The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up by Jacob M. Appel Read Free Book Online Page A

grappled with stagflation and gasoline lines, it seemed everyone within walking distance of Sheridan Square had a crocus nightlight in their bedrooms. Arnold owned fifty percent of the proceeds. The following autumn, when Overmeyer’s second ex-wife gunned down the older botanist in his Barnard office, a shocked Arnold inherited the entire operation. To that point, he’d donenothing to contribute to the nursery; he hadn’t even cleaned out the rusted chicken cages from his designated office. The entire summer had been spent house-hunting with Judith and searching for specimens in Central Park. Yet somehow the glow-in-the-dark crocuses had led to an organic flower market, and then a catalogue bulb-and-seed business, and eventually a multimillion dollar enterprise—albeit one where, for many years, elderly out-of-towners continued to come seeking live ducks and guinea fowl. On the lecture circuit, young horticulturists frequently examined Arnold’s curriculum vitae and noted how well all the strands of his life had come together. That was because they possessed the power of hindsight, he warned. A man doesn’t list his setbacks on his résumé.
    Arnold had always prided himself on taking an interest in the community—not just writing annual checks to City Harvest and the West Village Green Thumb Society, but setting aside time to get to know his neighbours, even though his neighbours changed frequently and his own time grew increasingly precious. Usually, nothing pleased him more than exchanging early-morning greetings and chitchat with his fellow merchants: the chain-smoking Israeli locksmith, the Ethiopian restaurateur who always addressed him as
my cousin
, the elderly transvestites who ran a combination costume shop and internet café. He had even befriended the lizard-tongued kid who pierced nipples and genitals on 13 th Street. Arnold called the young man“The Specialist.” But that morning, after his confrontation with the media, Arnold dreaded the prospect of running into anyone he knew. He walked rapidly, steering a broad rectangular course that avoided his usual morning route, so that he approached the nursery from the opposite direction. The girl struggled to keep pace. Several passers-by appeared to recognize him—either from television or the newspapers—but he ignored their stares.
    “Can you slow the fuck down?” Cassandra pleaded. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we got you a paper bag to put over your head?”
    “This is how I normally walk,” said Arnold. “If you can’t keep up, we can always do the interview another day.”
    “I think you’d look awesome in a paper bag,” continued the girl. She had the habit of following her own train of thought, independent of his interruptions. “We’ll cut you some eyeholes and draw you a moustache.”
    Arnold picked up his pace. He wasn’t in the best physical shape—he’d given up jogging years earlier when he’d ruptured his Achilles’—but he was still surprised to discover how easily he winded. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and under his collar. Somehow, he blamed this flagging breath on the girl. “Did anybody ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?” he demanded.
    “All the time,” retorted the girl. “Some guys like that.”
    Her tone was overtly playful—possibly flirtatious.Even racing down Sixth Avenue in a condition approaching panic, Arnold couldn’t help noticing. But how was he supposed to respond? Ordering the girl to “stop flirting” was somewhat presumptuous. It might even come across as coy encouragement. On the other hand, engaging her in a battle of teasing repartee might give her ideas. So Arnold said nothing. He let her fire off her barbs, but refused to shoot back. Besides, he was out of practice. He hadn’t flirted with anyone in thirty years.
He hadn’t wanted to flirt with anyone
. Even before that, verbal jousting hadn’t been his strong suit.
    They crossed the park, cut along the new