Tone 1:6

While I was waiting for Tone to get off the phone, I had eavesdropped on Flack. So, I selectively applied what my mom had taught me about phone courtesy – don’t hover over somebody while they’re on the phone. I didn’t hover over Tone, but I did spy, gently and really out of earshot if you want to know the truth, on Flack.  Is that really eavesdropping, if you can’t hear anything? And since Flack wasn’t saying anything, I just watched him through his half-open office door and began to strain to try to hear something from the Tone call. Wasn’t hovering though.

Flack was on the phone with one of his west coast buddies. He was standing up at his desk, the dried flowers still a good distance above his head – Renoir’s brush collection drying in the rafters. Did Flack hang the dried flowers up, or did the Flackette help? Flack had recently added a barricade of potted violets to the edge of his desk. Living plants, in dirt, beautiful expensive pots in greys and milky blues, gorgeous black crazing, overflow trays, lamps, light meters and the whole bit.  If you got really close, you would see the note tacked to his desk: “10-12k lux. Red light-bloom. Blue light-photosyn.” If nothing else, Flack was a lunatic for details. The pots made an effective screen for Flack when he sat down. You couldn’t even see him.

Flack was a big fan of violets. He had told me, that first week I had been with him, about the extensive and elaborate connection between Napoleon and violets.  Flack was big on aligning himself with famous warriors it seemed. But the thing I took away from Napoleon, to apply to myself, was not conquest or even defeat ultimately, but exile. But, you’ve picked up on that already, I presume.

I was wiping down the shelves near the front of the store, maybe my first day of work, when Flack approached and à propos of nothing: “The first time Napoleon met Josephine it was at a ball.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I half-asked, “Sort of like you and Mrs. Flack?”

“You can call her Rufina, you know.” That was a whole other story. Rufina means red-haired, so her parents were Latin scholars I guess, or martyrologists. So the Flackette’s red hair was the real thing. Right from the womb, like Esau.

“What about Napoleon?” I asked over a shoulder, trying to keep busy but trying to attend to the new boss, too.

“The first time Napoleon met Josephine she had violets in her hair and she had a bouquet of violets. And at the end of the ball she tossed the bouquet to Napoleon.”

“No kidding.” I was thinking how that was an odd inversion of the bridal toss.

“And when they were married her gown was embroidered with violets. He sent her violets every day of their marriage.”

I was thinking, Where is all this Napoleon and violets thing going? Why does Flack know this? Why is he telling me this? Is there some kind of secret message going on here? Is he talking about me and my cheating Josephine? So, aiming to shut it down, I offered this: “Of course, she cheated on him while he was in Italy.”

This didn’t slow Flack down, though. “Yes indeed. But the violet remained the symbolic flower in France for the next 10 years, at least.” He motioned for me to follow him, “I want to show you something.” Flack really wasn’t so concerned about the shelves getting dusted.

So, I started following Flack back toward his office. It was a slow trek. He would periodically stop to give me new details about the Little Corporal.

“It was really sad really. Napoleon falls madly in love with this older woman with children. She cheats on him all the while. When he finally puts it together and rejects her, she finally falls in love with him.”

“Yeah, it’s terrible.” I just wanted to wipe down the shelves. And my new boss was going on and on about Napoleon and Josephine and the fact that he really didn’t like her name Rose so he just decided he would call her Josephine, but there was something to that because her full name was Marie-Josephe-Rose de Beauharnais (not so sure how he pronounced that last part at the time, maybe “bow harness”) so he wasn’t just imposing a name on her, he was just riffing off of Josephe. Had to look that spelling up later. You get the idea.

When we got to his office, Flack proceeded to show me the engraving. It was attached to the side of one of his filing cabinets. “This was produced by a certain Canu (he  pronounced it “canoe”) in 1814. Napoleon was still on Elba at the time.”

“No kidding.”

“See if you can see the three profiles. Napoleon. Maria Louisa, he’s remarried by this time. And their child, Napoleon II.”

So there I was, in my new boss’s office, looking for three profiles in this odd engraving.  A small bouquet of violets on the top half and an extensive write-up on the bottom under the large header: “CORPORAL VIOLET” midway down.  Was this just another one of Flack’s odd tests? Who knew. I read as fast as I could. About Napoleon’s “Confidential Friends” who used the violet as a way of recognizing compatriots - he had apparently promised to return in the “Violet Season.”

“Fascinating, huh?” Flack was right at my shoulder. Had he been drinking? A Chambertin?

“There’s Napoleon.” I finally spotted one of the profiles. The General was in left profile at the top right part of the bouquet, a stylized green leaf forming his cap. It was like one of those hidden picture puzzles from the Highlights magazine you worked on in the dentist’s office.

Flack’s engraving was a page cut from a book - you know, one of those obscure art books you get for 25¢ on the last day of the library book sale. But Flack was quite proud of it. He couldn’t wait any longer on me, so he reached over my shoulder and pointed out Maria (top left, right profile so looking across the bouquet at Napoleon) and the child tucked midway down in the stems. “There’s Maria and there’s the little one.” I then noticed the beautiful detail on the engraving of the loosely twined string around the base of the bouquet.

I can’t remember how things ended up breaking up. Maybe I saluted Corporal Flaque and returned to my dusting. The thing is, at the time, I didn’t care about any of this history. Within a few months, though, after I realized that the entire significance of human existence hinged on how we handled flowers - then it was different. I then became a crazed scholar of floriography myself.

---

As it turned out, Tone needed a ride home. His sister had called asking if he could catch a ride with me.

“Can I catch a ride home?”

“Sure. I’ve got one more stop at the Manz Building. It has to be there in the morning when the recipient arrives.”  

“No problem.”

We headed out to the van and I was sure Tone was gonna start giving me the business about Sister Theresa and kidding me about my junior prom reaction. But after we got into the van Tone hands me a card. “Flack handed this to me on the way out.”

It was a white invitation-size envelope. Sealed. “M.C.” in pencil on the front. It was in the Flackette’s hand, with her signature double strokes underlining my initials. She was a sweetheart, knowing that Flack would be all in my business if she had left the usual open note in my cubby. I handed it back to Tone. “Why don’t you read it?”

“You sure?”

“Sure.”  So Tone took his keys out of his pocket and used one as a letter opener.

“Go ahead.”

“M.C.  Candy called. They have the ruling. Asked for you to come by A.S.A.P. She’d explain. R.F.”  Tone held the note out to me.

“Just toss it on the dash.”

“So who’s Candy? And who’s R.F.”

“R.F. is Rufina Flack, Mrs. Flack. Candy is Cadney actually. I made that mistake, too, early on. She’s one of my lawyers.”

“How’d that come about?”

“My friend Buddy and his wife recommended her. Well, indirectly recommended her.”

“How’s that.”

“Well. After I got hit with the TPO, I contacted Buddy.”

“TPO?”

“Temporary Protective Order.”

“So, is Buddy a legal expert or something?”

“Nah. He’s a body man.”

“A coroner?”

“Bumper and fender.”

“Sounds like the perfect source for legal advice.” Tone was starting to pull the wrapper off of a Snickers bar with his perfect teeth. He could see me eyeing them. I couldn’t get over it, this kid had the most flawless teeth I had ever seen. “The better to eat you with, my dear.”

“Anyway. I go see Buddy and his wife with the protective order. They ended up taking me in after I was vacated out of my own home.”

“Okay. They’re good friends.”

“So they figure I need to get a female lawyer given the situation. You know. Friend to womankind and all that.”

“Sure. I get it. You’re all legal imbeciles.”

“As it turns out, you’re right. But at the time, sounded pretty good.”

“I heard you had two female lawyers.” Not sure how Tone found out about that.

“That’s right. If one female lawyer was the way to go, why not two?”

“Bon appetit.” Tone took a bite off of the half-undressed Snickers.

“So. I end up with these two knock-out gorgeous lawyers.”

“Was that part of the specifications, too? Or, was that just dumb luck?”

“We had used this big firm down town for a will and they were quite keen on the female lawyer approach, too. So, I got assigned to Cadney and Leighton. One black and one white.”

“So you covered all the bases, huh?” Tone was in high-derision mode.

“Yeah. All the bases. They work out the plea to keep me out of jail. And a week or two later we have the hearing about the restraining orders.”

“Plural?”

“Yeah. Studly got one, too. Since he was really the main target anyway.”

“What happened at the hearing?”

“It’s the last case of the day. It’s Friday. My lawyers show up dressed for the club-hopping that would come later.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?”

“Not kidding. The missus is there by herself at the plaintiff desk. Studly is waiting for his turn back in the seats.”

“She shows up with no attorney?”

“Yep. She’s in total control. And she’s laughing - a quiet and demure and ladylike courtroom chuckle - at my entourage.”

“I bet.”

“She’s dressed in a dowdy dress with her hair pulled back. She looks like a housewife from the 1950s. She probably thought about wearing an apron.”

“She was brilliant. You were an idiot.”

“Thanks. So, I’m standing there flanked by these two models with their little black very-short dresses. And the judge is an 80-year-old Puritan and he’s eyeing this trio right out of GQ.” What I didn’t say to Flack is that we actually looked like a pimp triptych. But, I couldn’t remember how to pronounce it.

“He probably thought you looked like a pimp or a prize fighter.” Tone was uncanny, if you haven’t noticed.

“I may be an idiot, but you’re an idiot savant.”

“Okay. So, you’re not making the impression you intended.”

“That’s not the least of it. I knew I was sunk when I heard his first words to us.” This was still fresh in my memory. He leered at us over the tops of his glasses and pointed at us with his pointy finger appearing magically and slowly from the sleeve of his gown.

“So what were the words?”

“So, which one of you jackdaws is the defendant?”

“That is wicked.” I could tell Tone was filing that one away for use in his own career.

“It was wicked alright.” It took me weeks to figure out all the nuances that old man was throwing our way. Thief. Slick. Mates for life. Lover of shiny doo-dads.

“Is there more?”

“Yeah, there’s more. He had, going in, at least two things against me.”

“Besides your two back-up singers?”

“You’re a comedian if the barrister thing falls through. The judge wasn’t wild about the plea agreement.”

“And how did you suss that out? Was Buddy in the gallery giving you hand signals?”

“You really pile on when somebody’s vulnerable don’t you?” Tone was taking a swig from a Coke.

“Okay. I’ll listen.”

“Well, he tipped his hand when he said, You know you should be in jail now don’t you?”

“That would be enough to know he wasn’t wild about the plea, I guess. What was the second strike he had against you?”

“I had already broken the TPOs.  Who knew that you couldn’t go back into your own house even if it was empty of people?”

“So what did you do? How did you get caught breaking it?”

“I wanted to mount a mirror over the bed.”

“That’s pretty sad, man.”

“Anyway. I tack up some aluminum foil as a backup. Could only find three thumbtacks, so one corner hung down.”

“That’s really sad.”

“And then I ransacked Molly’s room.”

Tone just shook his head at that one. Not so sure this replaying of the public prostate exam was such a good idea.

“I was looking for a photo. When we were at the beach. She was 6 or 7.”

“Wasn’t in a frame? Some place easy to find?”

“It was a Polaroid. Tucked away in a book or a closet or a drawer somewhere, last I could recall.”

“Did you find it?”

“Finally.”

“Was it worth it?” I just shook my head at that one. I was relieved we were almost down town. That was probably the thing that kicked in the long restraining order for Molly. But who knew. This judge was majorly irritated. The adulterous wife just sat at her table and I got hammered like I was some two-bit john.

---

I had been warned that it was an odd office building. The Manz Building. Everyone was in pods as they were quaintly called. Even the executives and vice presidents and president. It was liberté, égalité, fraternité run amuck.

We stopped at the receptionist’s desk and got our VISITOR badges. It was late in the day and most everybody was gone home already.

“We need to find Elizabeth Parker, please.”

“All the second floor employees are in pods. This is a totally democratic work environment. She’s in D-221-D.” She sounded like a robot.

As I turned to go I mumbled, “I’m sure Patrick Henry would have been proud.”

I turned to Tone and asked, “How did she know that, she didn’t even refer to a chart or anything?” But Tone was already up the swooping ramp to the third floor, looking down over the balcony to the cantilevered second.  The architect obviously had been bitten by the Guggenheim-sweeping-ramp bug. It was hideous in this space - but I bet it was fun in a wheelchair or on a skateboard.

He yelled down, “Look at this, man. It’s a whole beehive of swastikas.”  He pronounced it – announced it – “swash-TEE-cuzzzzzzzz!”  He was trying to cheer me up, I guess.

Tone had already done the total spatial flyover and he was right – I had to walk past a couple or so, doing the complete 360° on them to confirm the geometry. The whole floor was made up of groupings of four carrels, each having three walls (two were shared of course with your adjacent neighbors) approximately 5 feet high. If you sat down, couldn’t see your neighbors. If you stood up, and if you were at least 5’6’’, you could see the whole countryside.

Tone made his way back down the ramp and said, “Here it is. D-221-D.”

I couldn’t bring myself to go in. I handed the flowers to Tone and he slowly broached the space, breaking that imaginary line that bounded the place where Elizabeth Parker worked.  

“What’sa matter. You afraid of the Big Bad Wolf or something?” Tone was eating the situation up. He certainly had my mind off the card on the dashboard.

It was an odd moment – no one was at home, but we were reticent (at least I was) to enter in. I’d barge right into offices that had doors, no sweat. But here, a place where there is no privacy, the stakes seemed to be oddly higher and the taboo on encroachment heavier still. Perhaps because the interlopers themselves have no shelter. There was a hot pink sticky note stuck to her computer monitor. It said, “Call me when you get in in the morning.” And it had the initials, “C.T.” The “C” had squiggles like hair and there was a nose and a pair of eyes inside its loop. I felt like I was invading someone’s world, and I lay back behind the foul line while Tone went on in.

He made sure to place the vase up high so that it would perform as a beacon. I was wandering around the floor and looking back toward Elizabeth’s pod. Wondering what her co-workers would think in the morning. Would they even notice? The flowers like the headpiece of a stalled circus horse – an odd projection in a sterile place. “Where’s the card?” Tone asked when I got back into range.

I had left it in the van. “It’s in the van. Let’s get out of here.”  Tone grabbed a sticky note off of her desk and scribbled a note and stuck it to the screen beside the other note – neon yellow against the hot pink. “An Admirer.”

And then Tone took off into the field of broken crosses hoping that I would join in some horseplay. But I just took the main aisle straight out to the ramp and tried to follow Tone’s head floating above the carrel walls as he darted and circled and buzzed the field, spelling out a joyous disdain of the place. He was still a kid, and I wasn’t. I just kept doggedly approaching the ramp and kept thinking Tone’s head Tone’s head there’s Tone’s head Franco Harris on speed a beautiful rounded spongy nib of a more beautiful felt-tipped black Magic Marker, a bumblebee with a law degree.

“Have the powers-that-be ever considered taking the roof off of this joint and taking a look at their floor plan?”

The receptionist just looked at me blankly, smiled sweetly, and noted the time that we had departed in the column that called for such information.

“That was quite a testimonial for pulling down an office job.” Tone slammed the door of the van.

There was Elizabeth’s card up on the dash, along with my card and a hundred other odds and ends - the rolling version of Flack’s desk.  

“I’ll take it back in, “ offered Tone.

“No way. Lizzy will wonder, and C.T. will wonder, and that may not be such a bad thing.”

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