The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up

by Jacob M. Appel

  He ignored her. “Maria, go outside and take down that flag.”

  “But Mr. Zambrano said—”

  “I don’t care what Mr. Zambrano said. Take it down. When Mr. Zambrano owns his own nursery, he can fly any damn flags he wants.”

  “Yes, Mr. Brinkman.”

  “And Maria—”

  “Yes, Mr. Brinkman?”

  “For the last time, do not call me Mr. Brinkman. Arnold. Please.”

  “Yes, Arnold.”

  The middle-aged saleswoman looked at him as though he’d ordered her to call him “Attila the Hun” or “Mary Poppins,” but she shuffled outside to remove the flag. Arnold led Cassandra through the cactus-filled hothouse, then between the pyramid displays of wheelbarrows and power saws, to the far corner of the enormous hangar. That’s where Arnold and Guillermo had their adjoining offices. The manager claimed the larger of the two, the one that had once belonged to Hans Overmeyer. It was the only room in the nursery that didn’t contain any plants.

  Arnold found his employees gathered around the portable television on Guillermo’s enormous steel desk: a dozen broad-shouldered, copper-skinned men in white t-shirts; several salesgirls in green blazers; the portly Jamaican woman named Lucinda who did the books, the Korean high school student whom Arnold had hired as part of the city’s Young Entrepreneurs Program. At first, the botanist hoped they might be watching a soccer match. But they weren’t cheering.

  When he entered, they stepped away from the television in obvious discomfort. They’d been watching his house on the news.

  “Good morning,” said Arnold.

  A chorus of muttered greetings arose—some in English, some in Spanish.

  “Time to go back to work.”

  Several of the men nodded. None moved. Only the Korean boy retreated around Arnold into the nursery.

  “What are you waiting for? I’m not going to show up there,” he added, nodding toward the TV. “I’m already here.”

  Slowly, in twos and threes, the workers departed. Eventually, only Guillermo and Lucinda remained. On the television screen, they’d cut to an interview with the Bronx District Attorney. “It’s not clear that any crime has been committed,” said the female prosecutor. “But we’re looking into the matter closely.” Among the charges Mr. Brinkman could face, added a fast-talking reporter, are disturbing the peace and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Then they cut back to Arnold’s house—first a still shot of the front door, next Spotty Spitford and his protesters, finally more commentary from Ira Taylor. The broker now sported khakis and a Hawaiian shirt. “I grew up with old-fashioned values,” he was declaiming. “Not just hard work, but also a sense of communal spirit—of taking one for the team. If someone accidentally drops a cigarette on your lawn, you lump it. No big deal. But this Brinkman’s a real stickler, the sort of fanatic who’ll sue you over a dirty look. From the start, it was always his way or the highway….”

  Arnold stepped forward and shut off the television.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Don’t you two have work to do?”

  Lucinda heaved herself off the sofa. She wore a heavy dress with lace frills to the Plant Centre every day, even during heat spells. It wouldn’t have surprised Arnold if the woman’s outerwear concealed a whale-bone corset and a starched petticoat.

  “I’ve got to say what I’ve got to say, Arnold,” said the Jamaican woman. “If you fire me, you fire me. But I don’t approve of what you did.”

  “Nobody’s firing anybody. But get to work. Please. I don’t know—go audit something.”

  The bookkeeper grunted and toddled out of the office.

  Guillermo looked up gleefully at Arnold. He sported his trademark pink shirt, hand-stitched, the collar open so tufts of grey hair protruded over the cusp. Elaborate tattoos covered the entirety of his upper body.

  “So?” demanded Arnold. “What’s so goddam amusing?”

  “Nothing,” answered Guillermo, beaming. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Then why are you smirking.”

  The Venezuelan shrugged. “You know how it is with the working class. We can’t help laughing at the quirks of the bosses.”

  Guillermo liked to rib Arnold about their relationship. It was funny because Guillermo was far more the capitalist than Arnold would ever be—and had made quite a killing from his side investments.

  “Damn you and your working classes, Willie. You could open your own greenhouse tomorrow if you wanted to. Probably your own chain of greenhouses.”

  “Maybe,” said Guillermo.

  While they spoke, Cassandra had settled onto the couch. The girl was scribbling in her tiny notepad. When she leaned forward, the tops of her breasts were visible.

  “What’s with the goddam flag?” Arnold asked.

  The Venezuelan leaned back in his chair, his meaty arms locked behind his neck. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

  “I noticed. What’s the deal? And why all that plywood?”

  “Better safe than sorry. The plywood’s to board up the windows at night so nobody puts a brick through.”

  “You’ve got to be joking!” Arnold paced back and forth beside the filing cabinets. The floors were cluttered with stacks of folders and sun-faded invoices. “Weren’t you the one who insisted we dump the steel gratings?”

  They’d had one of their periodic squabbles the previous winter when Guillermo insisted that they adopt a more modern, “new millennium” look. According to the manager, the steel security gratings gave the place an unwelcoming 1970s feel, “like something off the Barney Miller show,” and did little to prevent property crime—because there was no longer any property crime to prevent. The squabble ended as all of their squabbles ended: Arnold gave in. They replaced the metal bars with plate glass. Business picked up dramatically.

  “Are you telling me not to put up the boards?” asked Guillermo.

  “I’m just saying that I can’t imagine anyone vandalizing the nursery as a result of what was a minor, inconsequential incident.” Arnold scowled. “Do whatever you want.”

  The Venezuelan pressed a button on his phone. “Maria,” he said. “Put the flag back up. Mr. Brinkman changed his mind.”

  “How did you know—?”

  Guillermo’s eyes twinkled. “That’s why you pay me the big money.”

  It was possible the saleswoman had phoned Guillermo while Arnold and Cassandra were trekking through the hothouse. Or it was just as likely the Venezuelan had anticipated Arnold’s response. The two of them shared a long history—back to when the Venezuelan and Hans Overmeyer were selling glow-in-the-dark crocuses out of a pick-up truck. Before that, Guillermo had managed delivery for the poultry yard.

  “Trust me on the flag,” said the Venezuelan. “It reassures people.”

  “Okay,” said Arnold. “Keep the flag up. But I don’t like it.”

  The girl continued writing. It struck Arnold that she was transcribing their conversation. “All of this is off the record,” he said.

  “You so can’t do that,” answered Cassandra. “That’s like announcing the Kennedy Assassination is off-the-record. You can’t say a public conversation with another person present is off-the-record. That’s whack.” She sounded upset.

  “Fine. Put it back on the record,” said Arnold. “But now I’d like to have a private conversation with Mr. Zambrano. Why don’t you wait for me in my office?”

  The girl rose sullenly. She packed her belongings into her bag one at a time—notebooks, pencils, water bottle. Then she tied each of her shoes.

  “Down the corridor and to the left,” Arnold said.

  Cassandra tossed her bag over her shoulder and walked out.

  The Venezuelan lit a cigarette. “Quite a charmer,” he said. “Looks like she’s got a thing for the boss.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” said Arnold. “Cassandra’s a reporter for a small newspaper. It’s a long story.”

  “I’m not the one getting ideas.”

  “L
ay off. Judith knows all about her.” Arnold ambled over to the Venezuelan’s mini-fridge and appropriated a can of Coke. “So what do you really think?”

  Guillermo blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. “About what?”

  “Give me a break, Willie. You know what about.” He pulled up a folding chair opposite Guillermo’s desk and sat down. “Was I out of line?”

  “You know what I’m going to tell you,” said Guillermo. “I’m going to tell you that I don’t have an opinion. I am without politics, Arnold.”

  “You always say that.”

  “And I mean it. You wonder how a gay Venezuelan who survived the FALN and Ronald Reagan can be without politics. But that is by far the safest way. If I were not without politics, I would not be….as well-off as I am.”

  “I just don’t get you, Willie.”

  Arnold confided in him secrets that he didn’t even dare reveal to Judith—such as his relief that they couldn’t have children. At the same time, he never understood what made the manager tick. Other than financial security and buff men half his age. He’d once asked the Venezuelan if he had any long-term dreams or ambitions; Guillermo had responded: “I’m too old for dreams. At my age, I try to avoid nightmares.” Guillermo had equally clever rejoinders for questions about his family, his finances, even his hobbies.

  The Venezuelan stubbed out his cigarette. “People are always asking me what I think of the regime in Venezuela,” he said. “Am I in favour of it? Am I against it? That’s like asking a priest what he thinks of baptism. It’s not something I’m going to change any time soon.”

  “So do you have any wisdom at all?”

  “I subscribe to the old Arabian proverb: ‘The husband of my mother is my father.’ Words to live by.”

  The manager walked to the doorway and paused.

  “Give Lucinda a raise,” Guillermo said. “And buy more plywood.”

  Arnold found Cassandra seated on the swivel chair behind his desk. He sensed she’d been rummaging through his drawers, but when he entered, she was filing her nails nonchalantly with an emery board. Her long, tawny hair glowed pink under the fluorescent lights. “Done with your man-to-man talk, Mr. Private Conversation?”

  “You’re sitting in my chair,” said Arnold.

  “I know,” agreed the girl. “Do you want to trade places?”

  “Honestly, I don’t care,” Arnold answered. He perched himself on the splintering stool he used to water the pothos and syngonium. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  The girl removed a cassette player from her bag. “You okay if I record our conversation? It’s easier this way….”

  “Actually—” said Arnold.

  “Come on, Mr. Brinkman. Chill out,” she said. “It will go much quicker with the recorder. Otherwise, it’s going to take me all day to write down what you say.”

  “Fine, dammit. Use the tape-recorder.”

  “Awesome,” said Cassandra. “Say, you sure have a fucking lot of plants in here.”

  The room was crammed with pots of succulents, tomato-germinating tubs, even basins full of water lilies. Most of the plants were overgrown, abandoned relics from Arnold’s experimentation in floral-based dieting and nutrition. He’d heard several times on the radio that celery was the lowest-calorie solid food available, but this wasn’t strictly true. Several common garden blossoms, including primroses, were far less caloric. Many of these species were edible; some contained a host of essential minerals. But most of Arnold’s low-calorie flower snacks were either entirely flavourless, like calendula, or strikingly bitter, like daisies. Unlike Guillermo’s office, Arnold’s shelves didn’t contain any business documents. He probably didn’t even have a writing implement—other than a wax pen he’d used to prop up a pea stalk. On the desk lay a handful of field guides, birds as well as plants, and a bevelled display case of photographs from his honeymoon.

  “I have a lot of plants,” said Arnold, “because I like plants.”

  “More than you like people?” asked the girl.

  “I like plants and people,” answered Arnold. The truth was that he liked people individually, but preferred plants collectively. Who wouldn’t prefer a primeval forest to a packed sporting arena? “The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” he added. “Some people like both children and animals.”

  “Your friend doesn’t have any plants in his office,” prodded the girl.

  “Mr. Zambrano doesn’t like plants. He likes other things.”

  The girl gnawed the end of her eraser. She examined him closely—and for a moment he thought she might ask: And do you like other things? Instead, without taking her eyes off of him, she said: “Your wife was very beautiful when she was young. A total babe.”

  It was hard to tell whether she was paying him a compliment or taunting him.

  “My wife,” said Arnold, “is still very beautiful.”

  Cassandra smiled. “How does she feel about what you did?”

  Arnold noticed the cassette recorder was turning. The girl had started the interview without telling him.

  “You’d have to ask her that,” said Arnold.

  “Are you telling me you haven’t talked to her about it?” persisted the girl. “She hasn’t expressed an opinion? You really expect me to believe that….”

  “I don’t like to put words in my wife’s mouth.”

  “Can you at least tell me whether she approves or disapproves?”

  “That’s rather complicated,” answered Arnold. “I suspect she both approves and disapproves.”

  The girl reached forward and stopped the tape player. “You’re so not keeping up your end of our bargain,” she said. “You’re cheating.”

  “I agreed to be interviewed,” Arnold answered, “and I’m being interviewed.”

  “You’re totally avoiding the questions.”

  “I can’t speak for Judith,” he said. “If you have questions about me, I’ll be glad to answer them.”

  Arnold waited while Cassandra gathered her thoughts. He was surprised how attractive he found her—especially since, by objective standards, she was far from pretty. He was also surprised how little he cared about the difference in their ages. If he’d had a daughter of his own, he imagined, the disparity might have troubled him more. But he did have a wife of his own. He resolved to get rid of the girl as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, the air-conditioner hummed in the window box and pigeons thrashed about on the ledge. From the street rose the muffled honking of taxicabs. Cassandra glowered at him, drawing her thick eyebrows together, toying with her heart-shaped silver locket; the ornament reminded him that she really was just a young girl—with her own young girl’s music and young girl’s parties and young girl’s lack of perspective. Without accepting or rejecting Arnold’s terms, she pressed the record button on the cassette player.

  “Can you tell me how this all happened?” she asked. “Was it something you’d been planning for a long time or was it more of a spontaneous protest?”

  “I didn’t intend it to be a protest. I just didn’t want to stand up.”

  “But why? Were you protesting the war, Mr. Brinkman? Or the performance of a religious song at a secular event?”

  The answer was both. And a whole lot more. In hindsight, he wanted his protest to have been directed at anything and everything—against all of the perversions of justice that passed for decency. But how could he explain this to a young woman who insisted upon boilerplate answers in black-and-white? “I was protesting against the mistreatment of Native Americans,” he said decisively. “Wounded Knee, the reservation system, Leonard Peltier.”

  The girl looked up, her appetite whetted.

  “I’m also quite upset about slavery,” continued Arnold. “And rural poverty, and the lack of national health insurance, and the imprisonment of Lisl Auman. Then there’s the invasion of Panama, and the bombing of North Vietnam, and the entire Spanish-American War. I’m disturbed that they tore down Penn Station, and that gay couples can’t adopt
children in Texas, and that Washington D.C. isn’t a state. Not to mention what happened to Sacco and Vanzetti and the Scottsboro Boys and the Rosenbergs. Especially Ethel. Then there’s the two million people in prison—probably half of whom didn’t do anything wrong, only nobody knows which half anymore—while all the people who actually belong in prison are enjoying liquid lunches on Wall Street and in the Pentagon. You want to know what I’m protesting? I’m protesting the Salem Witch trials and the blacklisting of Dalton Trumbo and every goddam time Lenny Bruce got arrested. I’m still mad that they stopped delivering mail twice a day, and that Roosevelt dumped Wallace for Truman, and that McGovern dumped Eagleton, and that Victoria Hager dumped me for a football player in the eleventh grade. Son of a bitch! And I’m enraged that Ronald Reagan became President for playing best supporting actor to a monkey while Orson Welles didn’t even win a goddam Academy Award. But what I find most frustrating in this Bible-thumping, gun-slinging, sexually-repressed, intellectually-stunted and utterly backwards country of ours is that you can no longer send live plants through the mail. Shall I go on?”

  “No,” said Cassandra. “Don’t bother.”

  She snapped off her tape recorder and stuffed it into her bag.

  “I can’t believe I trusted you,” she added. “You’re a total asshole.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “You’re the problem, Arnold Brinkman. I did you a favour and now you’re making fun of me. I thought we had a deal.”

  “I’m sorry,” answered Arnold. “I shouldn’t have agreed to an interview. You want me to connect what I did to the larger events of the world—to make me into the Rosa Parks of anti-Americanism—while the reality is that I was hot, and tired, and I had to go to the bathroom.”

  “That’s a real awesome story,” Cassandra answered bitterly. “Man sticks tongue out because his bladder is full.”

  “See my point? There really is no story.”

  The girl examined him closely; she wiped her eyes with her fingers. “What am I supposed to tell my editor?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Arnold. “Anything you want. Tell him your paper is too conservative for me—that I only grant interviews to anarchists.”