I was working at a gallery in a central part of the city the other day. Although the gallery usually had a lot of foot traffic, it was slow that night. Almost no one was willing to brave the cold on a weeknight. Since me and my coworker had to be there for five hours, I decided to go across the street and pick up some food. We made the excellent culinary decision of takeout french fries from IHOP, and I went over while she manned the fort.
The barista at the IHOP coffee/takeout bar was decidedly eccentric, and when I ordered a vanilla coffee (another excellent culinary decision in terms of pairing), he asked if I wanted whipped cream. My knee-jerk response to that question is always, “Yes, of course!” Immediately after I saying that, I realized it would be impossible to put cream in the coffee, and maybe that wasn’t a route I was prepared to go down. But if you think my social skills portfolio includes the ability to change an order and say, “wait, actually, no thanks,” boy are you mistaken.
So a few minutes later, there I was, large coffee with vanilla syrup and just about as much whipped cream as could possibly fit on top of a beverage in hand, waiting for the precarious mountain to spill at any moment, when the eccentric barista offered me a spoon. It took another few minutes for me to eat enough of the whipped cream to fit a lid on the coffee cup. When I took a sip, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the enormous amount of whipped cream was acting as a creamer, after all, so maybe it wasn’t a terrible mistake. It was taking a long time for the kitchen to make the french fries.
The IHOP had a glass storefront, and it being well after sunset, the inside was illuminated outwards for all the passersby to see. I decided to avoid the tortures of my own mind and the entire concept of “being in the moment” by staring at my phone. This also is a habit I picked up to let strangers be at ease around me, knowing I will never strike up a conversation, and signaling that if they desire a conversation they had better look elsewhere. As the kids used to say, back when I was a kid, this ended up being an “Epic Fail.”
A man carrying a large handful of small bouquets of red roses entered the restaurant. I was the only customer in the takeout section, and he beelined straight for me, allowing only a few moments of dread to pass before I realized I was definitely the target.
“Hey lady,” he said, smiling at me, “for you.” He handed me three red roses wrapped in clear plastic.
“No, thank you,” I replied. I was not in the market for three red roses, and I almost never am. When strangers hand me things, it usually ends up being that they expect me to pay for whatever that thing is, in some way or the other.
“No, it’s for you,” he insisted. His English was not very good, and he seemed distressed. My french fries were taking way too long for comfort. I was trapped by red roses and starchy foods.
“I don’t want them. No thanks.”
He began gesturing to the window, and said, “A man out there. For you. He buy.”
At this point, shit got real. Panic was quickly setting in, and I looked out the window, although I couldn’t see anyone standing out there. The brief moment of hope that maybe someone I knew was playing a prank on me evaporated. I continued to refuse the flowers, saying I didn’t know anyone outside, at which point the flower man told me to be careful. Be careful? You’re telling me this, strange man insisting I take flowers?
Even though I thought I would be resilient and not crack to this strange pressure, I eventually did. He told me, “I take money for these. I already take money.” And you know, I felt like he would be facing some repercussions from the man in the shadows if he didn’t deliver the package. He really did seem distressed.
I asked, “They’re already paid for?” which seemed like enough of an acquiescence for him, because he practically shoved the roses into my hands. “Wait,” I said as he was turning away, “who paid for these?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling broadly.
At that exact moment, the barista called out, “Two french fries to go!” Coffee cup in one hand, flowers in the other, I grabbed the grocery bag of food with my flower-filled hand and turned around to see that the mysterious flower man had already left. I’m sure if I had lingered a little longer in the IHOP I would have heard all sorts of input on the whole situation by the barista and his accompanists. But I was sufficiently freaked out to sprint across the street, ignoring all laws of traffic, and head back to the gallery and security guards therein.
During my desperate jog, I glanced past my shoulder, trying to spot the man pulling the strings of the whole operation. I didn’t see anyone in particular, certainly no one waving at me or trying to get my attention. Suspiciously, the flower man looked like he was approaching a construction worker who was pretty far beyond the IHOP on the sidewalk. Maybe that was the guy. Maybe not.
Once safely back inside, I imparted both the french fries and the thrilling tale to my coworker, who displayed what I thought was an appropriate amount of concern. One of her friends, however, had a different reaction, like, “Aww, that’s so nice someone bought you flowers!” Which I thought was an all-around bad take on the ordeal. Eventually, my heart stopped pounding enough for me to sit down and eat my french fries, which were pretty good. It tasted horrible with coffee, though, so I threw half the coffee away. I was amped up enough as it was.
The rest of the night passed peacefully, and never have I been more silently grateful for security staffing. My coworker insisted on walking me back to my car, which was fairly easy considering we had parked a few spots away from each other. I kept the roses, even though one of my good friends texted me to throw them away because they were likely bugged by the CIA and/or aliens.
My collection of red roses and brother.
They fit nicely in the glass on my counter that already contained one red rose, from the previous day when my professor had handed them out in class. My brother joked that the next day, someone would hand me five red roses, and every day I would get more, incrementing by odd numbers.
Fortunately, that didn’t happen, and my rose count has remained at four.