*this material is copyrighted by Diane Pagen
Illustration by Harry Bogosian
Salmon colored roses
In the spring of 2012, while I was still certain that the world stopped turning when John asked it to, we went for a drive, in the gold Buick. We went to Sheepshead Bay as we often did. John = Sheepshead Bay = John. People will surely know what it feels like when a place is saturated with the presence of one particular person. The waterfront, the tackle shop, the sunlight, even the unappealing service road—what could be less compelling and less romantic than a service road on a highway—pulse with images of John’s face, his beleaguered, calloused fingers, his neck, the pale black shadows under his eyes. So in the end of 2012, when I forced myself to go back to Sheepshead Bay to walk about alone, the compressions in my chest sent me into a panic; the immense longing made me sob out loud. Just being there brought me back to afternoons when we would walk hand in hand, eye to eye.
Anyway, I had liked to walk with his arm around my waist, so I would put a lot of effort into landing on my left foot in unison with his left, so his hand wouldn’t slip off and away. That day we drove, after a lovely few hours along the bay, we talked and walked as we reached a street corner just a few blocks away from where we had parked the car. A young man approached us, with an armful of salmon colored roses. Each one was wrapped up in clear plastic. In spring and summer, there was money to be made from couples who sauntered along the popular date spot that is Sheepshead Bay. Young men like this one approached couples at the sidewalk cafes, or sitting alongside the bay. He was probably on his way to sell to these couples. John and I just happened to be in his path, and he stopped and asked John if John wanted to buy a rose.
I had already shared my preference for salmon colored roses with him. He’d bought me one or two roses over the months since we’d met. So I was surprised when John tensed up as the young man asked. John looked at him blankly; towered above him; not a word came out to accompany the look. Not knowing what that was about, and feeling sorry for the flower vendor, I smiled and said that we’d take one. John’s face pulled tight, all surprise and irritation. The vendor took my $5, said thanks and moved away fast.
We’d walked for another block in silence. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “I like these kind of roses.” I smelled it and smiled.
He didn’t smile back. “Diane, you are not making much money right now. We don’t have money for that kind of stuff. People who are not making that much cut out things like that.”
“John, it’s only a couple of dollars. And you’ve bought me flowers before.”
“Sure. But that was before we needed to be careful with money. And that is me deciding of my own free will (he said this dramatically with a flourish of his hand) to buy you a flower, not being guilted and pressured into it by some asshole on the street.”
His words chilled the romance of the afternoon up to then. “Wow.” I said. “He’s just a person, like you, trying to earn a living. I’d think as a working man you’d be more sympathetic. I don’t even know what to say.”
“I don’t like how that goes down. I don’t like being commanded to do something.”
“He asked you, he didn’t command you to do it….neither did I.” I looked at his face as his eyes looked ahead.
We had started to walk. Then he stopped to speak and looked me in the eyes. I stopped too and looked into his. “Yeah but I was going to say ‘no,’ and by you agreeing to it, you didn’t give me the chance.”
“John, it is okay that you don’t want to buy it, but I DID want to, and so I did! It is on the record that you disagreed. I still can buy it even if you don’t want to.” I sniffed the rose again.
“And you said ‘we’ll get one.’”
“So? What does that matter?” I asked, though I had already answered my own question. I knew why it mattered to him.
He confirmed it. “By saying ‘we’ you implied that A number 1, we both wanted the flower; or B number 2, that you were deciding for us.”
“Well I meant ‘I’ll’ then. I was not accurate. Forgive me. I was not speaking for you nor meaning to create an impression that I was.” Good lord, I thought.
We started walking toward the car again and got in. He was sullen as he pulled out of the parking space. The rose lay across my lap, irritating him. He lit a cigarette and rolled down the window.
“Look, can we just have a nice rest of the day? If I had known it would make you react like this I would have just waited and bought one when I wasn’t in your company.”
“That is still wasteful given that you are not making much money at this time.”
“Oh, Jesus, ok! Please, I get it. But I disagree that $5 makes any difference. I was just having a nice time and maybe wanting that rose was just a consequence of my feeling really good today with you. Can’t you think about it that way?” He said nothing. He had one hand on the wheel and one out the window. I watched the side of his face for a sign this argument would be over soon and got none.
We got off the exit ramp of the BQE at Ocean Parkway. We passed the avenues S, R, Q, P, and turned left down Avenue O in silence.
We got home. When we got upstairs, I wiped off the window sill. The sky was still sunny. Neighbors across the way stood in small groups of men and women, talking while their children raced each other down the block and back. There was a vase in the cabinet, and I got it down, washed it, and placed my salmon rose in the window while John went down the street and bought a pack of cigarettes. Later still, I made us dinner, and when the sky turned dark blue, we went up to the roof and stared out at the rooftops of Bensonhurst together, every few minutes watching the F train rumble into the elevated station a few hundred feet south of us. The warm breeze tickled. After some time contemplating the cityscape, he took a step closer to me, silent. Soon he took my hand and squeezed it. “What am I gonna do with you?” he said with feigned exasperation, pulled me closer and smiled while the lights of the Verrazano twinkled beyond the rooftops.
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