Gooseflowers
Gooseflowers
I like this room. It's got a good feel to it. It's quiet and peaceful.
On an island garden or garden island: tame dear, tame ducks, tame gourds—a peaceable kingdom with a gift shop, discounts available for retirees, veterans, and first responders. Ornamental seasonal produce ornaments the garden path. It runs from coach house to manor house to coach house, everything ornamental, the outbuildings, all of the buildings, built since the invention of the motorcar. Ambulatory grandchildren outrace their grandfather. Late autumn wind blows raw against his baldheaded pate. Chimes sound at the shop. An accented request is made for multiple discounts. A visitor, so the argument goes, might be any combination of retiree, veteran, or first responder, though not necessarily in that order. A seasonal cashier trainee inquiries about national background. “It’s not so important,” the grandfather shrugs and replies, eventually answers. The discount remains flat, nontransferable. Printed brochures enjoin visitors to rate their experience on social media. A single golden star hovers threateningly above the southside reflecting pool. Its three brothers remain blank, shown only in outline, to mark how this particular creation falls below ideal. Other creatures enjoy creaturely pleasures. Mallards drop their stool in the manor fountain. Yearling bucks, newly antlered, pass though the service door, browse on fundraiser buffet garnishes.
Elsewhere, the seasonal cashier trainee is having a private conversation. She is pregnant by the lead volunteer coordinator. They speak in harsh whispers beside the prizewinning topiary. Mobile radio bursts with sudden chatter. A German has collapsed delirious in the coach house parking lot. The grandchildren stand, apparently stoic, beside his prone body. They simply don’t understand. The cashier trainee promises them warmth and shelter in the break room. A cold rain is about to start. Nothing’s decided with her, but it already feels like a dress rehearsal. Emergency services is contacted. The ambulance arrives within top quartile response time. The volunteer coordinator flags them over. He removes his branded hooded sweatshirt from beneath the German’s head. Copious blood stains the embroidered logotype. The paramedics refer to numerous different persons as boss “Where’s the boss? —There’s the boss.” He nods earnestly, the lead volunteer coordinator. His resume indicates management experience. The German says something, “Gänseblume”, registered as nonsense. The grandchildren are in the break room, indisposed, too young to interpret. “Gänseblume—I was very impolite.” Utter nonsense, uttered out of season. Those particular birds have flown.