From Mr. Unreasonably Cheery Flowers:
“Whoo-boy,” Larry says as he studies the flowers. It takes him a minute, then a few steps back to gather the whole of it in view. Enormous. Gargantuan. Panoramic. A Preakness wreath. When was the last time he even bought flowers? Even his mother got day-old croissants from the bakery, not a bouquet. And what, exactly, was the etiquette for a canine wake?
The size was one thing, but the colors made it unsettling, too. From phone call to reality, the bouquet had transformed from “nice but somber” to “Golden Girls-esque.” This bouquet was a damned Floridian habitat. The size, he found, was further complemented by its price.
Getting that monstrosity through a door was like giving birth to Latin America. It was hastily followed by the arctic face slap of winter in New York. Bienvenido, jerk off!
Larry winced at the wind and teetered his way toward a nearby bus stop. Wads of wet snow fell around Larry and his, he began to think, unreasonably cheery flowers.
“Aunt Bea,” he muttered aloud, “I’m sorry for your loss. Here’s something…festive?” It sounded worse out loud.
But the Yorkie, Aunt Bea’s "little mister," was doted on like a child. For God’s sake, she dressed it as a leprechaun for St. Patrick’s Day and took it to Sunday mass in a handmade suit. This dog was Aunt Bea’s life. Were flowers really the answer? Theseflowers?
The sidewalk in front of the bus stop, visible through spikes of bottle brush, looked empty. Cowards, he thought, they’re all crammed under the shelter. Narrowing his eyes, he searched for a way under the structure, out of the chill. Larry considered flanking through the street—bumper-to-bumper cars, a panhandler tapping on windows, and a gutter full of slush. Not a great option among them.
Larry tisked, running his tongue over his teeth. With a firm shoulder and agile footwork, he did what New Yorkers do best: ignore and push through. He grunted a “pardon me” to the responding “whatchits” from smashed toes or jostled groceries. Dodge, parry, juke. Deep in the warmth of the crowd, Larry rolled his shoulders and neck in triumph. Like a conqueror. He smiled behind the foliage.
Aunt Bea would not have been proud. She would have wagged her gnarled finger at him and said, “We’re better than that, Lawrence. We don’t crowd people.” Larry would swallow hard but want to say, “This is Queens, not Sheep Meadow. Go there and get all the space you want for blankets and picnics and dogs.”
Because that’s where she would go: afternoons on a blanket with the only things that truly mattered—his mother, Aunt Bea, and their Yorkies. Their own little dog day afternoon.
Over the crowd, Larry saw traffic inching along. Would there still be time? He shifted the weight of the vase (planter!) to shore his grip. It's growing heavier by the second, isn't it? This subtropical cascade of friendliness is too wide to see his own watch. He searched for someone, anyone, using a phone. Not a single craned neck. “What century is this?” he thought.
Then, plop, pleep, plip. Drips fell from the canopy, slaloming down his face. It’s maddening. He was about to lose it and run screaming…until he saw his reflection in the glass. Gadzooks, you Einstein! Use the reflection to check your watch!
Larry shifted, turned enough to catch sight of his sleeve. He shrugged, pulling back his cuff. Up it goes, then a bit more—not quite far enough. He tried again. The sleeve pulled up enough for him to see the hour hand. Shrug-pull-roll, then the minute hand!
Gah! An eternal three minutes had elapsed. Yes, there’s still time. But, really, what idiot holds a service on a Wednesday? Then, Larry remembered—Aunt Bea. She would have frowned at him, her sigh breezing past the wisps of dark hair that sometimes nested on her upper lip. Wednesday would be when Father Whathisname has time to say a few prayers, spin the rosary, whatever.
Stuck. Trapped. But crisis averted, Larry's breathing slowed. He blew back stray hairs on his forehead, regaining composure. To prove it, he winked at his reflection. Is that a blotch on his tie? He looked down. Mustard? No, the casserole he devoured over the sink. A spot wouldn’t matter on ordinary ties, but this silk tie, a gift from Aunt Bea, was special.
“You take care of this and it’ll take care of you,” she had told him. And he did, mostly. This tie had its own hanger. That counted for something, right?
The group pulled closer, avoiding the cold. Constricted to his stance, Larry was helpless to clean the tie. Or was he? He tilted his chin down, wondering if it’s closer than it looks.
His eyes darted left, then right—no one was looking.
Arcing his neck with great effort, his tongue reached for the stained necktie. His chins multiplied as his tongue stretched and his shoulders hunched. Ahmmmm—mhmmm. He wedged his chin under the collar, lifting the tie, closing the distance. Then, he felt it. The wind shifted, suddenly warmer.
Tongue out, he turned his head to see the woman next to him, staring. She might be a foot away, but her eyeballs were practically touching his. Larry froze. She didn’t blink. He blushed, pulled his tongue back, and gave the woman a slow shrug. His face said, Whaddayagonnado?
She’s still staring. Her eyes, he thought, might be crazy.
He didn't want to look, but surely this isn’t the craziest thing she’s seen on a Wednesday. Their eyes locked. He turned his head to face the traffic, and she followed suit. They kept each other in their peripheral vision, past the whites of their eyes and around the crow's feet. Larry looked forward, then back at her. She met his gaze again. He maintained eye contact, nodded toward the street, and cleared his throat. She followed his motion.
And this, this Aunt Bea would have loved to see. She might have crossed herself two or three times, but she’d have watched it like the Westminster Kennel Club.
The brave panhandler Larry saw earlier rounded a row of cars close to them. He wore a long, ragged overcoat and woolen mittens. With a Fosse-perfect move, he put his hands in his coat pockets and slid effortlessly on the snow. What moves, Larry thought. He looked like he’s floating, drifting the length of the gutter, letting the overcoat flow in the wind. It was picturesque. Underneath the overcoat—no pants, no underwear, no shame. And from this moment on, Larry thought, this fella owns the award for cold weather adaptability. The woman’s stare never returned. This is New York, after all; there's always something better to gawk at.
The snow, still falling in clumpy balls of yeti shit, squished as the bus rolled up. Larry could hear the sound of squeaking shoes on the wet stairs as he moved with the crowd. Like little Yorkie feet in plastic rain boots. That made him laugh, thinking of Aunt Bea bundling up her Yorkie in a little knitted coat she had made herself. "A gentleman must be properly dressed," she’d say with a wink. The Yorkie would trot along, looking proud as ever, his tiny coat matching Bea’s.
It’ll probably have a casket, Larry thought, a miniature one. The dog is likely to be dressed up in a sequined suit she made, too. Celebratory. Garish. Like the flowers.
Larry remembered not to trip as he stepped over the hill of snow. The white of it hadn’t given up just yet. It was mostly gray now, the color of Bea’s Yorkie. Her former Yorkie.
This stuff, it’s wet but you could hardly call it snow. Slush, maybe. If these flowers don’t do the trick, Larry thought, we can scoop up this slush, toss it in a cone with syrup, and serve it at the dog funeral. Now that's a proper send-off.
