Love is the Best Fertilizer

  My flowers are the best you’ll find because I know the secret. A lot of folks think that it’s fancy topsoil made from rare herbs or expensive tools like battery-powered shears. That’s all nonsense, of course. My flowers are the best you’ll find because they’re grown with love.

I like to think that every person who receives my flowers gets more than the complimentary colours, the careful arrangement of petals, and the unmatched freshness. They get something special that touches them where souls and roots live. And later, maybe they could spare a moment to think of the craftsmanship that went into their creation, if they were so inclined.

Sometimes I wish my shop was a bit larger, with more space for a showroom. Maybe that would bring in more customers and then I could afford a humidifier that didn’t trip the circuit breaker at least once a week. Still though, it was enough for me and for my customers. They may not have come every day, but after they walked through the door they never left unhappy. 

I was in the back greenroom focused on work when the soft shuffle of the tarp alerted me that this was going to be a customer day. I took a moment to finish setting a pot of fresh hydrangeas in their proper spot, away from the lilies that were due to bloom.

This was a very important stage of development, one that required a regular misting of saline every two hours for the best result and this was not something that I was willing to rush. If one part of the flower was not properly moisturized, it would simply draw water from the rest. Without proper and careful care, this would lead to an entire batch wilting and shedding dry petals onto the floor, wasted tears for nothing. Fortunately I was always careful.

I placed the spray bottle down on the workbench, taking a second to look at the logo of a cartoon frog sitting on a lily pad under a cool mist, smiling. I pulled the gloves off my hands and placed them neatly on a small shelf next to a stack of empty pots. Walking away from a happy plant, I waved my hands back and forth to help some of the moisture evaporate. Customers always wanted to shake hands, but the corner of their lip would turn upwards when they felt the wetness. People seem to hate what they need to stay alive.

Passing through the tarp that separated the greenroom and the front showroom, I found a young man standing near the front display shelves casually touching a tulip that had barely passed its incubation stage. I took my spot behind the counter and tapped the floor with my heel to alert him. He looked my way, evidently surprised, and rubbed his thumb and index finger together in an attempt to remove the fresh pollen without getting the residue on his nice suit. It didn’t work.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hello,” I answered.

He walked towards the counter, passing underneath the soft overhead display lights that highlighted the best features of each plant. The copious amount of gel he used to slick his hair back shined like a wet rain jacket. He didn’t seem too concerned with that stickiness leaving its mark on his padded shoulders.

“I’m looking for some flowers,” he said. The accent was heavier than I had expected; normally the townies try to flatten their vowels the further away they get from that ugly concrete stadium. The pinstripe pattern of the suit, however, screamed midtown. He had either struck it rich and left the old neighbourhood, or he had inherited everything but working-class values from his wealthy father.

  “You’ve come to the right place,” I told him, laying my hands flat on the counter. “What did you have in mind?”

  He glanced around, body language impatient. No colour seemed bright enough to hold his attention for longer than a second, not even the plant I kept in the window. A marigold with gold and black petals, nestled in a dark green terracotta pot. Classic and elegant, something people with no taste can still recognize as beautiful.

  He finally noticed his own rudeness and focused back on me. “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Real pretty ones.”

  This certainly did not make my job any easier, but I’d be lying if I said it was the first time a customer had made such a basic request.

  “Each of them are beautiful in their own way.”

  I pointed to the plant I kept on the counter for just such an occasion. “It looks like it is made of vines, but those are actually its petals. They grow and twist in search of the sun, so by controlling their source of light you can actually manipulate the shape.”

  He held up a meaty hand, where an ostentatious ring squeezed his index finger until it looked like an overstuffed sausage. “Hey,” he interrupted. “I didn’t come in here for a lesson. I just need some pretty flowers to give to this chick I’ve been seeing.”

“How lovely,” I said, careful to smile with pursed lips to conceal my grated teeth. “I’m sure I can help with that. Is this for a special occasion? A birthday or an anniversary, perhaps?”

He put his hand on his hips, thumb slipped inside his belt next to the fancy buckle. “Oh yeah, a real special occasion,” he said. “She caught me eyeballing her friend real hard. And now she’s been pissed for a week. Seven days, no action. Nothing. You don’t know what that can do to a fella.” His eyebrows rose up to match his shoulder pads.

Maintaining my polite smile was the most reaction I was willing to give him. I did know what that did to a fella.

“Quite,” I said. “Then we should choose something that matches the tastes of your special lady.”

He made a clicking sound from behind his teeth. “I wish it was that easy. But she never knows what she wants. Can’t make a simple decision no matter how many times I ask. It drives me up the wall.”

  “Perhaps she prefers to keep her options open.”

He shook his head, and the overhead lights reflected off his hair like a moving spotlight. “No, she just doesn’t know. I took her to dinner with some of my partners from work at one of those new sushi joints. She couldn’t make up her mind, just kept staring at the menu. I almost had to yell at her in front of everyone. I mean, I don’t love raw fish either but at least I’ve figured out that if you drown it in enough sauce it turns edible. She barely said two words the rest of the night.”

“How unpleasant,” I said.

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” he said. “So you got anything that’ll get me back in her good graces?”

“Oh yes, I have just the thing.” I finally took my hands off the counter, using considerable effort to avoid making a fist so tight my nails might break the skin. I walked towards the tarp that separated the showroom from the back. “If you’d like to come with me, sir, we can view some of our latest arrangements and tell me if any remind you of her.”

He looked around at the pots and vases that dotted the shelves, clearly annoyed that I didn’t have a magic solution for him. “What’s wrong with these?” he asked.

“The flowers we keep in the front showroom are nice, but they are also the closest to their maturation date. Plus, the door makes it impossible to have a real level of control over the temperature and humidity, so they dry out faster. Our offerings in the grow area are in perfect condition and will last for much longer. Most people can’t tell the difference, but those with discerning taste know,” I said.

He looked confused at all this information. He must look that way a lot, his face did it so well.

  I grinned as if I was speaking to an old friend. “A trade secret, you see.”

  He leaned back in a manner that had the unfortunate side effect of thrusting his pelvis forward. I wondered from what dumb executive he picked this unfortunate bit of body language.

  “So I’ll be getting the good stuff,” he said.

  I nodded. “Of course. Follow me, please.”

  Trusting he would keep up, I walked through the tarp quickly without letting too much of the humid air escape. The small gust awakened my pores the moment it passed over my skin, releasing toxins and preparing for nutrients. An awkward plastic slap behind me confirmed that I had been followed.

  “Welcome to the greenhouse.” I waved my arm for dramatic effect. It was exactly as I left it. The greenhouse was not really larger than the front showroom, but the low red-coloured lighting served to enhance the dimensions. There were four rows of grow boxes, rectangles of wood filled with the best soil and fertilizer, all lined up horizontally. Each box had a collection of plants in various stages of growth, all spread out so they had the correct amount of space. I had installed rows of lights that dangled in place parallel to the boxes, giving off the low voltage hum of UV light bulbs.

  It still seemed unnatural to me, despite how hard I’ve worked on this space. Nature doesn’t like straight lines, but for control purposes I had to confine it all to these boxes. Perhaps one day I could have a field, out in the country, close enough for a picnic but too far for unwanted guests.

  “Why’s it so dark?” the current unwanted guest asked. “Don’t plants need more light?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Plants do require light to grow, but there’s a finite amount that they can absorb during the day. Anything beyond that point, and they start to burn and dry out. That’s what happens when most people leave their plants in the sun all day.”

  Most people are idiots.

  “You don’t say.”

  “And you deserve more than dried out flowers,” I continued, reaching to the wall until I found the dimmer switch. The first row of lights grew brighter. “UV light bulbs, each row on their own timer set for as much light as the specific type of plant can photosynthesize.”

 I turned in time to see him holding his hands in front of his face like an inept Frankenstein’s monster. He dropped them the second his eyes adjusted and tried to regain his composure.

  “Why red?” he asked, clearing his throat.

  “Plants don’t absorb red light.”

  “Right. It’s like one of those awful clubs she drags me to. With strobing lights and everything smells like rubber and sweat. And not in a good way.”

  “Yes sir. I’m sure it’s just like that.” I walked to the closest row. “Let me show you some of our freshest flowers, about to bloom. You’re the first person getting a look.”

  “Alright good,” he said, excited for the exclusive product he was surely entitled to view.

  I pointed to a batch of purple flowers, each with a yellow ring encasing a dark centre. “Moroccan sunrise, they’re similar to lilies. Light in colour at first, but growing darker and richer each day. It gives off a sweet smell, almost of honey, which lasts until October and the end of their fertilization cycle.”

  He nodded, with his eyes darting around.

  “Does she like purple?”

  He shrugged, raising his shoulder pads to his ears. “Sure. I mean, most chicks do. Right?”

  “Yes sir.” I said. Strange how some people can be so obsessed with appearances, but only those that appeal to their own gaze. “Now that’s settled, let’s think about scent.”

  I moved over to the next box, and cupped an orange marigold with my hands, using the oil in my skin to stimulate the petals. “Do you think she would be interested in something with notes of citrus?” I asked, not wasting time explaining the name or how the oils from my skin would stimulate the petals to produce a scent similar to tropical fruit on the verge of ripening. I angled the flower delicately towards him. “Let me know what you think.”

  He leaned and inhaled a single, sharp breath like those he must normally reserve for the bathrooms of expensive and intolerably loud nightclubs.

  “Fruity,” he said, straightening up and wiping his nostrils with his fingertips. “Like those cocktails she’s always ordering. Yeah, she’d probably like that one.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, releasing the flower. “We actually have a special option from this flora family, if you’re interested. Something a little out of the ordinary, but exclusive.”

  I watched his eyes grow wide the moment he heard the magic word, the one he probably thought only applied to gaudy watches instead of beautiful creations of nature. “Absolutely,” he said. “That would impress the shit out of her.”

  I nodded. “Perfect. Right over here, sir.”

  I led him to the final row of boxes in the back of the greenhouse. The air grew more damp and musty, despite the expensive air filtration system I had installed. I made a mental note to change the filter.

  These long boxes were sparse, the nearest dotted with young flowers weeks away from blooming, while the one closest to the wall had small green buds that had only emerged from the earth that morning. An entire lifecycle laid out so plainly and neatly that even this customer should be able to grasp it.

  “What’s the deal with these?” he asked, impatience getting the better of him. “They’re not even grown.”

  “These are special orders,” I explained. “Each of them is a custom creation made by hand, and infused with specialized nutrients for lasting effect.”

  “What’s so special about them?”

  “I’m glad you asked.” I walked to the back wall of the grow room, where my workbench sat ready for me. It was virtually invisible in the dark, but I knew that I had left each piece in the correct spot. “They have specific attributes, grown exactly as ordered and designed. Colour patterns, aromas, texture, all adjusted to make something truly unique.”

  I opened a small box in the corner and removed my trusty work gloves. I slipped them on, felt my fingers fit into the well-worn grooves in the leather, and picked up a single sharp and narrow shear from the table. Turning, I found him eyeballing the small buds and fidgeting in his suit. The humidity must be getting to him. I moved back to stand side by side with him as he leaned over the grow box to eyeball the small buds. “That's what you want, correct?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, fidgeting in his suit. The humidity must be getting to him. “Can we move this along? Time is money.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said as I stabbed the shear into his back between his shoulder blades. It’s important to keep tools properly maintained, so the shear went in deep without much effort, only encountering resistance when it slid in between two vertebrae. A quick turn of my wrist was enough to move it in the last half-inch. He made a noise, a mix of a gasp and an inhale, then stood still. I let go of the shear and it stayed in position. Both were immobilized.

  “Now, back to colours. We had settled on purple, right?” I asked. I went next to my workbench where I kept an empty grow box sat on top of a low-level dolly. “A special colour. Soothing and eye-catching at the same time.”

  I pushed the dolly over to my customer, and angled the grow box into position.

  “There are ways that I can make a beautiful purple flower,” I told him as I stood on my toes to tilt the dolly upwards. With a little shake the box slid right into place touching the heels of his expensive loafers. “I know how to craft different parts of flowers together, I’m actually a bit of an expert. So I could make something from the petals, stems and sensory glands of three different species. Used to be what I spent most of my time doing, actually. But the thrill wore off after a while, just sandwiching different bits together like a poorly thought out entrée at a fusion restaurant. You must know some of those, right?”

  His mouth slowly opened and closed like a fish gulping on a dock. I moved in front of him to better eye his measurements.

  “I think it got a bit lonely, to tell you the truth. I can do all that fancy grafting and crossbreeding, but nobody understands it. But this,” I pointed back and forth between us. “Working together? Everything about it is better. Because I realized that to make something truly special, I need help. Now I have to ask you, will you help me?”

  His eyes focused on me, pupils contracting. It would be difficult to move without the signals from all those nerve endings getting to their destination, but I noticed that his chin gave the faintest twitch. Enough to let a single bead of oily sweat run from his hairline down off his jawbone.

  “If you help me, I’ll have your order prepared very soon and you’ll be good to go. You want that, right?

  A single moan left his mouth.

  “Good,” I said. He stood wavering slightly, like a tree in a cool autumn breeze. “We’re going to give your lady the best flowers she’ll ever receive in her entire life. And I need your help. I need you to tell me why you want to give flowers to this lady.”

  His eyes wavered and tried to focus on one point but this seemed to be quite difficult for him. Sounds slowly started to come from his mouth. Like he was speaking underwater.

  “Shhees maaad…”

  “No, no,” I said. “Not that bravado crap. Not what you tell your bosses during happy hour. The real reason, please.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder even though he shouldn’t be able to feel it anymore. I gave it a squeeze anyway. “It’s ok, you can trust me. Hurry now.”

  His brow furrowed, and his lips moved to form words long before any sounds came out.

  “Wheeen shee… laughss… sshe wrinkless her nose,” he said.

  “How sweet,” I smiled and patted his back. “That’s perfect. That’s everything we need. Thank you.”

  I pulled the shear out of his back in one smooth motion. A gentle push on his chest was all it took to send him falling backward into the planter box with a loud thud. His limbs crumbled and stuck out at awkward angles, and a small cloud of dust shot into the air. I really thought I had cleaned the box more thoroughly than that, but the dirt settling on the floor clearly proved me wrong. Good thing I kept a vacuum in the closet. He moaned again.

  “Now I can tell you the secret,” I said. His arms were the lightest so I flipped those over the edge and into the box first. I caught sight of that garish ring on his fingers, so I quickly slipped it off and dropped it into my pocket. I would probably have time to stop at the pawnshop later. “People think that the secret to great flowers is expensive hydroponics, special lights. You know, fancy things. Would you believe some people play music for their flowers?”

  The legs were next. Up and over, expensive shoes and all. A bit of a squeeze, but I managed to make everything fit. “And sure, I’d be lying if I said those things don’t make an impact on the growth process. I find that the petunias are particularly responsive to Duran Duran.”

  I moved behind the box to gather what I needed from the workbench. I always left everything in the correct spot, so it did not take too long. I carefully laid two bags of topsoil next to the grow box before grabbing a small rake with a nice blue handle. I used the shear to slice open the first bag. I squatted to lift the bag up, and began pouring topsoil into the grow box, starting at his feet. He let out another sound.

  “This stuff helps,” I said pointing at the green and white label and the large red and brown smear across it. “Imported, a premium blend, I promise.”

  I discarded the empty bag and cut open the second. This pour started a little higher.

  “But I’ll let you in on what really works, because I can tell you want to know,” I said as the soil covered his chest. “You see, the best flowers need the best fertilizer. Without it, they’ll be fine. They’ll be pretty. But they won’t be special. And you said you wanted something special.”

  The soil reached his mouth, and he snorted and blew as it got inside, turning his capped teeth brown. I stopped for a second, it was much easier to hold the bag when it was only a third of the way full.

  “And that’s what you’re going to get — special. One of a kind.” I shook the bag to gather all the soil that remained. He let out a burst of whatever sound he had left. “Because the best fertilizer is love.”

  I emptied out the rest of the bag and the box was full. A few soft pats compacted the soil flat and uniform, not counting the occasional twitch. Nature isn’t perfect either, but we do the best we can.

  I’d make the seed blend the next morning. The soil needed time to mix with the fertilizer and become as nutrient-rich as possible. When it was ready, I would plant the base seedlings and watch them grow, ready to graft on a few different pieces at the right time. The fully grown flower would be special indeed. Purple petals, citrus scent notes, healthy leaves and steam. A real work of art.

  I went to the wall to adjust the lights, and turned on the hydroponic system to give all the grow boxes a good misting. The water softly fell on them, darkening the soil and collecting in the grooves and centre of each flower, every one of them their own piece of life. I noticed the petals on the flowers in a rear row grow box start to open at the touch of moisture. Something new was coming to life. Almost time for a delivery.

***

Matt Dodge is a Canadian writer of short stories, comics and a novel. His work has been featured in JMWW, Underwood Press, Cold Creek Review and the upcoming "Tales From The Cloakroom" anthology from Cloakroom Comics." You can find him on twitter/instagram at @Matt_Dodge.