(no subject)
“You’re daughter’s going to love them, sir. I hope her play goes well!”
The last customer of the night leaves the shop with their Sunrise Special bouquet (tiger lilies and yellow mums with pink spray roses, one of Audrey’s arrangements). The radio plays Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman” (pretty woman / I couldn’t help but see / pretty woman / that you look lovely as can be / are you lonely just like me?)
“Floor needs cleaning,” Mushnik announces as he retires to the back room to count the cash. He hasn’t acknowledged that Seymour left for lunch - his only change from habit is to constantly find work for Seymour.
Seymour gets the broom and dustpan and begins sweeping. When he was younger he made a game of it - pretended he’d win a prize by making the biggest dust pile, for instance - but now he just shuts his mind off while he sweeps.
So when Audrey says, “You know what you need?” it takes him a moment to think up a reply.
“No?”
“A night out. To get away from the books, the plants, the ‘50s music and the,” she glances at the back room and rolls her eyes, “for a while. Why not tonight? If you’ve got the time. You’re young, you’ve got money, and this is L.A.”
“I always have the time,” he admits, “but I wouldn’t know the first place to go.”
Audrey fiddles with her purse. “Well…I could be your guide.” She turns back to him with a smile. “I know some sweet clubs.”
This could work. “Sure! But I’ll need some help. I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Great! I’ll help you out with some moves, don’t worry.”
“We should get something to eat first?” Seymour suggests.
“Think you could sweet-talk your dad into loaning you the car?” The car is a ’92 Chevy Cavalier with “Mushnik & Son’s” painted on the side. Seymour has driven it a total of twenty times since he turned sixteen - Mushnik doesn’t want to chance the vehicle getting into an accident.
“Hey, sir, could I borrow the car?”
Mushnik looks at him suspiciously. “What for?”
“Audrey wants to take me clubbing.”
Mushnik stares at him like he’s a dog on his hind legs that strolled into the store and asked for begonias. Then: “The car is for deliveries - have you seen the price of gas lately? I’m not driving that thing around willy-nilly either; when I go somewhere, I take the bus!”
Seymour needlessly shakes his head, since Audrey was right behind him.
“Okay, that limits our options….But there’s Coyote’s not too far away….You got a bus schedule?” He does; Audrey plots their route, then calls her boyfriend to let him know that she’s going out and when she expects to be back. “Don’t want him to get worried,” she explains.
“Hey!” Mushnik calls as they’re about to leave. “D’you finish sweeping up?”
Seymour hasn’t; his stomach sinks. You’re never going to get anywhere if you keep standing aside. He takes a deep breath then says, “I’ll do it when I get back, sir.”
He leaves to Audrey and Mushnik’s surprised expressions. Audrey’s turns to approval; he doesn’t look back to see what happens to Mushnik’s.
“He really is too hard on you sometimes,” she says. “The way he yells at you….”
“He’s a tough sort, but he’s got a good heart.” Seymour remembers Mushnik saying that about his own mother. Sons apologize for their parents.
“My mom was like that.” Audrey doesn’t talk much about Mrs. Smith-Odenkirk, who divorced her dad when Audrey was five and loves back on Oakland. “She didn’t talk as much as Mr. Mushnik does, but when she did it stayed with you. Things’ve gotten better since I moved out. You ever thought of that, moving out?”
“Always figured I’d do it someday.” You can be so busy looking for things to turn out right that you miss making things turn out right. “But maybe I can do it sooner rather’n later.”
They stop at the same McDonald’s Seymour went to with the Krelborns. Audrey orders a salad with no dressing and drinks from her bottle of water. Seymour eats his quarter-pounder and watches her pick at her food. His guts twist inside him.
I can’t keep standing aside. Nevertheless it takes him until he’s down to the last of his fries and finishing up his Coke before he says anything.
“You, uh, remember what we were talkin’ ‘bout last night?”
Audrey spears some lettuce and says, “Yeah. You’re okay?” She doesn’t look at him.
“Yeah,” he replies. “And…you’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
It’s different than last night, when it was just the two of them together with only air between them. Now there’s people and the smell of grease and salt and harsh lighting that makes her cheeks even more hollow.
“You know, I’ve been, just, doing some reading on this diet stuff,” he begins, “and ‘pparently the human body needs 2,000 calories to function at its peak.” (He also read that you should eat foods high in sugar and iron after giving blood.)
“And I’ll be getting loads of calories from drinks at the club,” Audrey agrees, her tone choppier than he’s ever heard it. “Alcohol is all fat. Don’t worry, all right? Orin says I’m eating just fine, and he’s a professional. C’mon, we gotta move to catch the bus.”
As they wait by the bus-stop Seymour comments, “A dentist doesn’t really seem the same thing as a doctor.”
“But he has medical training, which is the point. God, can we drop it?”
Seymour nods and watches for the bus. He wants to stop trying new things and go home.
More kindly, Audrey says, “Millions of girls go on diets every day and they’re fine.”
Millions of girls don’t start diets and keep tripping and falling all the time. Seymour can’t bring himself to say it; he can’t stand to have her any more annoyed at him. And what does he really know about diets or how much she eats? Not a damn thing, that’s what.
“In fact, that’s kind of why we’re going out to night,” she continues. Seymour looks questioningly at her. She’s grinning like she did when she handed him his Christmas present. “I am going to set you up with a hot chick.”
Seymour turns back to watching for the bus. He can’t control his face: his muscles tighten in a wince without his permission. Too late plays over and over in his head.
It’s a while before he can speak past the heavy weight in his chest. “Audrey, I’m…not sure….”
“I’ll be young wing-man, don’t worry.” The bus ride passes in a grey haze.
Coyote’s is on….It’s one storey, which Audrey tells him is pretty small for a club. The bottom half of the walls are of sandy brown stucco which, Audrey points out, goes up and down like sand dunes. The top half of the wall is bruise-dark purple. Before the dance floor is the bar, with tables and chairs. Perched on a sand dune behind the bar, above the specials sign, a neon yellow coyote continuously throws back his head and howls, lolling a pink tongue.
Seymour sits. Audrey goes to get them some drinks. Rising from the middle of the table is the top half of a coyote skull. Seymour runs his fingers along its cool white plastic. The bandages on his left hand glow like the skull in the bar’s ultraviolet light.
“It’s so lame,” Audrey comments as she sets down two shots of Jell-O. She doesn’t seem to mind. She’s grinning, shimmying her body to the beat.
She raises her shot in a toast. “To new beginnings!”
“To new beginnings.” Seymour eyes his shot while Audrey gulps hers down smoothly. Seymour tries it and winces at the taste of the alcohol. A Jell-O shooter has vodka in it; Audrey tells him this after his second one.
She drags him out onto the floor; only a few other people are there because “It’s only 9:00.” The bar’s theme doesn’t continue; the walls and floor are black. Audrey’s golden skin absorbs the pinks and greens and yellows that flash over the dance floor, reflected by the disco ball above.
The songs are ones he doesn’t know, all with pounding beats. It takes at least five songs to master the moves she teaches: moving his shoulders to the beat, shooting dice, swinging his arms. Audrey can do everything: swirl her hips while rolling her shoulders while arcing her arms up and down while tossing her head - it’s almost super-human.
Then a song comes on that’s familiar. They’re definitely not lyrics he’s used to (he’s my one stop shop / makes my cherry pop / he’s my sweet talkin’ sugar lovin’ candy-man), but the sound is similar to the ‘50s sound Mushnik and Seymour both like.
“Away from the ‘50s music, huh?” he shouts to Audrey. He does a few Fred Astaire-esque tap moves and hold out his right hand. Giggling, she takes his.
They try to dance the way they did in old movies. It’s awkward. There are twirls and rolls out that don’t work - he goes one way, she goes the other - but these provoke embarrassed laughter instead of winces or rolled eyes. It’s lame but funny.
By the end of the song they’ve got the basic twirl down. Seymour twirls Audrey out and back in. His arms are around her waist, his cheek near the back of her neck, breath stirring her hair, their hands entwined….The song is over. He drops his hands.
She moves, not far, her face inches from his. Her can smell the vodka on her breath. She’s excited, flushed. Maybe even impressed? Or is he just projecting? It didn’t go off perfectly like in the movies, but he got to make her smile, to know the softness of her skin and the hint of sweat on her palms - and that was worth it.
She moves past him, dragging him off the dance floor as she dragged him onto it.
“See, Seymour,” she says when he comes back with two Cokes, “That was…was….Well, when you’ve got some confidence, you’d be surprised at what you can do.”
“The vodka helped,” he comments and she laughs.
As they chat, the club fills up. She tells him that she used to go dancing all the time. She partied her first year of college away when she lived out in Oakland. She moved to L.A. to “Prove to my mom I could be a somebody, it seemed so important back then…I dunno,” she muses, “Maybe it still is.” She tried her luck as an actress and speaks fondly of the skin cream commercial she go called back for. “But I’m not sure if that was my dream, or if I just pretended it was my dream ‘cuz what else do people come to L.A. for, you know? Either way,” she smiles ruefully, “It didn’t work out quite like I wanted.”
He’s heard some of this before - not the personal touches she’s adding now, but her basic history. Seymour likes listening to her talk.
What he doesn’t like is when she starts pointing out girls and going, “Wow, she’s hot,” or “I think she’s single!” Audrey picks out attractive women often doing attractive things like shaking their asses or grinding against each other. It’s very stimulating. But the difference between watching those women and approaching them is the difference between walking to the fridge and running a marathon (on Jupiter, naked), and Audrey doesn’t get that.
“Oh, hey, I’ve got one - her.” Audrey points out a short woman with chestnut-brown hair in a bob cut, wearing a white tube top that glows in the bar’s ultraviolet light and a short flower-patterned skirt.
“Just go up to her, buy her a drink, and be yourself!” Audrey looks apologetic. “But if you could try not to talk too much about the flowers - just as a first impressions kinda thing - that’d be for the best.”
Seymour smiles faintly. “I’ll try, don’t worry.”
With his left hand in his pocket, he approaches. “Hi there! Can I buy you a drink?”
The woman turns to look at him. Her eyeshadow and lipstick are very dark and attention-drawing, but he can’t make out what colour they are.
“Sure!”
They only give their first names. She’s Miranda and she drinks an Alabama Slammer.
“So, what do you do?” she asks.
“I’m a florist.”
“Oh, that’s so romantic.”
It isn’t. It involves order forms, customers saying “I think I want something red - what flowers are red?” (often followed by, “Well, I like this arrangement, but….”), sweeping floors, and fighting numerous battles to extend the lifespan of cut flowers one more day. There are moments of wonder, like when an arrangement comes together, when buds unfurl, the smell of a new shipment of chrysanthemums….But Seymour can’t talk about those.
“Yeah. I…like to think I’m a pretty romantic guy. God, kill me now. Miranda’s smile doesn’t falter, though, which is both surprising and encouraging. “What do you do?”
“I’m an initiatives consultant for local charities.” A what? Seymour almost asks, just managing to stop himself. “I come here to unwind. Haven’t seen you here before.”
“I’m new to the scene.”
They talk some more. Miranda excuses herself for a moment; Seymour returns to Audrey’s table to give a quick report, feeling a bit pleased.
“She seems nice,” he tells Audrey. “She doesn’t want to dance - it’s a relief, really - and she just stepped outside to call the ‘sitter. She’s got two kids, isn’t that cute?”
Audrey looks alarmed, then glares at the spot Miranda just occupied. Seymour watches her in confusion.
She takes a deep breath, looking pained. “Seymour I’m so sorry ‘cuz the baby-sitter line is a total brush off but do not let yourself feel bad!” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “This is a bar, there are other girls, and Miranda is a skank. C’mon, let’s regroup.”
Though Seymour would like nothing better than to lick a wound so prominent it must be visible, he waits for Miranda to come back. The kids are fine, except Timmy kept sticking snot in Johnny’s hair. He says he’s glad they’re find except for snot-fights, he hopes she has a good time tonight and maybe she’d like to dance another time? She says sure and hopes she’ll see him around.
Seymour mopes over to Audrey’s table. Nice, considerate and polite doesn’t mean a damn thing, Wanda, he thinks. Audrey has two Jell-O shots ready. Seymour gulps his gratefully.
“We will get you back on this horse,” Audrey announces. She reaches out and grabs his bandaged left hand. “Everything,” she squeezes it for emphasis, “is going to be okay.”
Seymour sees someone near their table - he turns and sees the dentist looking at the two of them, his posture relaxed, his face shifting to an easy smile. Seymour looked too late to see what his expression had been.
When Audrey sees the dentist she gapes; her hand jerks away from Seymour’s and retreats to her lap. “Orin!” she says after a few tries.
Orin’s smile grows, as if her inability to say more than his name is amusing. His teeth glow white in the ultraviolet light. “Hello, lover.”
He opens one arm casually. Lurching to her feet, Audrey clasps her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. Orin’s arm loops tightly around her waist, forearm bulging.
“Hi! Hello, Orin, God, I totally didn’t expect to see you here, isn’t this a surprise? Orin,” she twists her body to look between him and Seymour, “This is Seymour Mushnik - you know, from work Seymour? Seymour, this is my boyfriend, Orin Scrivello.”
“You’re babbling, lover,” Orin notes. Audrey has her mouth closed by the first syllable and murmurs a “Sorry,” the instant he finishes.
“Mushnik of the famous plant,” he continues. His smile is broad and easy but he watches Seymour intently. Seymour straightens his shoulders and slips his bandaged hand into his pocket.
“Y- Yeah, yeah, that’s me, sir. Audrey’s told me so much about you.”
“She’s such a little chatterbox, isn’t she?” The arm around her waist squeezes once; she’s angled so that she’s being squeezed into his hipbone, but she doesn’t make a sound.
“She’s told me so much about you, Seymour. About your - to clean up her language - overbearing father, all the time you spend singing to your little flowers….” Seymour’s cheeks flush pink; Audrey, pained, opens her mouth but falls silent as Orin continues.
“…And of course your recent success with that plant- What’s its name again?”
Anyone who’s been paying the least attention to the story knows the plant’s name. Unwillingly, Seymour says, “An Audrey II.”
The smile grows. “That’s a great honor.”
“She’s a great friend.”
Audrey inhales quickly, eyes going wide. Seymour realizes that that was the wrong thing to say.
Orin looks thoughtful. “Makes you wonder what a girl’d have to do to receive such an honor, doesn’t it?”
Seymour could explain that all a girl would have to do is talk to him, cover for him with his dad, show him a scrap of kindness. But he can’t say that; the dentist thinks he’s pathetic enough. He makes a few noises but nothing of substance comes out.
Orin turns his attention to Audrey; Seymour feels like a cop has stopped shining a light in his face during interrogation. “Are we falling back into our old habits, lover?”
Audrey’s gaze drops to the floor. She shakes her head, mouthing the word ‘no’ again and again.
Orin glances at Seymour, grins his glowing white grin and winks. “Didn’t quite catch that?”
She swallows. “No,” she manages.
“No what?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, lover, I’m sure you were enjoying your little mission of mercy, but we should be getting back. Pleasure meeting you,” a pause, like he can’t remember his name, “Seymour.”
He walks with Audrey out of the bar. Audrey walks by his side. It looks like he’s holding her arm, but Seymour can see his forearm still bulging: the hand around her arm must be vice-like.
Seymour stares after them, breathing heavily, mind reeling with the implications. Stop this. I gotta pull myself together…. He glances at Audrey’s shot, tosses it down, then follows them out.
Audrey is talking to Orin intently as they stride towards the red Miata.
It takes Seymour a few tries to muster up the necessary volume. “Um, h-hey!”
They stop - Orin whirls around, bringing Audrey with him. There’s a glare on his face under the streetlight, a cold hard Mushnik glare but worse, because Mushnik only smacks you and this guy could break your face in.
Seymour overrides the voice whispering, Calm down, you’re reading too much into it, this is still a normal situation…. because of Audrey’s expression. It’s still terrified. It spurs him to take a step forward.
Her face tightens in a pained wince. Seymour glances at the hand holding her arm. Still tight. A line of dialogue pops into his head: Make one more move and the girl gets it. That’s what this is.
“Can I help you?” Orin asks.
“Uh…I…I forgot what I was gonna say. Nevermind.”
“Happens to the best of us. Goodnight.”
"'Night."