The florist from Rhode Island, Bob, started working there shortly after Girl did, and they shared sandwiches and played gin rummy when it was slow. Bob looked like the Marlboro man and even wore a black leather cowboy hat on occasion. He told her stories of ’70s discos. “I could spin on a dime!” he said. Bob lamented the fortune his family left behind in Cuba when Castro rose to power.
All six of the men at the shop were openly gay. It was fun—even though Mother was a lesbian, Girl hadn’t really met any gay men before, and the guys were always flirting with her and with each other, laughing and joking and calling each other Mary. Bob was the only one who minded it, which caused them to tease him even more. Whenever the shop phone rang, whoever answered would affect the deepest phone-sex voice they could muster, and Girl was almost as good at it as they were—in her mind, anyway. They all kissed each other on the lips in greeting, and the unexpected intimacy of it made Girl feel glowy and vulnerable at the same time. She had never had much extended family, or even a large group of friends. Going to work was like going to hang out with long-lost cool uncles—even on days when her fingers flew at top speed, her mouth moved just as fast, laughing, teasing, and talking about men.
“Just me!” she called as she entered the store one afternoon, a few months after she had been hired. Tony was approaching from the back to see if the ringing bell signaled a customer.
“Did you miss us?” Tony asked with a smirk. Tony’s dark brown locks were pulled back into a ponytail only as thick as her index finger. His frizzy hair was receding too far to wear as long as he did, but somehow, it fit him. “Fuck you if you don’t like it,” Tony always said. “Fuck you with a meat hook.” He was the least pretty of the six gay men she worked with, but Girl didn’t think pretty was his goal. He wore his combat boots and ponytail with an appealing fierceness. There was something about his brown eyes—his gaze was somehow more intense, he held eye contact a little longer than most people. If you saw him coming in a dark alley, you’d run—he was tough and hip and still listened to death metal even though he was almost forty.
Tony wasn’t a florist—he mostly did setup and delivery. Girl had learned that Tony didn’t know how to read, but he knew the city streets like the back of his hand. He could create elaborate tenting out of bolts of fabric and transform rented party halls into wonderlands of bridal fantasy when he was sober. When he was drunk he had a history of knocking over expensive vases, but drinking at work was not a fireable offense. South Wedge was a family, and you don’t fire family. Girl no longer drank, smoked, or did drugs, but it didn’t bother her that most of the other guys at the shop did. Besides, if Ryan was high he’d sometimes pay her an extra few bucks an hour.
“Of course I missed you, Tony! I always miss you!” she said, playfully drawing out her words and over-emoting in the affectation that was the shop dialect. “I’ll tell you who I didn’t miss, though—William!” She didn’t normally snipe, but the manager, William, was such a prig, and besides, Tony was so cool, she wanted him to like her. William—never the informal Will or the affectionate Billy—was prissy and arrogant. If alligator shirts were still in style, William would wear them perfectly ironed and buttoned all the way to the top. Now he made do with crisp designer dress shirts and creased trousers, but the snooty effect was the same. He was always shuffling papers and scuffing his feet as he walked back and forth, his dress shoes sounding like they were slippers.
“I wish he would pick up his fucking feet and walk like a normal person!” Bob always bitched to her when William was out of the room. William’s sole job seemed to be waving papers around and admonishing everyone to work faster, though he rarely put a flower in a vase himself. He had criticized Girl’s wardrobe several times. She wore solid color shirts with Dockers every day, but she didn’t own scarves or pins to dress them up, and she didn’t like how she looked in lipstick—her lips were too thin or something. She kept her hair out of her face to look neat and professional, but she knew she wasn’t trendy or cool, and William never failed to comment on how she lacked the flair he felt befitted a South Wedge employee. Still, Girl loved her job. She’d rather be at work than home alone, even though it was summer and she could have lain in the sun all afternoon if she had wanted to. The only good thing about her few days off from work was not having to listen to William’s voice nagging her to be better, prettier, and faster than she was capable of.
“Now, now, it’s not nice to speak ill of the dying,” Tony said as they walked into the back.
“What?” She was confused. She had only been off work her usual three days. They walked to the work area in the middle of the store, and she could hear the radio playing “Everything I Do, I Do It for You” by Bryan Adams. That song was so sappy, and Girl was so sick of hearing it.
