The Story Checks Out
Ash season ends. A steady wind builds offshore, blowing inland, bearing tepid rain. The occasion calls for autumn floristry, purchased at the midsized regional supermarket chain, for lack of a traditional venue, the shop down the street closed for good. One bouquet goes to the realtor. Rental days are behind us—no more rolling primer over black mold.
The other goes to the man screaming at his dead mother in the bathroom. “Fight Song” plays over the public address. Security has quit as a body, unannounced. The checkers draw lots for who will attend the situation. An epic discursive thread forms in the minds of customers waiting. Can we chastise this man in a compassionate society? Surely, we can.
The teenage backup apologizes for the delay. She waves the bouquets (rose, dahlia, trailing amaranthus) over the checkout counter. She promises delivery once the screaming stops. A moist tepid wind discharges through automatic doors. It buffets the usual roadside horticultural assortment, sweetgum and pampas grass, rasping, not yet rehydrated. The shuttered florist storefront presents the muraled likenesses of geriatric politicians recently deceased. Alongside them, an electric banana spraypaint alien enjoins us to smoke weed on the regular. He proffers a lit joint. His supply is astronomical.
The last of the storefront tenants, the last of the human tenants, the last owner of a beloved neighborhood institution, stripped the walls bare of copper wiring. Under bitter tears, he reports various vagrancies. Landlord and peace officer take their respective notes. Property crime has been on the increase, so they say. Perhaps a new mayoralty will tackle the problem. Anyway, the story checks out.