Article: 179040 of talk.bizarre
From: nj@birch.CS.Berkeley.EDU (posting for morrisas)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: Pansy
Date: 02 Dec 1994 05:50:53 GMT
Organization: Word Wranglers, a division of General Antics GmbH
Lines: 377
Message-ID: <NJ.94Dec1215053@birch.CS.Berkeley.EDU>
Reply-To: MorrisaS@Autodesk.COM (Morrisa Stanfield Sherman)
Keywords: fail, to, suck
Status: O
Pansy
By Morrisa Sherman
The night air in the Santa Cruz mountains feels warm against the brow
and smells of eucalyptus and redwood. Down a snaking, one-lane,
private road is a modern house with a panoramic view of the rugged
coastal cliffs and the moonlit pacific. Poles placed at intervals
around the perimeter of the property support a string of festive,
Chinese paper lanterns, which bathe the yard in a warm, colored glow.
It is not a mansion. Like many of the other houses in the area, it
is of modest size, and has wide, fashionable, bay windows, a
reinforced foundation to protect its denizens from earthquakes,
and some nice deckwork. But the garden is a wonder. It is walled
with low, carefully sculpted hedges that hug the curves of the
property's terraces. Pitted and twisted Chinese rocks transported at
great expense from the phantasmagorical landscapes of Guilin frame
alcoves where fruit trees hang heavy with plums, cherries, and peaches.
Between the trees, bushes of fragrant gardenias and white roses
flourish. Here and there stalky tulips, daffodils, birds of paradise,
and irises punctuate the expanses of white blossoms with exclamation
points of color.
On the south side of the yard, a lacy gazebo festooned with a dense
canopy of jasmine shades a few hardwood lawn chairs and chaises. The
gazebo is bordered with voluptuous clumps of purple, yellow, and white
pansies. The pansies also frame the path to the center of the yard
and its showcase, a spectacular greenhouse. The greenhouse is a
gardener's lavish dream. Polished, dark, walnut wood supports vault
two stories high, framing the walls of huge beveled glass panes.
The glass roof is asymmetrically peaked, angling sharply down on the
west side to catch every last beam of light as the sun descends over
the ocean.
It is eleven thirty at night, and Terrence is still working in his
greenhouse tending a wisteria vine. Its tendrils are branching out
wild in their blind search for supportive structure. Terrence
patiently strokes the fine curliqueues open with his gentle fingertips,
then winds them around a string that rises to the ceiling. He clips
a couple of wilted leaves from the vine and murmurs, "now, now, I
won't hurt you."
The flowers around him bloom in a heady cacophony of color and scent;
the hibiscus, bromeliads, orchids, passion flowers, and the ferns and
aralias make a verdant jungle within the steamy glass walls. Each
flower will receive Terrence's care in turn; each one will be nourished
and groomed like a beloved child.
---==<>==---
Inside the house, Terrence's lover Brent sits bathed in the glow
of three computer monitors. Brent is a brash contract programmer with
a wide-planted, aggressive stance and a hurried New York rhythm to his
speech. He sports a carefully trimmed goatee, and he wears his
blond hair in a mane that spills halfway down his back. The sides
of his head are fashionably shaved. He favors black clothes that
make him look like a jaded gumshoe: a well-worn trench-coat, scuffed
steel-toed boots, pleated peg-cuffed trousers, silk shirts, and a
dramatic wide-brimmed fedora straight out of a Cagny film.
His hard drives are huge; his memory is fast; and his code is
elegant. Brent always gets his contract. He earns sizable fees,
and spends his money with playful extravagance. Framed posters of
artwork by Kandinsky, Francis Bacon, and Bill Sienkiewicz hang on the
walls. He collects rare comic books and imported CDs. He loves toys.
He isn't playing tonight, though. Brent is wired on coffee, and he
is hacking like a bat outta hell. His fingers fly across the keyboard
and he curses his screen periodically. Beside his Bernoulli drive,
his Micky Mouse telephone rings. Brent manoevers his hand through a
cheerful clutter of Transformer robots and leggy rubber creatures and
picks up the handset with short but friendly "yeah?"
His casual tone hardens to one of ire as he listens, and he breaks
in with "Bite me, Darryl. I am not changing the demo site to the San
Rafael office. Asking me not to sleep to meet your fantasy deadline
is one thing, but asking me to cut off programming time by three
hours just to fight traffic is another."
He picks up a wooden puzzle in the shape of a hexoctohedron from the
top of his computer, pulls the key piece, and rapidly reassembles the
jumble of geometric pieces as he listens, then replies "The CIO?
I don't give a shit if the request came from the CIA, man."
He pauses for a moment and then rushes on "No, you listen. If I'm
gonna save their aerobicized, pink, Marin butts from falling off a
cliff in Q3, they can jolly well come over here, as planned. Besides,
you don't want me on the road after 45 hours of straight hacking.
Trust me on this. The DMV will thank you for your consideration."
He listens again and says in a mock consoling tone "Don't worry
about them. It will get done. The suits will cream in their silk
boxers when they check out this build, and you will get your money,
you weasel."
The tense line of his mouth breaks into a grin. "Arrogant?
Me? Oh Darryl, you wound me. A touch! I do fear I breathe my last!"
The smile abruptly disappears. "Look. Just don't do this again.
Do not call me at 11:30 the night before a build presentation and expect
me to play politics mixed doubles with you, because I will cram your
racket down your skinny throat."
He slams the handset back onto Mickey's gloved fist and returns
moodily to his work, but now he can't concentrate.
He wanders aimlessly around the room, his eyes flitting from one toy to the
next, looking for just the right diversion. The jukebox? No. The player
piano? No. The mellotron? No. He strides over to the pinball machine,
drops in a quarter, and shoots a ball into the bumpers. His veined
hands are clawed with tension as he pumps the flippers. His teeth grind
in an animal grin as his ball spins and pings against bumper after bumper,
and the numbers spin higher.
The game doesn't help his mood much, though. Brent sits back down
at the terminal and looks at the screen with a lost expression. He
stretches his cramped fingers, looks out of the window, and strains
to see Terrence's figure through the fogged glass walls of the
greenhouse. At last he smiles and his temples smooth when he
catches a glimpse of movement inside.
Terrence, the only one that Brent has ever loved, is happy in his
greenhouse. "He ought to be, the thing might as well be made of gold,"
he chuckles to himself. Brent watches the shadowy figure pausing for a
time at each plant and then moving to the next one. Brent imagines
Terrence's soft voice whispering some taste of affection to each deaf,
little flower, and finds himself sighing aloud as he thinks of
Terrence's long, slim fingers busy at his nurturing labor. Brent shakes
off his reverie and returns his attention to the screen.
---==<>==---
Inside the greenhouse, Terrence looks up and stretches at last.
His stripy marmalade cat Barrymore peeks out from among the ferns,
poised and sagacious. Terrence looks at him and recites:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Barrymore gazes at Terrence coolly, crouches, springs to another
table, rolls over on his back, and bats at the fuschia blossoms
which are now tickling his orange tummy.
"Or perhaps you're just a crazy tyger kitten, burning bright!"
laughs Terrence.
He puts his tools, watering can, and spray-bottle in an orderly row on
a small table by the door and walks out into the colored glow of the
garden. Barrymore scrambles after Terrence before he shuts the door.
Terrence crouches down to the pansies beside the path. One of the
fragile blooms lies victim of a careless foot, squashed and
broken on the path. He carefully lifts the velvety petals off of
the pavement and strokes its bruised little face with his fingertip.
The markings are still exquisite, suggesting a little face with fringey
eyelashes looking back at Terrence with candor and innocence despite
its crushed body. A complicated cloud of pain and love passes across
Terrence's face. He pulls a small notebook from his breast pocket
and carefully presses the flower between the pages. "Poor little one,"
he says. He glances toward the house, and through the window he can
see three computer screens glowing in the dark. He is reassured.
"Life is sweet," he thinks. He stands and walks toward the house.
---==<>==---
Eight years ago in the same room where Brent is working, Darryl, an
arrogant, heavy lidded young man who had Brent ass over tea-kettle in
deep blue infatuation was lounging on the couch wearing a towel and
a dewy pout. Disappointed that the room had no mirrors, he turned his
attention to the windows. He looked into the yard and commented on
the dry lawn, the collapsed gazebo, and the weed-choked flowerbeds.
"This is a great place, but man, you need a gardener. As it is, all you
need is a rusty 67 Chevy up on blocks, and you could have the yard of
a gen-you-wine alcoholic redneck," said Darryl.
The very next day Brent went through the services-offered column of
'The Sentinel' and found an ad that read "Hello! I am Terrence Chu,
your new gardener. Very experienced. Reasonable cost. Fast results."
Brent placed a call and made an appointment with Terrence for that
afternoon. Terrence showed up on the doorstep with a bag of compost
under his arm, a Chinese, long-bladed sickle in his hand, a neatly
bound garden hose looped around his neck like the yoke of a dray-horse,
and a rickety hand mower behind him. His khaki pants and simple cotton
Oxford shirt were stained with grass and earth, and his haircut was
bristly and uneven. His pockets were stuffed with seeds, and when he
shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a few of them slipped
out of his pocket and onto the porch. He smiled so warmly that his
narrow eyes crinkled almost shut, and asked "Where would you like for
me to begin?"
Terrence stayed until nightfall. He pulled every last weed, chopped
them into the compost he had brought with him, reseeded and watered
the parched lawn, cultivated the compost into the flowerbeds with his
sickle, and planted flower seeds everywhere. He asked Brent for 35
dollars. Brent gave him fifty, and asked him to come back the next
week, elated that his garden would soon be a pleasing sight, fit for
Darryl's discerning fancy.
The next week Terrence returned, and planted, watered, and weeded
with as much enthusiasm as he had on his first visit. He staked the
new shoots, trimmed the fresh grass, and secured the loose planks and
lattice work of the gazebo. Brent came out and surveyed the garden's
progress, but only to see if it was looking good. He was impatient
with Terrence's gardening natter, and his attention wandered when
Terrence tried to teach him the names of the flowers and how to
recognize their shoots. Still, he knew good work when he saw it,
and again tipped Terrence lavishly for his efforts, and made another
appointment for the following week.
After a few visits, Brent began to anticipate the gardening days.
Terrence always greeted him with such a frank and cheerful smile,
and his greetings changed from simple "Hellos" to effusive expressions
of friendship like "It is very good to see you again, Brent!" Terrence
put in hard, honest labor, and he took such joy in the task, even
singing refrains from pop-songs un-self-consciously as he weeded and
dug and mulched. Brent was charmed to discover that Terrence talked
to the new flowers he had planted as he tended them. Brent began to
buy better tools and supplies for Terrence, who crowed with effusive
delight like a child at Christmas as he tried his sharp, new clippers,
or his new adjustable, automatic spray-bottle.
On his sixth visit, Brent led him to a mysterious object covered in
a sheet, and unveiled it with a theatrical "Ta da!" At the sight of
the shiny, new power mowor, Terrence gave Brent an exuberant hug, and
babbled his gratitude several times over the course of the
afternoon. After that, Brent began to invite Terrence in for a tea
break each afternoon.
As the weeks past, their tea-visits grew more relaxed and animated.
Brent helped Terrence with his accent, and listened raptly to his
stories of his boyhood in China: "I learned to garden from my
grandfather who was head gardener for Sun Yat Sen's Tomb in
Nanjing. In Spring, all ze rows of small plum trees zat he cared
for would bloom all at once, like tree fireworks. Ze people would
come every day to see ze monument and climb ze stairs all ze way
up high to view ze tomb, but in Spring, ze monument was so crowded
it could not hold all ze visitors. Outside of ze gates, people would
crowd in long lines just to catch a look at all his beautiful trees
blooming, all exclaiming at ze sight. I sink he was happiest in
Spring."
"You think he was happiest in Spring, think," Brent corrected.
"Ah so. I thlphthink," repeated Terrence, wetly.
In three months time the lawn was thick and green; the paths were
neat and raked smooth, the flower beds were merry with daffodils
and jonquils, and a narrow line of pansies bordered the paths and edged
the gazebo which Terrence had just painted last week.
Darryl had invited a few cafe' vampires over to the house for
mai-tais, and everyone was sipping the sweet drinks carefully
through their lipstick, and commenting on how nicely the garden
was coming along. Fiona, a twig-thin model with a startlingly
large hairdo, took another sip of her drink, yawned delicately,
and said, "It looks wonderful, Brent dear, but I think your gardener
is editorializing."
"How so?" asked Brent.
"Well, Luvvie, just look at all the pansies!" said Fiona with a
smirk.
Brent laughed with the others, for among this crowd of effete and
jaded intellectuals, it was dreadfully bad form to lack a proper sense
of humor about oneself, but behind his laugh he was livid. That
little chink-pup Terrence was mocking him right under his nose, and
doing it in fucking flowers! Brent's hands were clenched into fists
for three days until Terrence arrived for his weekly job.
The doorchimes sounded. Brent strode purposefully to the entry hall,
flung the door open, grabbed Terrence by the lapels, half lifted, half
dragged him inside, slammed the slight man up against the wall and
bellowed, "Why pansies, huh? You think that's funny? You trying to
say something? If you are, you say it to my face, Terrence, and when
you do, you better have a gun in that tool belt or I will kill you! I
have spent too long fighting for respect to let a goddamned gardener
take it away from me!"
"I meant no offense to you! Pansies are just for me. Pansies stand
for me! I plant zem everywhere. Zey are my, my signature. I meant
no harm to you. If you feel your garden is dishonored, allow me to pull
all of zem out. You are a good customer; you are a good friend; I trust
you. I would never hurt you, never!"
Brent saw with astonishment that Terrence was weeping. He loosened his
grip, but still clutched softly at Terrence's Oxford and asked "Why
not?"
"Because maybe I love you," whispered Terrence hoarsely.
Brent planted an awkward, apologetic kiss on Terrence's cheek, led him
inside to the couch, and sat down with him. He held Terrence close,
and rocked him comfortingly. He made a promise to himself that he would
never raise an angry hand to Terrence again, and he kept his promise.
---==<>==---
"What did you mean when you said that pansies are your signature?" asked
Brent.
"My family moved to San Francisco because we had relatives living zere.
I had known I was gay since I was a boy of twelve, but I was careful
not to show it at school. I knew I would be persecuted by my
classmates, even in San Francisco. One day, however, I was not careful
enough. Some boys from school saw me chatting with friends I had made
in ze Castro, and one of zem was wearing make-up on his eyes.
"Ze boys followed me for a long time, until I was alone, and noone was
occupying ze street. Zey attacked me. Zey stole my clothes, bound me
wit' cord, and raped me wit' a beer bottle neck. I guess it would be
bad to rape me wit' zeir own bodies. Hey, who wants to be a faggot,
right?"
Brent nodded grimly, angered beyond his strength for his friend, but
he sat still and continued to listen.
"Zey laughed at me as I screamed. Zey said 'Yeah, he likes it! Look
at him squirm! You like it, right? Right, Fairy?' Zey called me faggot,
cocksucker, queer, pansy, pansy, pansy! Zey left me all tied up and naked
in an alley, wit' ze bottle still in me. Zey did ze rape on pavement,
and my back had large scrapes all over it. I hurt so much, and I was
very cold, and ashamed. A kind man found me, freed me, covered me, and drove
me home. I was bleeding very bad. I had to go to ze hospital. I had to
tell my parents why it had happened, for I was terrified to go back to
school. My parents took me out of zat school. I broke zeir hearts.
"Zat night I went out into our garden where my ma had a few pansies
growing, and I looked at zem for a very long time. I touched zere
petals, and it was like softest silk in all of ze world. Zey were
such lovely, delicate flowers, and zeir colors were so creative and
bright. Each one had a different face, like perfect little people. I
decided I like zem very much, and zat whoever is afraid of such flowers
is wrong."
"I agree with you," said Brent, "hating such a flower is very wrong."
---==<>==---
At 1:00 a.m., Brent still has a long, dull night ahead of him, squashing
system bugs before his presentation at 10:00 a.m. Terrence pads
in quietly with Barrymore at his heels. He walks up behind Brent's
chair, wraps his arms around Brent, softly pets his cheek, and says:
"Brent, I sink I should like to try and grow some grapes. I have been
doing some reading, and it cannot be as hard to do as vintners claim.
What do you sink?"
"Think, Ter, what do you think?" corrects Brent idly.
"I sink you are just gorgeous," says Terrence with a grin, "but what
about ze grapes?"
"I'll get you anything you need," laughs Brent.
Terrence nuzzles Brent's neck and says "you are such a sweet man, so
good to me."
"Yup. That's me. Sweet. Just don't let it get around. Sweet is bad
for business."
--
nj, posting for MorrisaS@Autodesk.COM (Morrisa Stanfield Sherman).
--
God does not play dice with the universe; he plays go.
Narciso Jaramillo ... nj@cs.Berkeley.EDU ... http://http.cs.berkeley.edu/~nj/