Wilting

Essay written for my nonfiction writing class, October 2008.

Standing over the dead lady’s body, I had to wonder to myself how I got into this situation. All I wanted was a nice job so I could earn some spending money. I didn’t expect I’d be sending off the dead with a fistful of flowers. As much as I was fighting it, I forced myself closer to the casket. Morbid curiosity held my gaze to the painted shell that was her face. I was thoroughly freaked out but could not turn away. Perhaps I was looking for a twitch, a rise in her chest or even a disembodied voice, any reason to bolt from the room, the building, and my new job. As I laid the flowers on the smooth, blood red wood of the casket, I just knew the lady’s hollowed hand would jut out for my jugular. After I nestled the ornate arrangement of flowers onto the casket, I quickly pulled away out of the dead woman’s reach. She didn’t budge. This was the first time in my life I was actually thankful that a woman didn’t put the moves on me. I left the funeral home, jumped into the company van, and pondered how I ended up rendezvousing with the rigor mortised.

It all started when I turned sixteen. A lot of people look forward to their sixteenth birthday. For most of the kids in my town, it’s an age that means a driver’s license, a car and their first tantalizing taste of independence. It’s when most kids start to bloom. For me, it meant a rusty truck and manual labor. In high school, I joined the Vocational Industrial Clubs of America, or VICA, program. In the program, I was allowed to leave school early to go to my job. The head of the program was Coach Grimes, a heavyset and aggressive P.E. teacher who never spoke below a holler. It was up to him to set us up with jobs based on our interests. Unfortunately, if your interests don’t include repairing automobiles or frying chicken, then job choices in my town are slim pickins. When I put down “art” as my interest, I was quite curious to see what Coach Grimes would come up with. A few days later, I sat down next to him at his cluttered desk and with his noxious nicotine breath and peek-a-boo nose hairs, he told me I would be working at Young’s Florist, a local flower shop. I can’t say I was exactly ecstatic. I’m not much for frills and flowers, but Coach Grimes had gotten the job for me so I didn’t object. I did ask him why he chose a florist and he said it was the only artistic, creative job he could find in the area. Fair enough. Opp, Alabama isn’t exactly a mecca for the arts. He said I would be able to help with the flower arrangements, and while it wasn’t exactly the kind of art I was interested in, it was a new creative avenue for me so I looked forward to it.

I walked into the shop to meet my boss and was immediately inundated with ridiculously overpriced plastic angels, that lined the walls and seemed to cover every inch of the cramped building. I weaved myself through the jungle of knickknacks and made my way to the cash register area, a space littered with papers and handwritten notes and polices taped down onto the counter. Rebecca Young, the owner of Young’s Florist, stood propped on the counter, waiting for me. A faint smell of smoke permeated the air toward to the back of the building where Rebecca stood. She was an aging southern belle, past her prime by a good thirty years. She looked like she had been in beauty pageants when she was younger but never took off the makeup. She wore so much eye shadow that her eyelids drooped over her corneas. My mom later told me her eye condition was most likely due to her being buzzed all the time. Looking back, it makes sense. It would account for her overly laid back attitude and slightly slurred speech, which at the time, I had simply mistaken for her unique southern drawl. Her thick red lipstick had migrated to her yellow teeth. Her store-bought black hair was pulled into a severe bun. She wore a blue denim button up shirt with the Young’s Florist logo monogrammed on the upper right corner of the shirt, just below the collar. Around each finger she wore large, gaudy rings and in between her bejeweled fingers, an ever present cigarette. Of course, she wasn’t holding one on that first day. That was her effort to make a good first impression. We exchanged greetings and she got right down to the point, saying, “This is a purdy place and a purdy business but working here ain’t purdy. You think you can handle that?” Being the naïve sixteen-year-old that I was, I simply said, “Yes, ma’am.” And she, being the apathetic chimney that she was, didn’t bother to elaborate. That was my entire interview. I went into work the next day.

Unfortunately, after I clocked in, Rebecca informed me that my main job would be delivery. I told Rebecca I was geographically challenged and had been under the impression that I would get to help arrange the flowers. She lit up a cigarette and laughed a gritty laugh, as if she was juggling rocks in her throat. She said that was Jan’s job. Jan was a snotty lady whose jowls hung down like a bulldog’s. Her mouth was forever in the form of a frown. I could tell this lady was carrying around some baggage. She was perpetually pissed off and always walked around like she had a corncob stuck up her butt. She definitely didn’t dress to impress, always showing up for work in a sloppy shirt and shorts and the same pair of three-dollar brown rubber sandals that were sold in the shop. Through the sandals, I noticed her feet were in about as bad condition as her personality. She was a mean lady but she also made a mean flower arrangement. I never saw her smile. When it was cold outside, she’d wear white socks underneath those rubber sandals to keep her calluses warm. In the Young’s Florist hierarchy, Jan was second in command, after Rebecca. Next came a full figured gal with crunchy blond curls named Mandy. She had a sweet name but a sour personality. I was beginning to notice a trend. Mandy was the one who had previously done all the dirty work in the shop, but since I was there, she put it all on me. Since she used to do everything that was now expected of me, she was the one who trained me while Rebecca sat back in the same blue denim shirt, day after day, chain smoking. Naturally, I was ranked at the very bottom.

When Rebecca said the florist business wasn’t pretty, she wasn’t lying. Not only did I have to deliver the flowers but I also had to prepare them for Jan. This involved sorting the flowers, cutting the stems (and in the process, cutting myself with the thorns), carrying the various flowers around in large pails of water, organizing them in the freezer, and fetching the ones she needed for certain arrangements. Then there was the shop work, which involved schlepping around heavy boxes filled with ornaments, packing and unpacking boxes, helping take down and put up seasonal items around the shop, and running personal errands for Rebecca.

We didn’t have lunch breaks. We were allowed to eat only when there wasn’t anything to do, but as soon as Jan had finished an arrangement, it was time to put down the sandwich and pick up the van keys. That freaking van gave me trouble. During my first few deliveries, Mandy went with me to show me the ropes and how to load and unload the flowers in the back of the van so none of the precious petals were crushed. I was already nervous about driving a different vehicle other than my own. At sixteen, I still hadn’t had very much experience on the road. I was even more apprehensive about driving because I felt like I was operating a tank instead of a van. Each time I sat in the driver’s seat, anxiety filled the interior of the van faster than the smoke from Mandy’s Marlboro. Yes, she smoked too. I didn’t fare much better when I was alone in that van, either. I got lost, spiraled into a ditch on more than one occasion and even managed to break off the driver’s side mirror while trying to squeeze through a lane of the local drive-through bank.

The van wasn’t the only thing giving me grief. I just didn’t realize how depressing my job would be. The combination of my crabby coworker, drunk boss, sourpuss floral arranger, and my job requirements that made me dread the day ahead. Probably the most depressing part of the job was all the old and dead people I was forced to encounter. During one particular delivery, I had to take flowers to a retirement home. I walked through the automatic double doors and searched around for a receptionist. While doing so, I found many lonely and lined faces, senior citizens shuffling around with their walkers, some napping in their chairs, others medicated in front of television sets. I brought the flowers to the receptionist and then as I was walking out, a lady raised her frail hand to get my attention. She sat up from the faded blue couch she was sitting in and I looked over to her. She asked in a weak yet hopeful voice, “Do you have anything for me?” I felt my heart crack a little bit. I regretfully replied, “No, ma’am, I’m sorry.” She nodded, smiled a weak smile and then settled back into the faded couch. I exited the double doors with watery eyes.

I had never seen a dead person until I had to deliver flowers to the funeral home. The idea of being so close to a lifeless body freaked me out. It didn’t help when Mandy mentioned that the funeral home employees liked to play pranks on us. I was already nervous enough hanging out in a building full of dead and drained people. Now I had to worry about a bunch of douche bags popping out of closed coffins or sneaking limbs into the company van. Fortunately, they never did. I wasn’t employed long enough to give them a chance. Not only did I have to deliver flowers to open caskets but I also had to go to the funerals themselves and wait around outside until the service inside was over. Then, while mourners were packing into their cars to drive to the gravesite, Mandy and I had to pack all the flower arrangements back into the van and then rush to the gravesite before everyone else got there so we could set up the arrangements around the grave, making it presentable by the time the families arrived. Most of the time, we only had mere minutes to pull it off. It was incredibly stressful.

I couldn’t take this anymore. Everywhere I turned I found depression. Depression at the workplace. Depression at the delivery zones. I found depression within myself because I despised the job but at the same time I didn’t want to be a quitter. I was conflicted and confused. I had to find a way out of my situation but if I did, my parents would be disappointed with me. My parents took on factory jobs because they had a limited education. They didn’t like what they did but it was their only choice and they did it because they had to support my sister and me. And I felt like a spoiled brat for wanted to get out of the florist job, a job that I hadn’t even had a month. Maybe I just needed to get used to the physical labor and mental anguish? Maybe I could befriend these women? No, I couldn’t do any of that. I was only lying to myself, trying to feel better about a bad situation. In my heart, I knew this wasn’t for me.

My mother came home from work one day to find me slumped on the couch. I had gotten home from the florist shop a few hours before. My jeans were dirtied and rolled up to my knees. Each aching foot was plunged into a large plastic bowl filled with steaming water and Epsom salt. My mom laughed at the site of me. She put down her purse and sat on the couch across from me, her auburn hair deflated by work, her face shiny from the hot factory. Her makeup had faded and her thin eyebrows were furrowed with exhaustion. I was beginning to understand how she felt every day.

“I really hate my job,” I said to her sheepishly.

“I know,” she responded, the words exhaling from her lips without a trace of sympathy.

“I want to quit.”

“We all have to do things we don’t want to do.”

That was her typical response to any negativity I ever expressed to her. That’s life. Tough luck. That’s what you get. Oh well. We all have to do things we don’t want to do. But that couldn’t be all. Surely she wouldn’t want her son to suffer like this. I worked out a plan in my head. My mind raced to find a solution. Then it clicked.

“What if I find another job?”

“Good luck with that!”

“But, if I do, can I quite this one?”

“Sure, as long as you can guarantee a new one first.”

This was my way out. From that day forward, I fervently went through the classifieds, collected stacks of job applications and asked around about possible employee positions.

I had been fantasizing about quitting the florist for several days, especially on the days when I found myself elbow deep in cemetery dirt cleaning off dead flowers from graves and replacing them with fresh ones. The hot southern sun beat down on me, my face smeared with dirt and sweat. I had had enough. I couldn’t go on working in an environment of smoke and stress. One of those job applications had to work out. It just had to.

Fortunately, all the days of job hunting paid off. The manager of the drugstore in town had reviewed my application and wanted to speak to me. The interview went great. I was charming and funny and desperately trying to be as hirable as possible to escape from rose-colored hell. I suppose I was either a good choice for the job or maybe she just saw the desperation in my eyes because she said she’d be happy to hire me. And she’d never know how happy that made me. Now, the other tough part was quitting. As much as I hated the place, I was nervous to confront my soot-stained boss.

A few days later, I found myself in the company van with Mandy and she was once again yelling, “ You’re going to have to eventually learn the layout of this city!” By that time, I had already decided to quit that day so I thought to myself, “That’s what you think, you human exhaust pipe!” Puffs of gray smoke escaped her flaring nostrils and curled lips as she went off on me, ash from her cigarette trailing her hands as she gestured. Screw this. At the end of my shift, I went up to Rebecca and told her I needed to speak with her. In between puffs of her cigarette, she said, “You aren’t happy here.” I politely said no and that I would like to end my employment with her. I then quickly offered a two weeks notice but she told me that wouldn’t be necessary. She then blew a puff of smoke in my direction. I took that as my dismissal. Thanks a lot. The next day I woke up and was overjoyed with the realization that I would not have to walk into a building that housed carcinoma and crappy attitudes.

I suppose we all have our “worst job ever” stories. And although it wasn’t the best experience of my life, I think I did learn something from it. I learned a bit more about people and life and how neither are as great as we hope for. I suppose if I had to get my feet wet in the working world, I’m glad they got a little scalded. It definitely helped make every job after Young’s Florist seem so much better in comparison. For instance, I thoroughly enjoyed my employment with the drugstore. After the florist, I thought of my parents and how their jobs are probably twice as hard as mine was and just knowing what they have to endure daily makes me appreciate them so much more. Because I had a taste of how much they have had to struggle to take care of me, experienced that hard work myself with my rough hands and aching back, it encouraged me to pursue my education further than they did so that hopefully in the future, I’ll obtain a more profitable position that won’t be as physically demanding. I admire them for sticking it out although they don’t like what they do. And I tried to sick it out as well but I’m just not that strong. And maybe, most importantly, I just refuse to accept that things have to suck. I know sometimes situations are beyond our control but I took control of my situation and my job and found one that was much less stressful. I realized that no job, no relationship, no experience is worth it if you find yourself wilting.