Tone 1:3

Maybe they call them fireflies where you come from. But do you know of any fire, a real fire, that blips on and then blips off, and blips on again? Your old science teacher would have told you that these tiny creatures use their bioluminescence to attract mates or prey. You wanted to, but you never did, raise your hand and ask, "What's the difference?" You just doodled in your notebooks: Mates. Prey. Praying mantis. Pray. Mates. Playmates. Duckbill Platypus.

After dropping Tone off last night I headed home to the trailer, but not before stopping by the store for some beer. I grabbed the first cold six-bottle carton that presented itself to the eye. It was a little game I played. Sometimes I cheated, of course, when the displays got too static and predictable, and the beer I really wanted was hidden further back in the store. Always bottles. Was never into smashing empty cans on my forehead though it certainly has its allure sometimes. And nobody ever ties bottles on the back of a wedding limo, so that painful reminder is avoided. I fell asleep on the couch watching a stupid Braves game, which they ended up losing in extra innings. 

I root around the kitchen for something to eat – I’m out of Wheaties and even after all that corn syrup and niacin and zinc still no shiny yellow tail to show for it. 

I was to work today alone. Tone was off on Sundays.  I had a wedding in the afternoon, five hospital patients, and a handful of residential deliveries. Always potential terrors. Wrong addresses, suspicious neighbors (paired with super-fast police response times - they just happen to happen by when you’re handing the bouquet through the doggy door of the appropriately paranoid old lady – she’d been mugged already by a delivery guy -  who refuses to open the people door for anybody – and you’re down on your knees, the delivery arm up to the elbow into the doggy door  because the old lady can’t really bend over to receive the flowers and she insists that you not leave the beautiful flowers on the floor Sonny), crazy dogs, no-body-homes, no tips, and…you get the idea.  

Left the trailer about 10:45 sure to run into the church-going crowd. I’d do the stops at the hospital before running by Burger Chef for lunch. Yeah, you finally noticed.  I’m a Burger Chef aficionado. Truth be told, it’s really the magician (the Burgerini toy), not to be confused with Burgerilla (the talking gorilla).  And then there’s the girl that works the drive-through with the wonderful voice.  

Didn’t lock the door when I left– that drove Flack crazy, too. But seeing that it was Flack’s trailer – not to be confused with the vacation travel trailer stashed at the flower shop, this one is parked and hooked to water and sewer and electricity and all the amenities – and since he had rescued me five years ago when he had hired me, he figured he could ride me about keeping the trailer locked. Among a host of other things. Just so you know, there’s a whole tangle of indentured servitude lurking in the trailer and the van.

I made my way out of the trailer park and passed the scrawny dogwood that was 3 months past bloom now. And about 3 months before the bright red drupes would show. Even so, it always reminded me of one moment from my childhood. And since this was Sunday morning, here it came flooding back stronger than ever. It was going to be one of those days. No Tone. Lots of uninterrupted recollections.

It’s spring. Sunday morning. My father is sitting in the yard swing (seats two), a transistor radio balanced on his belly, no shirt, no shoes on. It’s unseasonably warm as the weather man might say. My mother desperately trying to get ready for church. I’m ready already, tossing my brand new Rawlings baseball - from K-Mart on Saturday night - into the sky. Determined not to drop it on the grass.

The dogwoods are in full popcorn bloom and dew is heavy on the grass. Bees barnstorming the clover. Don’t drop it. Don’t drop it. Father gets up from the swing, the swing swings wobbly as he leaves it, and he holds up a bare hand as a target. I walk the ball over to him. No kidding.

He waves me back toward the gravel driveway, while he backs further toward the front yard – like we were about to duel or something. He doesn’t say a word. He motions for me to squat down as a catcher and I do, my necktie hanging down as a not-very-effective groin protector. He bends over as if taking a sign and lets fly the pitch. It’s a Hoyt Wilhelm knuckle ball and I’m terrified and exhilarated at the same time. Who knew? My dad can throw a knuckle ball. Even while shoeless and shirtless. And there’s no way I’m gonna catch it. And Momma’s gonna kill me kneeling down in my Sunday clothes – my thighs couldn’t hold the catcher squat. I was 12 years old. The same age of Molly the last time I saw her.

The ball sailed toward me, wiggling like a butterfly. I missed it – it glances off the webbing of my glove and I chase it into the gravel behind the hand-painted Buick. The ball’s no longer new. And it rumbles around in the back floorboard as we speed off to church. Late again. 

I slide the van out onto Edgewood and head toward the shop. Need to pick up the five arrangements for the hospital run. I’ve got the replacement cards already filled out. Just need to slug in the names.

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I had been out of work for a year and a half when Flack hired me. It was a miracle really, if you believe in that sort of thing. I was 35 at the time, technically eligible to run for President, but my only qualifications were that I had an enraged ex-wife, alimony payments I couldn’t pay, a daughter I had not seen in 18 months, and a “no contact” restraining order until Molly turned 18. (That birthday was just a few months ago and the final decision on the restraining order extension is still pending).

Had walked in on the missus and the not-mister in the act as the saying goes. He still had on his dress shirt and tie. No lie. The stud worked in my own office. I’ll spare you the gory details, the abbreviated version is gory enough.  Final tally: $2,000 fine, 6-month community service, 2-year probation, no jail time, the aforementioned “no contact” restraining order for minor child, wife and daughter in unknown location, and loss of job. If my bed’s headboard had been construed as a “blunt instrument” (i.e., deadly weapon), it would have been even worse. I got off easy. Three thousand years ago I could’ve thrown the first stone. 

So, five years ago, Flack got himself a total loser. I helped around the shop at first. And then helped his delivery man at the time with the more expansive runs – like Tone now with me. No solo deliveries for 6 months – I still had that much time left to burn on the probation and Flack was nervous enough as it was. He wanted all the legal obligations behind me before he handed me any keys. When his delivery man up and quit for a “real job” (what a jerk), I slid right in. What can you say? I was a regular lower-upper-class-to-upper-lower-class success story and Flack was my patron.

So, in one way, Flack’s a saint. But, let’s not get too carried away with that line of thinking. He may have taken a gigantic chance on me, but, as it turned out – it was the best business decision he had ever made. But, granted, it wasn’t a business decision at the time. It was mercy, straight up. Who would have ever thought –  a half-naked father can throw a knuckleball and his out of work misdemeanored cuckold son with no prospects can grow up to become a Mercury, with feathered sandals and winged petasos. Only in America.

But the problem is, Flack never let me forget I owed him. That ended up draining all the mercy out of his mercy. And to think that his very own Cinderella was the prime reason for the boom in his business. Forget it. No matter how many times I made a successful delivery and elicited complimentary letters and additional orders, I knew there was no pleasing Flack. Maybe it was congenital, or at least, so ingrained that you’d have to burn him at the stake to get a word of compliment from him.  Or, sort of like extracting sap from a very stubborn, or at least stupid, tree. Ring ring goes the cash register. Why is it ringing? Sheezam Sergeant Carter, could it be that M.C. brings in most of the new business?

And as a matter of fact, given the strange gimbals of the human heart, my dark past ended up being an asset.  At first Flack was pretty good keeping my secret secret. That lasted about 4 months. And then I finally had something to hold against him. Both men and women customers began to make strange faces around me. Some men looked scared, while others started saying, “Wish I’d’ve had the guts.” Women, strangely enough, thought my past was “alluring” quote unquote. That’s the weird word that came back through the channels via Daughter of Flack. You explain that one. Go ahead.

I made it through the day: the hospital, lunch at the Chef, the wedding at the local golf club, and even the residential runs were actually okay. But it was weird with no Tone. I had made these runs solo for over 4 years, and now, after just two days,  I was missing this guy. What’s up with that. And the kid’s headed off to UVA law school in the fall with a fancy scholarship anyway, following his Bobby Kennedy hero. He really was going to be a rags-to-riches man. Mercury just wanted to see his Molly again.