A Fable
What in the hell is this?
Phil explained to his wife that the article in her hand was commonly called a “bluebonnet,” one of Mother Nature’s most beauteous flowers. He told her that he had bought it the night before, in the Family Dollar that sat beside his pawn shop, that it was 33 cents and that if she were to remember correctly, that she claimed it to be her favorite flower when they were courting. He didn’t remember exactly when he bought it, but it was sometime between 7:13—when he sold a used harmonica for the first time—and 7:55, when Dragnet ended. It was a nice day, for it being February in Augusta.
He made it a point to remind her that despite its name, that a bluebonnet could not be worn as a hat; but that in fact, the name was derived from its similarities to that particular article of clothing. He informed her that it was also the state flower of Texas.
This isn’t a bluebonnet.
Phil sat up, leaned against the pale, beige wall, and began rapping the back of his head against it with each word of explanation to his wife. He did this when they were courting, too.
He told his wife that a bluebonnet, the most beauteous of all Mother Nature's flowers, was impossible to get in Augusta in February. He admitted that he didn’t know if bluebonnets could survive in the cold, or if the Safeway had them (because he didn’t check); but, he did say that even if he only spent 33 cents, that it was a gesture of love and that a flower is only a material replica of that. His love, that is. He didn’t know how to make it anymore clearer than that.
It’s the thought that counts, he finally said, when his wife hadn't moved or spoken.
It’s plastic.
Phil didn’t respond right away to this. He returned to his pillow, put his hands behind his head and began humming the Dragnet theme song with his eyes closed until he felt the beauteous flower drop on a nearby corner of the bed’s plush, yellow comforter. Phil opened his eyes, looked at his wife then the flower. He snatched the flower and sat up. He didn’t know what material it was, but it didn’t seem like just “plastic.” He told his wife that he didn’t agree with her assessment of “plastic.” He said that the word “plastic” makes it seem cheap, tawdry. He said that it was 33 cents, admittedly, but it was more to show that he loved her. Perhaps, he explained, that one could call it a grainy cloth attached to a plastic spine, but it wasn’t completely plastic, that’s for sure.
It is my favorite flower.
Then it’s settled, Phil said and began humming the Texas state anthem. He stopped when he realized that it’d best be played on the harmonica.
But only because of their smell.
Phil said nothing; he only stared at his wife until she returned to the bathroom to curl her hair for the Miller’s bi-annual dinner party. Phil knew he had at least twenty minutes to prepare the flower, so he inched off the bed and snuck into a pair of gray sweatpants. He also had bought the sweatpants between 7:13 and 7:55 in the Family Dollar the night before. He considered them cheap.
Are you ready?
Phil said to give him a minute and started twirling the bluebonnet by its green, plastic spine. He thought that it felt like melted bottle caps, with small, dull prods of appendage springing out to base the leaves. On the grainy cloth, blues and whites formed a gradient, like jeans dipped in bleach. It reminded him of a graveyard in Austin, where his grandmother had stuffed similar flowers—fake tulips, fake roses, fake daffodils—into a small block of hard, green, putrid foam. He found it strange, now, that she had bought fake bluebonnets where they were ripe for the picking. Maybe, he thought, that the Family Dollar in Austin had better deals than the Family Dollar in Augusta. Maybe she wasn’t close enough to Safeway. Maybe it had something to do with that it was February. His grandmother always went to the graveyard in February.
Phil once took his wife to Austin, he remembered, when they were courting.
Phil, are you ready?
Then Phil, for no reasons other than to show his wife that he loved her, decided to spray the bluebonnet with three squirts of Old Spice. When they were courting, Phil wore Old Spice. It wasn’t very expensive. He wondered if the Family Dollar had any in stock.
Answer me, Phillip.
Phil said he was about to get out of bed. He placed the off-white bottle of Old Spice on the dresser. He had bought the dresser at Family Dollar last February. He didn’t remember the specific day, just that it was a few days after he started watching Dragnet, but a few days before he had conceded defeat to a book entitled, Learn the Harmonica in 24 hours.
If you haven’t yet, get up; we’re going to be late.
Phil sniffed the bluebonnet. It reeked of Old Spice. He cursed himself and started smearing parts of the grainy cloth unto his gray sweatpants. After a few seconds of vigorous rubbing, he sniffed again. The smell was bearable this time, if not pleasant. So, Phil then wiped his pants with his free hand, got back under the plush, yellow comforter, placed the bluebonnet on the dark beige carpet in front of the bathroom door, and thought, I doubt if even good, old Joe Friday could close this case. The case of the sweet-smelling, most beauteous of all Mother Nature’s flowers. The case of the misspent 33 cents