In the shopping center near my
parents’ old apartment, there was a flower shop that stood apart from the rest
of the storefronts, angular like a kiosk dropped there accidentally. Home for
the holidays on winter break, I carefully filled an application there, even
listed my hobbies (cooking, reading, writing), left out where I was from, and
confessed to my lack of experience. I could identify roses, carnations, and
tulips but couldn’t tell apart poinsettias from amaryllis. It didn’t matter.
When I handed it to the lady behind the counter, she asked if I had a driver’s
license and sighed with relief when I opened my wallet. Never mind that I
hadn’t driven since I totaled the used ’72 Firebird my parents had scraped
together the funds to buy for my graduation. She called her husband who was out
making deliveries to give him the good news. He rushed back to give me the keys
to a white Dodge van in the parking lot with it’s rear doors thrown open
displaying several wreaths with huge red bows destined for a house in Atherton.
I was terrified. The van was like a
small bus. I drove ten miles an hour with my foot on the brakes, peering over
the steering wheel, sweaty palms clenching it like a lifesaver. How do I get to
Atherton? Where the hell is Atherton? I had an address on Oak Grove and a map
open on the passenger seat. I was lost. Circling Menlo Park, stopping to read
the house numbers, realizing too late I was in the wrong town. Joyous when I
finally found the house, I parked and carried the enormous wreath to an iron
gate that opened to a long driveway. I heard the bark before I saw the German
Shepard bounding toward me, all fangs, snarl and spit with nothing between us
but laurel and holly, so I bolted like a scared rabbit back to the van. It was
noon when I had left the shop and four-fifteen when I pulled into their parking
spot, pretty scraped up from trying to squeeze into the driver’s seat with a
holly wreath.
The proprietors, Mr. and Mrs. Wells,
didn’t fire me. Instead, they let me stay in the shop to help take orders and
learn to assemble flowers and wreaths in elaborate baskets. I was glad for this
paid apprenticeship and they never asked me to make another delivery. Their
children were grown with families of their own, they had both graduated from
Berkeley and I suppose they were glad to have a student from their alma mater
around. They once asked me where I was from originally and I lied, of
course. No one in her right mind would confess to being Iranian in the middle
of the hostage crisis.
My day started at nine when I helped
Mr. Wells pull all the Christmas greens out front, all the while quizzing me on
their names, then leaving me to arrange the giant clay pots of cyclamen and
boxwood topiaries. Back inside, Mrs. W would offer me some of her Earl Grey tea
and we’d go about the store and in the fridge “to shop”, as she liked to say,
for that day’s orders. We filled the hours quickly. At noon I would be sent to
the deli to pick up their usual (pastrami on rye) while I ate a tuna sandwich
from home. They were generous with their knowledge and I proved to be reliable
as long as I didn’t have to drive. After lunch, I’d help pack the van and Mr.
Wells would leave to make the deliveries, always rolling down the window to
call out “Now you girls hold down the fort 'til I get back!”
And we did. I helped guys who were
buying flowers for their dates, ladies looking for pretty centerpieces for
their dinner parties, and once, a nice man with shaggy hair who stopped in to
buy some ferns and camellias. Together we carried the plants to his pick up
truck and he followed me back into the shop and handed me a check. When I asked
to see his driver’s license, his face lit up with a smile. I took down the
number like I’d been told to do and he left whistling. Closing the drawer that
evening, Mr. Wells gasped, “Neil Young was here? Here in my shop? Donia
did you see him? Martha, did you help him? Look, look, look at this
check!” He caressed the signature. “Who’s Neil Young?” I asked. He stared at
me, incredulous.
Already dark by five thirty, I would
bring the greenery inside and carry a watering can around the store, giving the
plants one last drink. My father would often take an evening stroll and walk me
home. More than once I saw him standing a few yards away in the waning light,
wearing his dark wool coat with the collar turned up, hands shoved in his pockets. I’d
wave. He’d nod and look away, quietly sobbing. His shoulders told me—oh how
they shook. My father buried his face in his coat and waited for me to finish.
We walked home in silence and you would think I’d have asked “Why are you
crying, Daddy?” But no, I was too afraid of the answer: because it wasn’t meant
to happen this way, because I dreamed a different dream for my daughters,
because you have dirt under your fingernails, because you are too young,
because you’re giving up your youth, because. His daughter should not
have to work in a flower shop, for god’s sake! But my parents had taught
me everything I knew about hard work. And what about everything they’d given up
for me? Their home, their country, brothers and sisters, friends, patients,
work, family albums, all left behind so I could be here, in this world of
possibilities, to live in it, free and in charge of my own becoming.
By the time we reached our front
door, one of us would wonder aloud what my mother had made for dinner and the
spell was broken. My mother opened the door and pulled me in for a hug and a
sniff. She said she liked the wintry smell we carried inside and while I washed
up, I’d hear them in the kitchen carrying silverware and glasses, the evening
news coming on, and the smell of rice and stew that drew us to the table where
we were no longer unmoored. The television glowed and while we waited for
Jeopardy, I told them about my day, sometimes embellishing an encounter to draw
a chuckle. My mother nourished us, anchored us, and slowly we felt the ebb of the emotion that had blindsided us out there.
Three weeks went by and it was time
to go back to school. I hated leaving the cozy routine of the shop. They even
had a little goodbye party for me. Mr. Wells, always generous, said, “Invite
your mom and dad!” But on my last afternoon, it was just the three of us, and a
carrot cake. Neil Young on the stereo. A few weeks later, I wrote to the Wells
and told them where I was from. Originally. They wrote back and said they
didn’t care.
