2019-10-25 - A plethora of marigolds

The shop has another hour and change to closing, but August is (as usual for the fall to winter cycle) the last one on the grounds. The lights are on out front and on the outdoor collection, as the rain is making it dark enough to warrant them. The shop's outdoor garden is a bright spot in the PNW autumn gray, with various fall blooming plants lending color to the evergreen shrubs and trees, and interspersed with the deep red of maples and oaks turning for the season.

August is puttering about inside the shop, getting things re-arranged, going through the stock to make sure it's been rotated for the month. He's in a dark gray and rust red waffle Henley, black jeans, and work boots, with a marled, ash gray cardigan over the shirt. He's looking forward to a night curled up next to the woodstove.

Headlights flash against the wall of the shop, sweeping at a reflexive angle as someone clearly pulls their vehicle around to park out front. The low thrum of an motor plays beneath the quiet patter of rain, cutting off abruptly as the engine is switched off.

Moments later, Cristobal ducks into the shop, standing near the entrance to stomp off he boots from rain water as he pulls a red and black buffalo plaid flannel down off his head to resettle around his shoulders. The movement makes his hair stand at odd angles, until he finger combs the damp locks back in some approximate shape of a hair style. Low slung jeans and a faded grey CCR t-shirt make up the rest of his ensemble. "Hello?"

From behind a rack of various gardening tools, August's voice says, "Be right there." A few seconds later he comes into view, and for a moment he just looks at Cristobal. Then he coughs a laugh, smiles, sardonic and morbidly amused, shakes his head. "And what can I do for you?" he asks, one eyebrow edging up.

Recognition lights in Cristobal's eyes, his face turning slightly to the side as his jaw goes slack, leaving his mouth a bit agape in that lock of animation as if he wants to say one thing but decides to switch to another. A finger points in the shop owner's direction, "Roen, right?" Yes, fate has an amusing way of crossing paths some times.

"Right," August says. He goes to the counter to grab a box off it; it's full of gardening gloves, something people find themselves replacing a fair bit at this time of year, when there's mud a-plenty to ruin them in. He goes to the glove display and begins sorting them onto it. Glancing over his shoulder, he says, "Cristobal, of the Cam Guy Compliment, if memory serves."

Cris' hands flash up, "Didn't know it would be so poorly received." The pseudo apology is laced with a note of humor though the origin sounds vaguely self-deprecating. "For what it's worth, upon closer reflection, the similarity is uncanny. And I'd have never hit on him if I knew he was straight." But that's not really why he's here, so his thumbs hook into the low curve of his pockets as he ambles forward.

August chokes on a laugh. It's not clear what he's reacting too--the part about the resemblance, about Itzhak being 'straight', or about how poorly it was received. "I've not yet met the man or woman wouldn't respond to something like that with, at best, a roll of their eyes and an invitation to shut the fuck up forever." He grunts. "Of course, I'm sure we don't mingle with the same crowd." He places a few more gloves, checking the size tags to make sure he's grouping them right. "Whatcha need."

Cristobal says, "Hey, he really could have been ElijahCoxx626 and been flattered. But, small town, right? Should've ventured that profession would be taboo here." As to what Cristobal needs, the normally boisterous (or at least zero filter man) stalls for a moment, the answer personal in nature. He takes his light colored gaze off August, reaching out to fiddle with a finger of one of the gloves. "I'm looking for marigolds. Don't know how much of an ask that is up here.""

"Elijah, Coxx, six two six." August repeats that carefully, shakes his head, sighs. "Not sure why you think it's verboten, a living's a living. Bet if you asked him that he'd even agree. Just that," he gives Cristobal a sidelong look, "outing someone in public like that, it's not done." A lift of his eyebrows, then he tils his head at the request.

"Not an ask at all--marigolds are popular all the time, so I keep 'em." He sets down the box, nods at the French doors leading to the outdoor collection. "If you don't mind walking through the rain a second, they're in one of our greenhouses. I can show you what we have right now. You looking for a specific color variation?"

"Spelled with two x's. I have the link on my phone if you want it." Cris grins slightly, stretching the split in his bottom lip so it must twinge because he immediately worries his tongue over the area as if to soothe the damage left behind by Itzhak. "And if I'd have pulled him aside, he would have felt cornered." There is a shrug there, no real regret about what occurred.

He sort of ambles after August, in no particular rush or apparent care about stepping back out in the rain. "We always used the really bright yellow ones with the," He makes a gesture because he's not quite sure how to describe it. The point of all his fingers are gathered together, and stab at the opposing palm. "The orange in the middle? The core?" Tagetes erecta or the Mexico/Aztec marigold, "Anyway, those ones growing up, so I'd say yellow."

As he leads Critobal out to the left greenhouse, August says over his shoulder, "Wow, it's almost like maybe you shouldn't have said it at all," and bobs his eyebrows. The crushed shell path squelch-crunches under their feet from the rain; various parts of the collection have carefully constructed tarp-tents set up to keep the inundation off them (and even collect it into rain barrels; no one's forgotten that dry-as-hell winter a couple years back!). The pumpkins in particular are on a set of pallets, and even have some additional bedding to wick the moisture off them.

He nods at the description, opens the greenhouse door and gestures for Cristobal to head on in. It's warmer inside the structure, maybe closer to sixty degrees, with a gentle bit of airflow provided by fans up along the ceiling. The marigolds are on the central table, midway down the right aisle. There's a wide variety of colors, from flat yellow, red, and orange, to the fancier varieties with their variegated petals, and even the ones Cristobal specifically mentioned, with a yellow petal that turns orange around the nectary. "They self seed, but they're hybrids, so the flowers that come out of anything you plant won't look the same." A simple warning, on the off chance Cristobal planned to grow them himself.

"I wouldn't go that far." Cris says, partially distracted by looking around the property and outdoor garden. He even goes so far as to take a deep breath of the particularly green smelling air in mild appreciation.

Even though he's not tall enough to warrant ducking in through the door, he does so, if only to bend his head against he rain drops that have condensed on the side of the building and shower down from the opening of the door. Spying the flowering plants he requested, he heads in that direction, his walk slowing as he points out the ones he was looking for. "Yeah, those. Perfecto. I'll take...all of those." He sections out an area with a gesture of his two hands, a wide swath cut through August's selection.

Under his breath, August murmurs, "Right, why not refrain from saying things when you can just say them," to himself. He follows Cristobal in, nods as he indicates the ones he wants. He reaches up to snag a cardboard flat from a pile and starts adding the flowers to it. "Were these getting planted? If so I can include some instructions for care, where to put them, all of that." He pauses with a marigold in hand, blinks. "Oh, or are these for Día de Muertos?"

Cristobal's smile turns slightly to something more genuine and flecked with a moment of sadness as he looks down at his boot tips. "My ofrenda, yes." He says quietly, flicking a glance up to August working those plants into a flat before his spine straightens suddenly, his arm sweeping out. "You know what, I'll take all of them, do you have one of those garden carts? We'll stuff my car full and I'll be back for the rest."

August raises his eyebrows, surprised, then shrugs. "Sure thing. One second." August moves to the back of the greenhouse, returns with a small cart. He sets the first flat of marigolds in, pulls down a few more cardboard flats for the rest. "I'll give you some materials on how to clone them, to keep," he taps the yellow-fringe, orange-throated variety, "this specific color, if you want. It's pretty straight forward, all-in-all." A glance up at Cris, back down at the plants as he arranges them in the cart. "Are you going to the festival? On the boardwalk?"

"Don't have a garden." Cris says conversationally as he starts to pack plants as well, not afraid to get his hands dirty as the saying goes. "The ones I don't crush for their petals, I'll donate back so they don't go to waste, how about that?"

He shoves the sleeves of his flannel up to the elbows, forearms veined with muscle but not a lick of ink. "See. Part of me wants to crack if you're asking me on a date, but I don't really need a shiner to match the lip. The other part of me is just going to say I'll probably celebrate quietly, making some papel picado while I sit vigil."

"Well, as it just so happens, we're going to clear out some space and make a series of allottment gardens out back here, if you're interested." August might be joking, might not. It's hard to say. Who knows, maybe Cristobal is the gardening type, just in need of a space to do it in. "Still in the planning phases, and all."

He laughs, harsh with wry humor. "No need to worry on that account, I'm a little less volatile than my friend. Anyways," he gives Cristobal a dry, sidelong look, "I did all my bad boy fucking in college. And I'm flattered, but I'm with someone and not looking for more." He lifts a shoulder, semi-dismissively. "The local Latinx community puts on a hell of a festival. Just saying."

There's a little nod given to the mention of a communal garden, but if he's even considering interest in such a thing, it's hard to tell behind that mask of bravado he wears. "Hey, who said anything about fucking, you dirty bird." Cristobal grins wickedly, "And I'm sure they do, if that fireball named Julia is behind any of it. So what kind of damage are we looking at here?" He asks for a vague tally of what this is going to cost him.

August gives Cristobal a tired look. "Please," he says, in lieu of, 'you don't strike me as the romantic walk on the boardwalk and no boning on the first date sort'. "She is, which is why I always recommend them. You'll never get better empanadas and tamales than there, except for making them yourself."

He pulls out his smartphone, scans a QR code on the tag for one of the marigolds, swipes a bit in his shop app. He turns the phone to Cristobal, where the total with tax included is displayed. About the same as what he'd pay for the same set of flats at a big name store, or maybe a little more--if they had one of those around here but of course they don't. "I can keep anything that won't fit in your car set aside with a note, and any of the staff can get them for you if I'm not here."

Cris gives a blinking faux innocent look at that little 'please' before his grin cracks again. "My Tia would disagree but she never has to know I cheated on her cucina." He leans forward slightly as August displays the price, not even blinking at the bottom line. He's the one, after all, that pulled the trigger on the extravagance of requesting all of August's stock. He pulls out his money clip, sorting through the bills until he finds matches the total as close as he can without needing change other than coins. He scissors the money out to August, but flicks it back to his palm at the last second, "You're going to help me load them, right?"

August mmmmms. "Oh, she'll know--they always know. But she might not mind if it's for a good cause, from the right source."

It's on the tip of his tongue to make some sort of wildly flippant remark. About 100 of them leap to mind; a guy like Cristobal invites them. He visibly decides not to, opts for something only mildly flippant. "Of course, can't have you catching pneumonia on my property." He holds out his hand for the money, eyebrows raised.

"You're a good man, Roen." Cristobal slaps the money into August's palm and then turns to heft another flat onto the cart. "Let's get this done then. I have a date with the cutest blonde to prepare for." And Cris works with August the rest of the time in stony silence, stuffing his '66 Fairlane up to the brim with the flowering plants until it looks like an inside out parade float.