Redneck Roses

He was late. He hated being late. First, it was a razor too dull to shave with followed by a bowl of flakes with milk too old to eat with. His beat up piece of shit Ford had enough gas to get him to his job that paid just enough to keep it that way. Then Rodney decided to be a dick and not show up on time; so he had to stay another forty five minutes until he could leave.

He was late. He hated being late. The Army taught him (as it did a great many things) the value of showing up on time. Of course, being the Army, they took it too far, inevitably leading to a whole bunch of standing around doing nothing when the same nothing could be accomplished heaving a mop in the barracks.

So he took up the habit of smoking.

It came naturally, as all addictions do. He kept it up during his time wearing green. When he was discharged at 22, he found himself wandering like the smoke from yet another cigarette, instead of up – through the country – a few months here, a couple of weeks there, bouncing from one futon or recliner chair to another, like a worn out throw pillow too comfy to chuck out.

Most of the women were smokers too, of course. Birds of a feather and all that.

Until that one.

They met at a Wal-Mart. She was there with a kid that wasn’t hers but he didn’t know that at the time. He was there to get a fishing rod but she didn’t know that at the time either.

They met as people always do, by fate. He somehow summoned courage to ask her out. She somehow summoned the courage to let him.

And he was late. Late for the all important first date. He managed to squeeze in a quick shower and shave and the dull razor didn’t cut him too badly. If he didn’t push the beat up piece of shit Ford too hard, he should make it just in time.

As he got into the trailer park, his tires crunched the gravel and that’s when it hit him.

Flowers. He forgot the fucking flowers. No time. Have to improvise.

So he dumped out his last pack of cigarettes into an already engorged glovebox and with the empty carton he got out of the piece of shit Ford.

To spy a bunch of wildflowers next to her trailer.

He picked as much as the cigarette pack would hold, cramming them in and arranging the petals just so.

He held them behind his back when he rapped on her thin screen door.

He wouldn’t smoke another cigarette for the rest of her life.

People thought she was trash, 25 years later, tossing an old pack of cigarettes with crumbly dried wildflowers into an open grave.

People don’t know.