boat, so he shouted, “Congressman Ackerman!” His voice echoed through the empty docks.
No response. He yelled again.
The cabin door popped open and a man climbed out. David almost didn’t recognize the congressman; he didn’t look like his pictures. The congressman’s pictures made him look happy and cherubic, but this man hadn’t shaved in days, several days worth of graying stubble lined his face, his gray suit was rumpled, his unbuttoned oxford shirt was yellowing. Most shocking of all, he didn’t have a white carnation on his lapel. Maybe they had just caught him at a bad time.
Congressman Gary Ackerman walked towards them, stood up on the edge of the boat, and screamed, “GO AWAY!”
“Mr. Ackerman,” David said. “We heard you’re a man who loves flowers.”
Gary scowled. “What of it?”
“We’re a traveling flower show,” David continued. “We thought you could help us. We want to talk to you about sponsoring a bill.”
“Is this about the Middle East?” Gary asked. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s not about the Middle East,” David said. “It’s about something close to home, something we can do something about. Every year, four hundred children in America die from drinking antifreeze. That means that over a child a day dies unnecessarily from antifreeze poisoning. Every year, ten thousand dogs in America die from fatal antifreeze poisoning. And the solution is so simple. Just a single drop of bittering agent, which costs next to nothing, in each bottle of antifreeze will stop all antifreeze fatalities.”
Gary frowned and shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do,” he said helplessly. He turned and started back to his cabin.
“Mr. Ackerman, this is Howard!” David shouted. The Congressman stopped walking, turned, and looked. “Take a good look, Mr. Ackerman. Howard drank antifreeze. Now he has to live in a bubble. Toby here used to be a hermit. Then he met Howard and it really brought him out of his shell. But he might as well have stayed a hermit. He can’t even pet him or play fetch with him. They can only go bowling. Howard had his kidneys removed and had to take immunosuppressive pills so his body wouldn’t reject the new organ, but the immunosuppressive pills destroyed his immune system, so now he has to live in a bubble, and no one can pet him or play catch with him.”
Gary looked at Howard’s sad mutt face, locked inside a plastic bubble. It was dark on the docks, but David thought he saw the twinkle of a tear in the Congressman’s eye.
Gary picked up a worn plank of wood and dropped it like a drawbridge between the boat and the dock. “Come on up.”
David started towards the boat.
“Take off your shoes first,” Gary said. “No shoes allowed on board the Unsinkable Two.”
The narrow plank was water-worn and jagged splinters stuck out from it. It looked dangerous to walk on without shoes.
“You’re wearing shoes,” David pointed out to the congressman.
“I’m the skipper of this vessel,” Gary said. “I’ll wear shoes if I want.”
David took off his shoes and set them down on the dock. He stepped across the splintery bridge, wincing as the long splinters pierced the soles of his feet; his socks offered no protection. He leapt onto the boat, crunching down on what felt like dried leaves underfoot. Looking down, he saw hundreds of dried-up white carnation blossoms strewn all over the deck along with empty soda cans and bags of chips. David knelt down and started pulling the splinters out of his feet.
Merrick took off his shoes and scurried across the bridge. When he stepped on the boat, he immediately began to wobble. “I think I’m seasick,” he moaned. He rushed to the far side of the deck and leaned his head over the side.
“Try to projectile,” the Congressman said. “If you’re going to vomit, I don’t want it on the side of the Unsinkable Two.”
The others took off their shoes and filed across the splintery plank.
Suddenly Merrick leapt up and made a mad dash for the cabin. “Shark!” he screamed. “I saw a shark!”
David looked down in the water and saw a large shape moving along the surface.
“It’s a manatee,” he said.
“It’s a great white shark!” Merrick screamed from inside the cabin.
“It’s just a manatee,” David assured him. “A sea cow.”
But Merrick refused to leave the safety of the cabin.
Now it was Howard’s turn to get onto the boat. He demonstrated the bubble-navigation skills the he learned at Smiling Acres Rehabilitation Center and rolled at the narrow plank. He hit the edge of the plank and began to roll across, tottering along the side. Everyone held their breath, mentally willing the bubble not to fall into the water.
Howard made it. His bubble fell into the boat, crushing some dried white carnation blossoms, then bounced up and over the far side of the boat. He splashed down into the water.
Everyone rushed to the edge and looked down. Howard was floating in his bubble on the water and barking fearfully. Fortunately the splinters hadn’t poked any holes.
They couldn’t reach his bubble; it was too far down.
“Do you have a lifeboat?” David asked Congressman Ackerman. “Or a big net?”
“I got rope,” the congressman said. “You know how to lasso?”
Another manatee was swimming past Howard. When Howard saw it, he panicked. He yelped and ran as fast as he could, spinning his bubble away from the Unsinkable 2 and towards the open ocean.
“Come back!” Natasha yelled. “It’s just a manatee!”
Howard tried to stop running, but the bubble kept rolling across the water, and tossed him all around inside. When the bubble finally stopped spinning, Howard stood up dizzily and tried to run back to shore, but the strong current wouldn’t let him. It pulled him out to the dark, open sea. Soon he vanished into the fog, out of sight, and his muffled whimpering couldn’t be heard anymore.
“All hands on deck!” Gary shouted, unhitching the rope that held them to the dock. The last few stragglers leapt onto the boat just as the plank fell into the water. Gary ran down into the cabin, and came out carrying long wooden oars in one hand and pulling Merrick by the ear with the other hand. The Congressman handed out the wooden oars.
David took one questioningly. “Why don’t you use the motor?”
“It’s solar power.” Gary said and pointed to the solar panels on top of the cabin. Then he waved up at the sky. “You see any solar?”
“Isn’t there a battery?”
“I’ve been meaning to get it fixed. I’ve been busy. Between the Middle East, India, and Pakistan, I haven’t had time.”
Gary ran down into the cabin again and brought out flashlights which he gave to the women. They used them to comb the waters while the men rowed. Congressman Ackerman used his oar to beat on one of the solar panels and keep the beat for the rowing. David could see why the solar panels had broken.
Every once in a while, someone shouted out to Howard, but in general they stayed silent and listened for the sound of Howard’s muted barking. Nothing. All they heard was the wind rustling over the water.

********

Birds squawked overhead. Gary stood on the front of the boat like a masthead, breathing in the salty mist and gazing into the pink sunrise. They had searched for Howard all night without success. The congressman crushed dried-up white carnation petals in his hand and then let their remains flutter down into the pink ripples. He turned around and faced the people on the boat.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll introduce your bill.”
There were no cheers. It was impossible to be happy under the circumstances.
Gary hopped off the bow, looked at the dried up flowers on the deck, and sighed.
“First things first,” he said. “I need to get a white carnation.”
“We’ve got a whole truck full,” Natasha said.
Gary shook his head. “No. I’ll get my own. I can’t accept any special favors. It wouldn’t be right.”
David realized that they had the right man. This was the Gary Ackerman they’d come searching for: the fiercely honest man, ready to stand up for what was right, no matter what the consequences.

********

The U.S. House Commerce Subcommittee on Environment and Hazardous Materials would listen to their testimony and decide whether or not to send the antifreeze bittering bill to a committee, which would then decide whether or not to send it to the House itself. According to Gary, the entire subcommittee was enslaved by the Antifreeze Lobby, so the flower caravan would have its hands full getting the bill through.
Dr. McGee flew in from Milwaukee to explain the science of antifreeze poisoning to the subcommittee. The science was on their side, but moving congressional hearts to revolt against the Antifreeze Lobby would be difficult.
They had planned to simply roll Howard into the congressional hearing. Even though all of the congressmen had sold themselves to the Antifreeze Lobby, when they saw Howard’s sad state, they would feel so miserable and guilty that they would cast their votes to embitter antifreeze.
But now Howard had floated out to sea. They considered showing another dog in his place (one of Earl Sandwich’s hounds perhaps,) but a purebred in a bubble wasn’t adequately pathetic to move hearts, and Howard was the only bubble-bound dog without a pedigree.
There was only one thing to do to move those congressional hearts and make them rebel against their corporate masters. David would read a poem about Howard the mutt. His poem would communicate the raw emotion of a dog forced to live the rest of his life in a bubble, without petting, without games of fetch. It would be poetry at its purest, describing the plight of dogs in bubbles. Maybe a poem would be even better. True, they wouldn’t see Howard’s poor pitiful mutt face, but when David described it, through the magic of words, each congressman would imagine his childhood puppy encased in a bubble.
David composed the poem using his workingman style. He didn’t want to confuse them with metaphors; he had to communicate. He couldn’t blame the congressmen for being too obtuse to understand him. What he was trying to say didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the result: whether they voted to embitter antifreeze or not. This was functional poetry at its purest.

********

Congressman Ackerman arranged for them to set up their flower show on the lawn of Capitol Hill. He thought more public exposure would help their case. (The Antifreeze Lobby wanted to keep it quiet.) At first they set up on the west lawn, but that was right across the street from the U.S. Botanic Garden. People thought they were just a special exhibit of the botanic garden, and didn’t realize that they were something special: a traveling flower caravan bringing inspiration to all the people. So they moved to the east side of the lawn.
They parked the trucks on the side of the lawn and moved the flowers out into a circle around the gazebo truck.
It was a beautiful day for a flower show. A few puffy white clouds wafted along the bright blue sky, the sun shone down approvingly, and the flowers inspired swarms of tourists from every corner of the globe to realize what was really important in life. The tourists also marveled at the freedom which Americans enjoyed: to be able to set up a flower show on the lawn of their Capitol Building!
David sat in the grass and read his new poem, My Puppy Drank Poison, to the tulips. Elizabeth eagerly explained the various species and types of flowers to her guests. The foreign tourists took photographs of the flowers, but they seemed more interested in taking pictures of Marcy. Apparently only Americans liked skinny women.
Congressman Ackerman was watching all this from a lawn chair. Merrick sat down on the chair next to him.
“Don’t sit so close to me,” the congressman said. “I can’t take special favors. I don’t want you keeping the mosquitoes away from me.”
“But there’s no mosquitoes this morning,” Merrick said. “There’re no bugs at all.”
“Just get away from me.”
Merrick stood and shuffled away.
Someone walked up to David and cast a shadow over his notebook. “Welcome to the capitol,” a familiar voice said.
David looked up and saw two figures in black suits carrying black briefcases. Agents Lugo and Margolis of the Department of Agriculture.
“Somebody wants to talk with you,” Agent Margolis said.
“Come with us,” Agent Lugo said.
The two agents turned and started to walk away. David hopped up, pocketed his notebook, and hustled after them.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“We told you, someone wants to meet you,” Lugo said.
“Who?”
“Someone important.”
But they were walking away from the Capitol Building, away from the direction of all the important people. They got to the street and started to cross.
“Who wants to talk to me?” David demanded. “Does this person have a name?”
“You’re going to meet the Librarian,” Lugo told him.
“The old lady who returns the books to the shelves?” David asked.
“No,” Lugo said. “The Librarian of Congress.”
He pointed to the impressive Thomas Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress right in front of them.
“What’s he want with me?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
They walked up through the entrance, past the reception desk, and through a large reading room. The middle of the room was filled with large table where researchers delved into dusty, obscure tomes. The bookshelves lining the walls reached up several stories to the glass dome where a chandelier hung.
“Why don’t you tell me what this is all about,” David said.
“Shhh.” Lugo raised an index finger to his lips and whispered, “You’re in a library. People are trying to read.”
“Sorry,” David whispered.
They walked on in silence. David tried to step lightly, so his shoes wouldn’t make noise.
They turned into an office area, where people sat at desks and typed away at computers, but even they seemed to obey the library rules of quiet. They looked up at him and stared silently. David felt important, going to his meeting with the Librarian.
At the end of the hall, a small woman sat typing at her computer. The nametag on her desk said: Secretary to the Librarian. She gave them a small smile of recognition, gestured with her hand, “one moment,” and picked up the phone. “The gentlemen from the Department of Agriculture are here to see you.” She waited for a response, then said, “Yes sir,” and hung up. “Go right in. The Librarian will see you now.”
Lugo opened the heavy wooden door to the office and walked in, followed by David. Agent Margolis brought up the rear. The office was spacious but had no windows. All of the walls were filled with bookshelves. A straight-backed old man in a blue suit stood to greet them. He had a thick mane of white hair and the pink, pasty skin of a man who had never been in the sunlight—a man who stayed in libraries. He walked around his large oak desk, held out his hand, and smiled without opening his mouth.
“David,” the Librarian said. He spoke through his nose and his voice sounded like a kazoo. “Pleased to meet you.”
They shook hands. The Librarian’s hand was as dry as paper.
“I’m glad I finally got the chance to meet you,” the old man said, motioning for them to sit on the leather chairs. “I’ve heard a lot about you, about your flowers, and about your poetry.”
David, Lugo, and Margolis sat down. The Librarian leaned back against his desk and folded his arms.
“We’re the largest library in the world,” he said and then proceeded to explain all about the Library of Congress, its history, how the Congress relied upon it for information, how the library was organized, how the Dewey Decimal System worked. David tried to nod in all the right places.
“My job is to administer the Library of Congress,” the Librarian said. “I’m responsible for overseeing over four thousand employees. And I have one other very interesting responsibility. Do you know what that is?”
“Appointing the Poet Laureate?” David said.
“That’s right,” the Librarian kazooed. “As the Librarian of Congress, I have sole prerogative in selecting the national Poet Laureate.” He sat down at his desk and crossed his hands. “The Poet Laureate is the most important poet in America— he’s the lightning rod for our national poetic inspiration. The position includes a stipend of thirty-five thousand dollars. We like to give him the freedom to work on his craft, so we don’t pile a lot of responsibilities on his back. Some Poet Laureates write poems for major events like inaugurations, but it’s not required. He’s the cattle prod for our nation’s enthusiasm about poetry. It’s his responsibility to get schoolchildren excited about poetry again, and it’s been a long time since schoolchildren were excited about poetry.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Agent Margolis said.
“You,” the Librarian pointed at David. “You’re quite a poet.”
“Thank you.”
The old man nodded. “Your poetry makes people think. And feel.”
“Thank you.”
“Now I personally haven’t read any of your poems, but Agent Lugo here tells me he was quite impressed.”
Lugo tried to keep a straight face, but his eyes rolled a little.
“And I trust Agent Lugo’s opinion when it comes to poetry,” the Librarian continued.
David remembered Lugo’s reaction when he had read his poem. Agent Lugo had hated the poem. It had made him physically sick.
The Librarian turned to Lugo. “What was that poem?”
“The Fire of Flowers,” Lugo responded.
“Fire of Flowers,” the Librarian repeated, testing the feel of the words on his tongue. “F-f-fire of f-f-flowers. A fine alliteration. Most of these new poets nowadays couldn’t alliterate to save their souls. Some of them don’t even know how to rhyme.”
David nodded politely.
“Ordinarily the job isn’t given to someone so young,” the Librarian said. “It’s awarded to someone more established, with a collection of published works. But in your case…”
“I’ve been published,” David said.
“Really?”
“I have one poem called Help Wanted. It was published.”
“H-h-help w-w-wanted,” the Librarian said, testing for alliteration. He didn’t find any. “Help wanted. We all need a little help sometimes. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to help you, an aspiring young poet. I think you’d make a fine Poet Laureate.”
David wondered if accepting the Poet Laureate would compromise his status as a workingman poet. No. Probably not. And it would certainly impress his father.
“Even I need help,” the Librarian continued. “In fact, there’s something you could do to help me.”
“What’s that?”
The Librarian grinned dryly. He lowered his voice to a whisper even though no one in the room trying to read.
“This antifreeze bill. David, I need your help to make it go away. This is America. We’re supposed to be the freest country in the world. We don’t need the government sticking its big nose in private business. People can’t just blame businesses because they don’t want to be responsible for their own children and pets.”
“I don’t understand,” David said. “What do you want me to do?”
“I know about the poem you’re writing. About your dog in the bubble.”
“You don’t want me to read the poem?”
“I want you to read the poem. I just think you should make a few changes. For example, you could make the dog a Rottweiler. And give him rabies. Make us afraid. Make us glad that he’s in a bubble. The bubble is protecting civilization. Just don’t make us feel bad for the dog.”
David felt dizzy. It was worse than Dr. McGee had thought. The Antifreeze Lobby had gotten to the Library of Congress. Even the Department of Agriculture was in on this. Was there no limit to the radius of the Antifreeze Lobby’s tentacles?
David shook his head. “You asking me to take a fall? To deliberately write a bad poem?”
“Listen to me. I didn’t get to be Librarian of Congress by being a complete idiot. I know a thing or two about poetry. I’ve read quite a bit more than you and I’ve even written some poetry myself. Poetry is a business and the road to becoming a great poet is not always straight, it’s not as simple as doing your best and always writing the best poem you can. You have to play the game. You need a strategy. Sometimes, one bad poem can lead to great things. Just write one poem that falls flat, something without heart, something cold, something that doesn’t make us feel bad about dogs in bubbles, and you can go on to great things. And the position of Poet Laureate isn’t a bad place to start. You could become the greatest poet America has ever produced.”
Maybe the Librarian was right. If David was Poet Laureate, he would have a wide audience. He could do a lot of great things. More than just bittering antifreeze. He could make the workingmen wake up. He could change the world.
No. He couldn’t sell out all those children and puppy dogs. He was ashamed for even considering it. There were so many people counting on him. Not just the children and the dogs. Howard floating around the Atlantic in his bubble was counting on him. Congressman Ackerman who always stood up for what was right, no matter what the consequences, was counting on him. Natasha was counting on him.
“I won’t do it,” David said.
The Librarians lips grew hard and he snarled. The two agents looked away and shook their heads.
David added hopefully, “Can I still be Poet Laureate?”

********

David wanted to go to the subcommittee hearing dressed as a workingman, work boots and all, but Gary Ackerman vetoed that and insisted that David wear a suit. They had to impress the subcommittee. They were trying to make antifreeze bitter, not stand up for the working man. It was functional poetry and functional dress. All the men wore suits. Even Dr. McGee shed his scrubs for a conservative gray pinstripe suit. The women wore conservative, serious dresses. Also, to impress the subcommittee, Gary pinned green carnations to everyone’s lapel. To his own lapel, he pinned a white carnation, of course.
They arrived fifteen minutes early and entered the conference room where the subcommittee meeting would be held. Two men and a woman stood at a table at the side of the room, chatting quietly. The table had a pot of tea, a pot of coffee, a large glass pitcher filled with cream or milk, and two silver bowls heaping with mounds of sugar: one white and one brown. A large silver platter overflowed with bagels, croissants, and other pastries. There was cream cheese, vegetables, lox, and other fish that David didn’t recognize.
One of the men turned and smiled at them. He was hefty and had slightly graying temples.
“Hi there,” he said in a friendly Southern accent. “I’m Dick Gabler, congressman from Georgia. Have some lox. The others will be arriving soon.”
Everyone introduced themselves and there was a lot of handshaking.
“I’m Bobby,” said the only member of the flower caravan with Downs Syndrome as he shook Dick Gabler’s hand. “I’m going to be the president.”
“I admire your ambition, young man,” Congressman Gabler said. “You remind me of myself when I was your age.”
“Can we close the window?” Merrick asked.
“But it’s such a nice day out,” the congresswoman said.
It was indeed a nice day out. The sky was clear and blue with a few puffy white clouds, the weather warm, and the air dry. It was too bad they couldn’t hold the subcommittee meeting outside.
“There’re bees,” Merrick said. He swatted at the bees buzzing around him. “They won’t leave me alone.”
“Well what do you except?!” the congresswoman said. “You’ve got a flower on your shirt!”
Merrick tore off his green corsage and threw it out the window. It didn’t help—the bees kept buzzing around him.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted. “I don’t have any pollen!”
But the bees didn’t leave him alone. They kept buzzing around him. He tried to avoid making any sudden movements that would startle them into stinging him.
Congressman Gabler took a sip of his coffee, made a sour face, and spit the coffee on the Persian carpet.
“Too hot?” asked the congresswoman.
Gabler gagged and clutched his throat. “Aaaaaa!” he screamed. “Was this strained through a dishrag!? It’s the worst coffee I’ve ever had!”
“Only one drop in the whole pot,” Dr. McGee said, grinning. He took out his flask and tapped the side of it. “Denatonium benzoate: the bitterest substance known to man.”
Gabler knocked bagels and pastries to the ground, grabbed a spoon and frantically shoveled brown sugar into his mouth as tears poured down the sides of his face.
“What’s the idea?!” he shouted, wet gobs of brown sugar falling down his chin. “You trying to poison me?”
“It’s not poison,” Dr. McGee said. “It may taste bad, but when you put it in antifreeze, it can save the lives of small children and dogs, the most vulnerable part of society. On the other hand, ethylene glycol, the active ingredient in antifreeze, tastes sweet but it really is poison. “
“Ethylene glycol!?” Congressman Gabler screamed. “That’s the chemical used in snow globes!”
“It’s one of the chemicals in snow globes,” Dr. McGee said.
“So what do you want to do? Put your bitter drink inside every single snow globe?”
“Well, now that you mention it, it would be a good idea.”
“So the government should get involved in what goes on inside snow globes?”
“If a snow globe shatters, a dog could lick it up. Or a small child.”
“Any small child that licks up snow globe juice deserves what he gets! Parents should be responsible for their own kids! My son Jason doesn’t do his homework, but you don’t see me trying to pass a bill about it!”
“Look,” Dr. McGee said. “Antifreeze tanks leak. They leave puddles in the driveway or garage. It’s nobody’s fault. But dogs drink it. Sometimes people use antifreeze as a cleaning product. They clean their toilet bowl with it. They shouldn’t, but they do.”
David nodded. If only everyone knew about nontoxic Ghetto Traveler. It was great for cleaning your toilet and you could drink gallons of it with no ill side-effects.
“I agree that people should know better,” Dr. McGee said. “But why should the dog suffer because their master cleans the toilet with antifreeze?”
“And you think it’s the government’s job to put down the toilet seat lid?”
“It wouldn’t help. The dog could lift up the lid with his snout.”
Gabler looked around incredulously, his face turning bright red, his voice going an incensed falsetto banshee shriek. “So flush the antifreeze! You want the government to flush the toilet for you?!! IT’S NOT THE GOVERNMENT’S PROBLEM!!!”
“Yes it is,” Gary Ackerman said. “You’re the Subcommittee on Hazardous Materials. It’s your job to regulate hazardous materials.”
“Yeah, well I wish it wasn’t,” Gabler said, his voice breaking. He covered his face, embarrassed at his tears. “You think I want to be on this stupid committee?” he wailed. “It’s not even a committee. It’s a subcommittee.” He looked at Bobby. “Son, take my advice. Stay out of politics. It’s not like you see in the movies and newspapers. It’s not all glamour. When I started out, I thought I’d be the next Gary Ackerman. I thought I’d be on all the big committees: Middle East, Pakistan, India. But it’s not like that.”
He walked to the door.
“I QUIT!!!” he screamed and slammed the door behind him.

********

They had fresh coffee and bagels delivered to the conference room. The rest of the committee showed up, about a dozen in all. David didn’t see anyone there to represent the antifreeze companies, although he supposed they were well enough represented by the congressmen themselves.
Dr. McGee opened a portfolio case, took out a cross-section picture of a dog with its internal organs exposed, and set it up on a music stand. He cleared his throat, pointed at the chart with a conductor’s baton, and explained what happened when a dog ingested antifreeze. The liver separated the antifreeze into several parts, one of them chloroform, which it sent on to the kidneys. The kidney’s were destroyed and couldn’t efficiently clear out wastes from the body. This led to a slow and painful death. The only cure was an organ transplant. But even with a successful organ transplant, the body might still try to reject the foreign kidney, so the dog had to take immunosuppressive drugs for the rest of his life. There was no protection from even the simplest germs, and so the dog had to stay inside a bubble.
As soundproof as his science was, it was still science. It lacked heart. Every congressional eye remained dry.
Doctor McGee gathered his visual aids, walked to his seat, and sat down.
David rose and walked to the head of the table. It was his turn to testify. Now he had to make these people feel. He gulped. His legs felt rubbery, his hands trembled, and his mouth was painfully dry. He felt as if he were approaching the electric chair.
This was strange. He knew that people were more afraid of public speaking than of death, but he never got nervous before reciting poetry before an audience. So why were his hands trembling? Probably because this wasn’t a coffeehouse or a garden party. These were very important people and the most important poem of his life. Lives depended on the success of this poem.
He didn’t sit down; he wanted to deliver his poem standing. His heart was racing and he needed to calm down. He had heard that it helped to imagine the audience in their underwear, so he tried that, but it didn’t work. It made him even more nervous. For some reason, his imagination created sailor tattoos on everyone. And everyone had seven belly buttons.
He tried something else. Instead of imagining them in their underwear, he imagined that they were flowers. Giant flowers. Natasha was a rose. Dr. McGee was a lilac. Merrick was an orchid. Elizabeth was a bouquet of poppies: yellow, orange, and blue. Down Syndrome Bobby was an African Moon Flower. Gary Ackerman was a white carnation (of course. What else would he be?) The congressmen and congresswomen were big sunflowers.
When David saw them as sunflowers, he relaxed and his hands stopped shaking. They weren’t his enemies, someone for him to conquer. They were beautiful (although misguided) sunflowers. His poem would show them the truth. His workingman poem. He would just tell them what happened. He calmly began to recite.

My puppy drank poison
And was locked in a bubble.
He bowls three-hundred,
but can’t lick a hermit’s face
He drank sweet poison.
Sweet like a candy cane
Hooking his soul and dragging him to sea.
Like a sea monster—an untoward undertow

Suddenly the door to the conference room burst open and a pageboy ran in.
“EVACUATE!!!” the pageboy screamed. “EVACUTATE!!!”
Gary Ackerman grabbed the pageboy by the collar. “What’s this all about!?” he demanded. “We’re trying to hear a poem here! There’s poetry happening here!”
“We’re evacuating the building!”
“Why? What happened!?”
“Please sir, I can’t breathe.”
Gary loosened his grip on the pageboy.
“What happened?”
“Terrorists!” the pageboy shouted, rubbing his sore neck. “Everybody has to leave right away.”
The congressmen ran for the door, trampling each other.
“Orderly!” Gary yelled. “In an orderly fashion! Have we been having weekly evacuation drills for nothing!?”
Everyone ran after them.
“Come on, David.”
David reluctantly followed them. It seemed he would never get to finish reading a poem. He couldn’t believe it. The Antifreeze Lobby had called in a bomb threat just to stop him from reading his poem.
“What happened,” Gary Ackerman demanded.
“There’s been a terrorist attack,” the pageboy said. “It’s the flower show. They attacked the flower show.”
David broke into a run, pushing past the congressmen and nearly trampling them. This wasn’t just a bomb threat. The Antifreeze Lobby actually carried out a terrorist attack to stop the subcommittee from hearing his poem.
David burst out of the crowded entranceway. Helicopters roared overhead and the smell of panic filled the air. People ran in all directions, trying to get far away. They seemed to run with no destination, but David headed straight for the gazebo.
A wall of riot police blocked his way and a large burly one grabbed him.
“You can’t come through here.”
“But I’m a poet!”
“It doesn’t matter. No one’s allowed through.”
“But that’s my flower caravan out there!”
“Not any more it isn’t. The terrorists have taken it.”
The other flower caravaners ran up to David’s side.
“Let us through. I’m Gary Ackerman, Chairman of the House Committee on the Middle East.”
“I can’t let you through, sir.”
Gary shot David a look that said, “Use a poem.”
“But that’s my gazebo,” Elizabeth said.
A short policeman with a handlebar moustache spotted them. “You’re with the flower show, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Follow me. I’ll take you to the hostage negotiator.”
“Hostage negotiator? There’s hostages?”
The short policeman nodded. “Four hostages. Employees of yours, we think.”
They followed the policeman. He led them along the barricade of policemen and police tape. David glanced between the policemen’s shoulders and saw a few people on the gazebo platform holding what looked like automatic rifles. There was something taped with duct tape to the posts supporting the roof—probably explosives. Four people seemed to be tied to the posts, one to each. Probably the drivers. One of them was definitely Marcy; David recognized her distinctive shape.
Police held back television reporters, preventing the cameras from getting too close.
The policeman brought them to a large square-jawed man with a crew cut and a dark suit. He was sitting on a folding chair and sipping water from a plastic cup.
“Sir,” the short policeman said. “These are the people with the flower caravan.”
The hostage negotiator nodded slightly, took another sip of water, and looked up at them. “Whose gazebo is that?” he asked in a gravely voice.
“It’s mine,” Elizabeth said.
The hostage negotiator nodded. “We have a situation here,” he said. “A hostage situation. Three armed men with bombs strapped to their chests, explosives all over the gazebo truck, and it’s all wired to blow.”
“What do they want?” Elizabeth asked.
“I don’t know,” the hostage negotiator said. “I didn’t ask them.”
“Why not?”
“They’re terrorists. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“But that’s your job,” Natasha pointed out. “You’re a hostage negotiator.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He took a sip of water. “I don’t tell you how to do your job, do I?”
“But how do you expect them to release the hostages if you don’t talk to them?” Natasha asked.
“First they have to release the hostages. Then we can talk.”
David pounded his fist into the palm of his hand.
“So you’re just going to let them slaughter our drivers?!”
The hostage negotiator sipped his water and pretended he hadn’t heard David.
“Look,” David said. “Just because they’re evil doesn’t mean they’re completely irrational. They probably have some bizarre logic. The only way to find out is to talk to them.”
The hostage negotiator looked David straight in the eye. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
If the hostage negotiator wouldn’t talk to them, then David would have to do it himself. He knew he could convince them to let the truck drivers go. There was nothing that poetry and flowers couldn’t do. That’s basically what poetry was: hostage negotiation. He wouldn’t look at them like terrorists. He would try to see them as sunflowers—sunflowers with bombs strapped to their chests.
David straightened the green carnation on his lapel and bent under the police tape.
“Hey!” the hostage negotiator shouted. “Stop him!”
David walked briskly towards the gazebo, the policemen yelling after him to stop.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” one policemen yelled.
David didn’t think they would shoot him, but he still picked up his pace. He approached the gazebo and held his hands out to the side so the kidnappers would know he meant no harm. They aimed their machine guns at him as he slowly ascended the gazebo steps.
David immediately recognized the ruddy, pudgy man pointing a machine gun in his face. Agent Margolis had shown him the man’s picture in the truck stop bathroom. It was the arch-terrorist, Terry “the terrorist” Grawgowski. David was standing face-to-face with the commander-in-chief of the Plant Liberation Army.
He recognized the other two terrorists from their pictures, but he couldn’t remember their names. One was about forty years old with a narrow face, beady eyes, and teeth that jutted out even when his mouth was closed. The other was only a few years older than David, had sparse blond whiskers, and kept licking his lips.
The hostages were duct taped to the posts, their mouths also covered with duct tape. Big Marcy looked pleadingly at David, her eyes swimming with tears. The other hostages were the drivers Sparky Williams, Teddy Schweitzer, and Slim Henry. They also looked terrified.
“Hi,” David said, breaking the awkward silence.
Terry “the terrorist” Grawgowski nodded politely. “Hello.”
“Hi,” the others mumbled.
David had never been in a hostage negotiation situation before, but he had seen enough movies, so he figured he knew what to do.
“Why don’t you let the women and children go?”
“There aren’t any children,” Terry said.
“Well then let Marcy go at least.”
Terry looked down at Marcy and seemed to consider.
“Untie her,” he said to the younger of the two men.
The young man pulled out a knife about six inches long. It looked very sharp. He quickly slashed the tape holding her wrists and then slashed the tape holding her ankles together. He ripped the tape off her mouth and Marcy let out a shout of pain, then another shout of relief. She rushed over to David, crushing the wind out of him with a bear hug.
“Go on,” David whispered urgently. He was about to pass out from loss of air. “Get out of here. Quick.”
Marcy released him and hurried down the stairs, rubbing her sore wrists. She rushed across the lawn, stopping only to pick up a potted begonia before disappearing into the line of policemen.
“Now,” David said. “Why don’t you release one of the men?”
Terry shook his head. “I have a few demands first.”
“Okay,” David said. “What do you want?”
“First, I want the flower show shut down.”
“Okay. We can do that. I’m sure that can be arranged.”
“And second, I want all agriculture abolished.”
“That could be more difficult.”
“Difficult, but it’s absolutely necessary.” Terry the Terrorist spoke eagerly and sounded as if he had drunk too much coffee. “The Animalists have managed to almost completely destroy the world in only a few thousand years. For millions of years there was no agriculture and we lived in harmony with plants. If you were hungry, you’d just pick some berries off a bush or snatch a tasty mountain goat. Then, people started harvesting plants and the whole world went south. People needed to justify agriculture so they created Animalism, which is really nothing more than propaganda that animals are supposedly superior to plants, that it’s better to have cell membranes than cell walls. The people thought they were in control, but the Animalism took over and they began to separate everything into superior and inferior. They divided animals into higher and lower animals and enslaved the “lower” animals. Thus animal husbandry was born. It even entered between human beings. One person thought he was better than another, that he should rule over him, and so slavery was born. Then one nation thought it was better than the next, that it should rule over its neighboring country, and war broke out. That’s what war essentially is. When someone believes his country is an animal and the other country is a plant. You want to end war? You have to strike at the root of the problem: agriculture. Before there was agriculture, there were no wars.”
“Yes there were,” David said. “There were wars.”
Terry froze. He looked surprised to be contradicted. Perhaps with his cult out in the forest, no one asked questions.
“Name me one,” Terry challenged.
“They didn’t name them back then,” David said.
“That’s because there weren’t any. The first wars in history came from the establishment of agriculture.”
“No. That’s just when people started writing down what happened. But there were wars. What about cave paintings? They were before agriculture and they show wars.”
Terry the Terrorist lifted his weapon and pointed it at David’s face. “There were no wars.”
“Okay,” David agreed. “There were no wars. But why do you have to use violence? This is a free country. You can just state your opinion. You could get some poster board and magic markers. You didn’t have to hijack a gazebo.”
“Sure, freedom of speech,” Terry scoffed and his lips twitched. “You can say whatever you want, but no one listens to you. I wrote letters to the opinion pages of newspapers, but they wouldn’t print them. I stood out on the street with a sign and handed out pamphlets, but everyone just laughed at me. So finally I had no choice but to turn to militant action. I liberated a few stalks of corn—took them from the field and brought them back to the forest. But the farmers didn’t even think to report it—probably didn’t even notice. So I carried out larger operations, destroying large amounts of crops. I would have liberated them, but I couldn’t carry that much. The stupid farmers said it was a crop circle and blamed it on aliens from outer space. I had to get us in the newspapers, so we started going after flower shops. We would break the windows in the middle of the night and liberate the flowers. But even that didn’t work. It never got us on page one. We have to do this to get our message across, and the Animalists understand only violence. It is not our choice, but theirs. We have to make people pay attention.”
“So you’re just doing this to get attention? Were you a middle child or something?”
“I was an orphan.”
“A lot of people are orphans. That’s no excuse. What, did you have some traumatic incident in your childhood involving a house plant?”
Terry’s face twitched.
“What kind of hostage negotiator are you anyway? Why are you insulting me? You should be trying to keep me calm, so I don’t do anything crazy.”
“I’m not a hostage negotiator. I’m a poet. And not the kind that makes you calm. I’m a workingman poet. I rile things up, shake up the status quo, make people think. You’ll never see me as Poet Laureate.”
Terry’s eyes dulled and he drummed his fingers on the bomb strapped to his chest. There was an awkward, dangerous silence. David considered apologizing. He needed to say something before this terrorist blew them up out of sheer boredom. So David said the first thing that came to mind.
“Do you consider lumberjacking to be a form of agriculture?”
Terry looked surprised. And intrigued. He stopped drumming his fingers on the bomb and scratched his forehead. His two colleagues shared an intrigued glance.
“Well,” Terry “the terrorist” Grawgowski said. “I suppose that would depend on if people planted the trees. If people planted them, it would be agriculture. But if the trees grew naturally in the forest, then I see no problem with chopping them down. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering if there would still be paper after you abolish agriculture. If there’s no paper, there couldn’t be poetry.”
Terry scoffed. “You don’t need paper for poetry. There has always been poetry. Before there was anything to write it down on, poetry was transmitted orally. Why do you think poetry uses rhymes, alliteration, meter, and other poetic devices? It’s a memory aid. The modern poets today who refuse to rhyme or use a steady, consistent meter are distancing themselves from the oral tradition of poetry, separating themselves from nature. They’re Animalist poets. Did you ever notice that when poets go out in the forest to commune with the trees, not as masters over the trees, but as their equals, the poetry inevitably rhymes, it has a consistent meter, uses alliteration, and beautiful imagery? This is because these forest poets are in touch with the oral tradition in poetry, the way poetry is supposed to be. Poems should rhyme.”
“You sound like my father,” David said. “He also thinks poems should rhyme.”
“Your father’s a wise man. You should listen to him.”
“So, what, you also think I should get a teaching certificate?”
“It’s always good to have something to fall back on.”
David felt his anger rising again. “You’re pretty bourgeois for a hunter/gatherer,” he said.
Terry fingered the bomb on his chest. “Pretty soon, we’ll all be hunters and gatherers.”
David remembered what the Department of Agriculture agents had told him in the truck stop men’s room.
“It’s nuclear?”
“It’s conventional,” Terry said. “People will go back to hunting and gathering willingly. Your flower show is a symbol of Animalism. Destroying it will be a rallying cry for everyone who agrees with us but is too afraid to say anything. They’ll rise up and abolish agriculture. It’ll be the end of Animalism.”
David didn’t know how he was going to convince these people. They were completely insane, beyond barbaric: they were hunters and gatherers and predated capitalism by thousands of years. How was he supposed to move them with the plight of the workingman? They didn’t even know what a workingman was. He would have to use another type of poetry. But which one?
Sudden inspiration struck him. He would use physical poetry. Capitalism didn’t just lead to specialization in factories, turning workers into cogs to make the capitalist machine move more efficiently. Specialization had even taken over the Arts. Dancers, for example, had become specialized in using their bodies and were expected to refrain from speaking. If a dancer started to talk in mid-performance, the audience would probably complain. They had become glorified mimes.
Poets were the other extreme. They had become specialized to use only words. They were completely separated from physical reality. Physical poetry brought poetry back into the physical realm; it was no longer just words on paper. Poetry became matter. Time, matter, and poetry fused into one, and David felt no fear. He was pure energy as his fist slammed into Terry’s jaw.
There was a sharp crack and David figured he broke the terrorist’s jaw until he felt a screaming pain in his wrist. He saw Terry grinning and his own hand hanging limply at the end of his arm.
Terry slapped David hard across the side of the head, knocking him to the ground. The three terrorists gathered around the poet and began kicking him in the ribs. David supposed it was naןve of him to think he could be a great physical poet the first he tried. Did he think he was some kind of genius? What arrogance! One couldn’t expect to be great all at once. Poetry wasn’t magic as the Romanticists claimed. Poetry was work; it took practice and perseverance. He was a poet and they were hunters and gatherers who killed wild boars with their bare teeth. He was no match for them physically.
David’s only hope was to use a workingman poem. Sure, it wasn’t the ideal style, but he had to stick to what he knew best. This was a serious situation—it was no time for experimental poetry. His plain rhyme-less, meter-less workingman rhythms might infuriate these terrorist, but there was no other option. He shouted out lines of his poem between kicks in the ribs, improvising as he went. There would be no second draft.

This gazebo that you want to blow up
is the gazebo where I interviewed for my job,
where Merrick became a professional citronella candle,
where I leapt from the side and stabbed my boss’s husband in the throat,
where the rich and poor huddled in classless solidarity
before leaping out to shout a fatal “Surprise.”
Howard came here to get out of the rain
when he was in his coffin.
I kissed Natasha for the first time here.
We mounted this gazebo to this truck and rode into town,
getting bitter bugs in our teeth,
but giving out sweet candy bars.
Workingmen from gray towns ascended this gazebo
to look to down at these beautiful flowers
and be inspired to realize what was really important in life.
A terrorist chained herself to this gazebo
and escaped Gimpy Barry’s axe just in time.
People from all over the world, China, Brazil, all sorts of countries, stood at the world’s capitol of freedom and saw beauty.
Simple flowery beauty

The terrorists had stopped stomping him and were listening. David unpinned the green carnation from his lapel and pressed the flower in Terry’s hand. Terry looked down at the green carnation and bit his lower lip. The terrorist mastermind was trying not to cry as he realized how much more there was to life than blowing up a gazebo. He was seeing anew all the simple beauty he had overlooked. The other two terrorists looked at the ring of flowers circling the gazebo. All three were flowerstruck. They probably felt pretty silly, standing there in a gazebo on Capitol Hill with bombs strapped to them.
Terry helped David to his feet. “That was a beautiful poem,” he said and turned to his two accomplices. “Let them go.”
They cut the duct tape off their hostages and tore the tape off their mouths. The drivers rubbed their sore limbs and took off quickly down the stairs and across the grass.
Terry’s two accomplices took off their heavy bomb-laden vests and hung them on the gazebo railing. They set down their machine guns, walked down the stairs, and across the grass with their hands up. Policemen roughly threw them to the ground and pushed their faces into the grass. They yanked the terrorists’ arms up in the air behind them and snapped on handcuffs.
Terry stroked the green carnation petals and smiled at David.
“You’re a great poet, son.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t rhyme, but you get the job done.”
David forced a nervous smile. “I appreciate the compliment.”
“I admire you. You go your own way and don’t let anyone tell you what to do.” Terry pulled a red handkerchief out of his pocket, gently wrapped up the green carnation, and placed it gingerly in his pocket. “Now go.”
“Okay,” David said. “Let’s go.”
“I’m staying here.” He patted the bomb strapped to his stomach.
“I thought you weren’t going to blow it up.”
“No. I’m not going to kill innocent people. I realized I’m a human. You helped me realize that. I almost lost that out in the woods. I can’t kill members of my own species. I won’t be a murderer. But I’m still blowing up this gazebo. It’s wrong to hold plants in captivity and I have to make a statement. Blowing up the flower show is the only way.”
“No it isn’t. You don’t have to do this.”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty? Twenty what?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen? I don’t understand.”
“It’s the countdown. You’d better run.”
David turned and leapt down the stairs. He ran across the lawn, shouting and waving for everyone to get back.
“It’s gonna blow!”
David dove behind a police car, lay on his stomach, and covered his head with his hands. The gazebo exploded in a shattering blast. The air seemed to tear apart. The explosion blocked out the sun and darkness filled Capitol Hill. Splinters of wood, shards of metal, and dismembered flowers rained down on David’s back. Thick black smoke choked him and a hot shard of metal caught him under the shoulder blade.

********

A few people had cuts and scratches from the shrapnel and David had to get a cast on his arm, but one was seriously hurt. Except for the Terry “the terrorist” Grawgowski, who blew himself up. The fact that a terrorist group could blow up a gazebo on the lawn of Capitol Hill shook America to the core. To make sure it never happened again, the government tore up the Capitol Hill lawn and replaced it with woodchips.
The terrorists wouldn’t be able to hide in the woods anymore. The president promised a forest fire the likes of which the world had never seen. He would hunt them down like foxes.
The attack also brought the flower caravan to the nation’s attention. People wondered what a flower show was doing on the lawn of Capitol Hill. Soon everyone learned about how over four hundred children in the United States died every year from antifreeze poisoning and how it was so easily preventable. Massive grassroots pressure forced the congressmen of the subcommittee to pass the antifreeze bittering bill. Now the bill would go on to an actual committee. Someday soon, dogs wouldn’t have to live in bubbles anymore.
There was a party one afternoon on board the Unsinkable 2 to celebrate getting the bill to the committee. Elizabeth said she wanted to show them something and took them for a walk along the pier. It was a clear, warm day and the docks were packed with fisherman, sailors, and all sorts of people out to enjoy the day. White birds swooped overhead.
“We’ve helped a lot of people see what was really important in life,” Elizabeth said. “But now I think we’ve reached the end of the road. I don’t think I can take any more of the flower caravan.”
It had finally happened. Elizabeth had grown sick of the flower show and decided to dilettante her way on to some new hobby.
“We’ll rebuild the flower show!” Natasha said. “We’ll get new flowers and go back on the road! We still have the trucks! We just need new flowers! And a new gazebo!”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “The flower caravan is over.”
David didn’t know what he would do now. He couldn’t go back to school and get a teaching certificate—that was exactly what the terrorists wanted him to do. And more importantly, it was what his father wanted him to do. But he didn’t have many options. Reading poetry to flowers was the only thing he was qualified to do. And with the flower caravan closed for good, he didn’t think he’d find a job doing that. Merrick was luckier. There would always be a demand for people who could stand around and soak up mosquitoes.
“You can’t fire me,” David said. “I quit.”
“I’m not firing you.”
“I rescind my resignation. But I thought you said the flower caravan was finished.”
“The flower caravan is finished. I still need someone to read poetry to the flowers.”
“You’re setting up the garden again?”
Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “When all those tourists from all over the world were standing together in the gazebo and looking down at the flowers, I realized that people in other countries also need to see the beauty of flowers. We can’t keep flowers just for American.” She stopped walking and pointed at an enormous white boat docked in front of them. “There it is. This is my new boat. I just bought it yesterday. We’re going to load it up with flowers and set sail, showing the beauty of flowers to the whole wide world. The Flower Boat.”
“Are those…solar panels?” Gary asked.
“They are. And there’s a powerful battery to store solar power for night-sailing.”
Elizabeth leapt over the small gap between the dock and the boat. The others did the same and followed her to the center of the wide wooden deck.
“We’ll put a gazebo here,” she said. “The flowers can sit around it on the deck. If it gets too sunny, we’ll move them into the storage below. If anything goes wrong I’ll have to go down with the ship, of course. That’s one of my responsibilities as captain. But hopefully it won’t come to that.”
“Where will we be going?” Natasha asked.
“Wherever the wind takes us,” Elizabeth said.
“It’s not a sailboat,” Merrick pointed out. “You won’t have to listen to the wind.”
Elizabeth licked her finger and held it up to test the wind. “We’ll see which way the wind’s blowing,” she said. “And then we’ll engine our way in that direction.”
“What’s her name?” Gary asked.
“Who?”
“The vessel.”
“What?”
“The boat.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “I haven’t given it one yet. I suppose we’ll need to do that.”
“Let’s name it Merrick,” Toby the former hermit suggested.
“No!” Merrick shouted. “That’s my name! You already took my handle. Leave me my name. It’s all I have left.”
“You have us,” Toby said.
“Whatever we do, let’s not name it Howard,” Natasha said. “Or it’ll sink for sure.”
“I’ve got it!” David burst out. “There’s one name so lucky, it’ll never sink. Unsinkable! The Unsinkable 3.”
“It’s copyrighted,” Gary Ackerman said.
Everyone stared at him, surprised.
“Don’t worry.” Gary grinned. “I’m kiddin’. You can use the name.”
“We could call it Howard 3,” Natasha said.
Elizabeth ignored her. “And I want you all to come,” she said. “What’s a boat without sailors?”
Marcy clapped her hands excitedly. “This’ll be great! Now I can be an international plus-size supermodel!”
“I’m not going,” Merrick said. “Do you know what kinds of bugs they have in other countries? They’ve got mosquitoes the size of volleyballs. One of them could bleed me dry. And they spread terrible diseases. I’ll get West Nile Virus. Or Ebola. Or both.”
“Merrick, nothing like that’s going to happen,” Elizabeth said. “It’s just going to be a nice long boat ride. Think of it as a cruise. A nice, long, relaxing cruise.”
“I’m not going on a cruise and I don’t want to be a sailor. You’ll make me walk the plank.”
“Nobody’s going to make you walk the plank.”
Merrick stared at the mollusks stuck to the dock. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
He nodded. “Okay, I’ll go. Beats living in my parents’ basement.”
“Excellent. And Bobby, how about you? We could use a good cabin boy.”
Bobby squinted his eyes and smiled, exposing bright pink gums. “Thanks. I’m flattered, really. But Congressman Ackerman offered me an internship and I’m going to take it.”
Gary Ackerman grinned and clapped Bobby on the shoulder.
“Bobby here’ll make a fine president some day. He won’t burn down all the forests just ‘cause there’s one terrorist attack.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I’ll be sorry to lose you. You’ve been the heart of the flower caravan.”
Most of the drivers didn’t want to come. They weren’t looking to make a career change. They drove trucks, not boats, and didn’t relish the idea of becoming sailors.
“What about you, Toby?” Elizabeth said. “You’ll come with us, won’t you?”
“No,” Toby said morosely. “The corn is calling me.”
“Toby,” Elizabeth said. “I know how you feel. I lost a Howard too. But life goes on. We have to keep on showing the flowers. And maybe we’ll go to one of those bobsled countries.”
Toby nodded and a smile spread on his face. “In that case, I’d better bring my long underwear.”
Elizabeth turned to David. “You’re coming?” she asked.
“Of course.”
Now he could inspire working people the whole world over.
But the crew was still several people too short. They would have to find some sailors. Elizabeth appointed David with the task. He would have to dust off an old poem, but he would make some updates. A poem was never really finished; it was a living, breathing thing, always developing, always evolving. Especially a functional poem like Help Wanted.

Help is wanted
We want your help
Like an organ-transplant-recipient-dog wants a bubble
Like antifreeze wants denatonium benzoate
Like a flower wants a poem.