a constant source of disappointment and frustration, it would seem. And as for Mimi—it’s like she’s already storyboarded my existence for her reallife family blockbuster. The only person who accepts me for who I am—who asks nothing more of me other than that I just show up for coffee once in awhile—is you. Don’t give me that look, Rosie; I mean it. Ever since I started coming here, things have been falling into place, you know? I’ve had so much all my life; I’ve never wanted for anything. But it’s all been just—stuff. You see the real Nate, I think; perhaps more than any other living soul. And I want to discover who he is. I like the version of me that I see in your eyes. That’s why I had to see you today.’
I was flattered by what he said, but still I struggled with the picture Nate painted of me. I’m not wise: in many ways events of my life have attested to this fact. I guess I’m just interested in people, in their stories and personalities.
It never ceases to amaze me the number of stories I hear in my day-to-day dealings with the good people of my neighbourhood. There are at least a hundred different people I could tell you about who visit my shop, from occasional customers to people we see week in, week out. Some of them, like Mrs Katzinger and Mrs Schuster, were Kowalski’s customers long before I was here. Like Gloria O’Keefe, for instance, who told me her grandmother bought flowers from Kowalski’s right from when she was a little girl, and Mrs O’Keefe is now a grandmother herself, buying flowers for her own grand-daughter’s birthday. But there are also a lot of people who have appeared since I took over the business.
Take Billy Whitman, for example. He started coming to my shop at the end of last year. He is hopelessly in love with the girl whose desk is across the office floor from his. The highlight of his day is when she crosses the office to the water-cooler by his desk because she always smiles at him. That daily smile has become the reason he can’t wait to get to work in the morning and, even though this is the only contact he has with her each day, it is enough to have completely stolen his heart. Billy sends roses from Kowalski’s every first Monday of the month to the girl across the office—always red and always a dozen, with a card that says, ‘From your office admirer’. To date, he hasn’t yet had the courage to add his name to the card, even though Ed, Marnie and I have all urged him to do so. Consequently, Miss Emily Kelly thinks the roses are from one of the managers and is slowly dating her way through middle management in a bid to discover the sender of her monthly bouquet, while Billy contents himself with the daily smile and tries to muster the nerve to reveal his secret identity to her.
It’s stories like these that make my job so enjoyable: tiny snapshots of other people’s lives that catch my interest, like driving down a street at night and peeking into lit windows.
But not all the glimpses are good ones. For every hopeful, fascinating story, there are darker, sadder ones. Like the man who came into the store not so long ago. He caused such consternation that the mere mention of ‘BlackBerry Guy’—as he has become known—is enough to send Ed and Marnie into animated diatribes about how ungrateful some people are.
It had been raining solidly for a whole week and business had been sporadic, to say the least, with only the bravest of customers daring to brave the New York pelt. By Friday afternoon it was so quiet that I made the decision to close early and we were just starting to shut up shop when BlackBerry Guy came in. Dressed impeccably in a smartly cut dark suit and trench coat, he was engrossed in a call on said BlackBerry and didn’t even acknowledge Ed, who had walked across to greet him. It took Ed physically standing four inches from BlackBerry Guy’s face for him finally to register his existence.
The first thing that annoyed Ed was that BlackBerry Guy didn’t end the call. He merely mumbled, ‘Hold on, would ya? I just gotta sort something,’ into the device and put his hand over it. ‘Flowers, yeah?’
I could see Ed swallowing the comment he would have liked to have made before he politely asked, ‘Any particular type?’
BlackBerry Guy cast a cursory glance at the impressive selection of blooms in our galvanised buckets. ‘Whatever,’ he said with a disinterested swipe of his hand. ‘Just make them expensive, yeah? Money’s not an object here, OK?’ Before Ed could speak again, BlackBerry Guy had returned to his call. ‘Murray, you still there? Yeah, just getting a peace offering for Susie, making sure she doesn’t sue my ass for every nickel. What? Oh yeah, she found out about that bit of skirt I picked up in Philadelphia. Threatening to divorce me. Again. What? Damage limitation, yeah.’ His laugh was dirty and disgusting—and the second thing that annoyed Ed, who cleared his throat loudly and waved at BlackBerry Guy to wrench his attention from the blasted device. ‘Oh wait, the shop guy’s bugging me,’ he said to the caller, placing his hand over the receiver once more and glaring at Ed. ‘What?’
Ed smiled with gritted teeth. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but I need to know what kind of arrangement you require and if you need it to take now or wish for us to deliver it?’
BlackBerry Guy let out an irritated sigh and resumed his call. ‘Yeah, Murray? I gotta go. Seems you gotta endure the third degree to get a damn bunch of flowers round here. Ha, I know! Later.’ He had ended the call and raised both hands. ‘Good for you?’
‘Much better, thanks,’ Ed replied, the sarcasm in his tone evident to everyone else except the man stood before him.
By the time BlackBerry Guy had finally left Kowalski’s—after having answered three further calls and sent numerous emails—everyone was wound up. For a man who had betrayed his wife, he’d showed little remorse—in fact, he’d only stopped joking about it when he saw the disgusted looks on our faces. He’d spent over a hundred dollars on an apology that was more about saving him from an expensive divorce than it was about saying sorry. It’s sad, but it’s life, and just another part of the rich mosaic of individual stories that make this city what it is.
‘Do you ever wonder if you could end up like BlackBerry Guy?’ Ed asked one Sunday morning, as we sat on burgundy-red cushions in the window seat of Caffe Marco on Lafayette Street in NoLita, eating bomboloni—tiny Italian breakfast doughnuts filled with chocolate, custard and jam (a particular favourite of Ed’s). We come here quite a lot on our weekend expeditions. Ed is fascinated by the décor in the café: it’s typically over the top, from the huge crystal chandeliers and ornately carved white-painted wooden chairs to the neat, regimented lines of pastries standing to attention in glass and steel display cabinets beneath the polished white marble service counter. The coffee’s pretty good too—rich and dark with the kind of kick that can wake up even reluctant-riser Ed on a Sunday morning.
‘I don’t think either of us could be so callous,’ I replied, taking a sip of smoky espresso and enjoying the instant buzz.
‘Nevertheless, I worry about it sometimes, you know? That I’ll one day get so wrapped up in my own life that I’ll stop thinking about other people. I guess it’s something you don’t notice about yourself until it’s too late.’
‘You want to watch that Caffe Marco espresso,’ I smiled. ‘It looks like it could be melting you, Mr Iceberg.’
‘Mock all you want, Rosie, but any one of our customers could be us one day. What was it Mr K used to say? “Everyone’s story is one step away from yours.”’ He shuddered. ‘Remind me never to buy a BlackBerry, OK?’
‘I really don’t think the device determined the man there, Ed.’
‘I know, but when you see everyone else’s lives, the comparison with your own is inevitable, don’t you think?’ He popped another doughnut into his mouth and I could almost see his brain whirring as he munched away. ‘I mean, look at Billy Whitman: I bet he never thought that one day he would fall so hopelessly in love
