Singing Floral-gram

by Lloyd B. Abrams

I was outfitted in the bulbous bright yellow and green chicken costume and the suffocating, reeking-from-cigarettes-and-sweat chicken head I'd pulled on in the van. I had wobbled up the three front steps, holding a MagicFlora Forever Promises red rose bouquet - two dozen premium long-stems wrapped in cellophane - and was about to press the doorbell.

From inside: "For the umpteenth time, Charlie ... Would you finish your goddam Cheerios already!"

A moment later: "Don't you stick your filthy tongue out at me! You better take a spoonful or I'll shove that spoon right down your throat! ... What? You're giving me the finger? Maybe I oughta stick that spoon up your ass. I know you'd like that!"

Oh man, I sighed. I considered returning later, but that would mean another trip. So I pressed the button. Fake Big Ben chimes ding-donged inside.

Heavy footsteps. The door opened. Looming in the doorway was a huge woman in a stained, lavender-gray robe.

A look of shocked surprise. Reaction one. She gave me the once over. Two. "What the hell do you want?" Three. Her angry sneer was not softened by the unbleached moustache line over her lip.

"Ma'am? ... Are you Evangelina Moody?" She nodded, but still looked puzzled. Four. "Well, I have ..." - I paused for effect - "... a singing floral-gram for you." I handed her the two dozen reds. She sniffed them like she was clearing her nose and smiled, but her upturned lips didn't make her look any more endearing. I knelt down on one knee, took out the instruction card, and then began to sing the words printed on it, making sure not to hurry it: "Happy birthday to you / Happy birthday to you / Happy birthday dear Evangelina / Happy birthday ... fuck you!"

"What? What? What's the meaning of this?" she shrieked, as she ripped open the gift card. "Oh! ... From goddamn Charlie!" Softer, then to me: "Charlie, my husband ... He's always joking." She turned inside and screamed again: "You crazy son-of-a-bitch! I'm gonna kill you!" She started to close the door.

"Ma'am ... Hold on a moment, ma'am." I stood up, removed my chicken head and rummaged in the pouch pocket of my costume. I took out the invoice, unfolded it, and read the amount printed on the bottom. "That'll be two hundred sixteen dollars and eleven cents. That's including the tax."

"Are you for real? ... No, this can't be ... This has gotta be some kind of joke."

"No joke, ma'am." I handed her the bill, which she examined. I am always polite, but I always carry, Sir William, my billy club just in case. I patted it, inside my waistband, to feel reassured.

"What the hell do ya mean? I gotta pay for this?"

"Yes, ma'am. Look ... There on the bill. C.O.D. That's what it says. Cash on delivery."

She glowered at me. They always do that, too; it was the worst part. After that, it could go either way. This time, though, I knew how it was going to end.

Despite her girth, she started to look shrunken. Haggard. Deflated. Like a punctured three-hundred pound lavender-gray medicine ball hissing air. It took everything I had to stop from laughing out loud.

"I don't, uh, have any money." Stalling, as they all did.

"That's all right, ma'am. You do have a credit card, don't you?"

"Yeah, yeah." She was becoming resigned to coughing up the dough. "Yes, I do .... Lemme go get it." She left me standing on the stoop while she turned back into the house. Meanwhile, I pulled the chicken head back on.

She returned with a gold MasterCard and handed it to me.

I waited a few beats and then did my own rendition of an Irish jig. Then I twirled, stretched out my arms, and bellowed, "Ta-Daaa!"

I half-curtseyed then bowed, gave her back the credit card, and helium-squeaked, "Just kidding! Already paid for!" And I skipped back to my MagicFlora van.

I love my job. I really do.

Rev 6 / March 28, 2008

Up to the beginning of the story

March, 2008…Copyright © 2008, Lloyd B. Abrams