The Time Caleb Left an Orchid Outside Toronado

We're trying something a little different for your Sunday reading pleasure: a Lower Haight short story. Today's is by our very own Caleb Garling. Caleb recently left an orchid on the sidewalk outside of Lower Haight bar Toronado, and watched to see what, if anything, would happen. This is his story, with illustrations by Rose Garrett.

"Have you cared for a Miltonia before?" "Yes," I lie, feeling suddenly terrible. I don't want him to explain what this delicate orchid requires in terms of water, nutrients and sunlight. The necessary doting will compound my guilt. "Beautiful flowers, aren't they," the counterman notes rhetorically, smiling and brushing away a spec of dirt from one of the petals. His respect is a bucket of water on my guilt's grease fire. "So peaceful," he continues - a little ridiculously - as he swipes my credit card. I notice a yellow tag planted next to the orchid's base. Her full name is Miltonia Augres. Probably because mine is uncommon, I'm one of those people that loves names and nicknames. Before I can stop the reflex, my new orchid becomes Agnes. She has a green bifurcated stem and five purple faces that nod softly as a breeze blows through the front door. "Enjoy," the counterman says handing over my receipt. I smile weakly and hurry out. I'm not sure how I'm going to start my experiment, how I'm going to place Agnes in front of a raucous tavern like Toronado, especially on a Saturday night. The weather is pleasant and the Giants have a day game, which will catalyze the evening's inebriated antics. Regardless, on most nights the front door of the joint seems like a fat man bursting the buttons of his shirt. Patrons shuttle in and out and clog the surrounding sidewalk smoking cigarettes, hailing cabs and sniffing out sex - all over a humming din of heavy metal. A core objective of an impartial scientist in any good experiment is total independence of the test subjects. If the patrons see me leave a two-foot orchid on the ground and walk away to observe what happens, the results will be tainted. I need to figure out a way to deliver Agnes front-and-center, discreetly. If even one person notes, "I think it's that guy's flower," the experiment, in my mind, will be ruined. I also need a vantage point where I can watch Agnes. And it has to be removed enough that people don't realize what I'm doing. I plan to jot notes, but I can't be obvious about it. One of the first things anybody does when they come upon one of San Francisco's oddities is give a quick look around for the culprit. A guy scribbling in a notebook will stick out. I mull the quandary on my walk home from Plant'It Earth. An ocean breeze blasts across Divisidero and Agnes cowers. Instinctively I shield her with my body, taking the wind on my back, and glance down at her cradled in my arms. "God damn it," I murmur.

When I get home I decide I'll go for a run to get the blood flowing and think through my experiment a little more. As I jog out of the Panhandle and into Golden Gate Park I begin to hypothesize, or rather, imagine what will happen to Agnes outside Toronado. I do not pause to note that a good scientist doesn't approach an experiment with heavy preconceived notions about the conclusion. Nor do I pause to think about the bad science of generalizing test subjects. I imagine a long line of hipsters with vintage cameras snapping pictures until one finally thinks no one is looking and takes Agnes home. Then I see a crazy vagrant staring at her - an orchid on the sidewalk out of place even for him - yelling something obscene and nonsensical and stumbling off, or perhaps tucking her into his cart. I see a crow eating Agnes's five purple and white faces. I see a cop tossing her in the trash. I see some soused bonehead stumbling out of Toronado - or perhaps he's kicked out; the sight of Agnes enrages some unexplored insecurity and he obliterates her with one swift kick of his leather boots. Only the last scenario runs on repeat in my imagination. I become sure that someone is going to destroy Agnes. I am sure that she will not make it through the evening, that some bumbling silverback ape is going to crush her. I realize that I have a fairly fatalistic outlook for Agnes's evening and decide to lighten my expectations. She'll probably just have a steady, yet small crowd of people standing about, smoking cigarettes and wondering what she's doing there. I talk myself into this art-exhibit scenario, but still decide that Agnes needs some defense, something to make someone think twice before harming her. * Toronado resides in the family of taverns that encourages drinking in a rather furious manner. Heavy metal thunders inside a long, dark tomb over a long, sturdy bar. The sprawling beer menu towers above patrons in block letters like a train station schedule. Along the molding project hundreds of used taps like slain animal heads and every open inch of wall is laminated in stickers that advertise notions like "Riot-a-go-go," "Resist Corporate Coffee" or show a picture of Satan with the caption "I breed cats." I show my ID to the bouncer, a kind-faced girl in dark, almost-Gothic garb. She isn't physically imposing and I wonder if she has hidden muscles under her black hoodie. "Thanks," she says and smiles sweetly. I head for an open seat by the window, a few feet behind Goth Muscles, and I'm surprised by how easy finding a good observation point was. Agnes will eventually be placed on the sidewalk, more or less, right in front of me. I hear my first character before I open my notebook. Over the din he begins to bellow some soccer song - or you could call it a chant. The European Champion's League Final was played that morning so he's had a good long day. Soon Goth Muscles hops off her stool by the door and tells him to shut the hell up. My silverback ape. Ozzy Osbourne blares over the growing crowd and I continue scanning. I can't decide whether the packed table by the door is a group of old bikers or a group of old bandmates; after a moment I settle on the latter. Though, one of them looks like he's had his face punched in a few times. Among these warriors stands a collection of feisty dames. Quickly I realize that the tallest and blondest is the queen, or at least the bossy pants. She speaks with a deep-throated timbre and points directly at the chest of whomever she's talking to. Flat Face gives her a firm whack on the rump; Queen doesn't miss a beat in conversation and delivers a solid backhand to his chest. My phone rings; my girlfriend is driving down with Agnes. As I wait, a fragment of curiosity takes control and I look up the Miltonia genus on my phone. Agnes's family hails from southern and coastal Brazil; her surname was derived from a British orchid enthusiast named Lord Fitzwilliam Milton. Wikipedia goes on to note that Miltonia is often confused with the pansy orchids. "She's no pansy," I mumble to myself. A deliveryman with a gigantic chrome bolt through his ear whizzes down Haight Street on his bike. I finish reading about the astoundingly complex taxonomic history of the Miltonia genus — none of which really sticks — and realize I've moved on to the section about gardening, growth and care. The image of Hooligan stamping Agnes into the sidewalk flashes into my head. I click off the browser abruptly. A few minutes later my girlfriend arrives and I stroll casually out to the sidewalk. After a few patient moments, the coast is clear. Harnessing my inner-ninja, I deliver Agnes to the sidewalk and tuck her defense - an index card that says "Leave Me Alone!" in black magic marker - under the corner of her pot. That'll hopefully keep Hooligan from doing anything too destructive. The wind blows Agnes over. "Shit," I say under my breath and search around to see if anyone's noticed. A guy stands in the window of Rosamunde's, the delicious sausage shop next door, but he doesn't see me or Agnes. I put her upright again and use an old bike lock, already around the telephone poll, to fasten Agnes snugly. A spotted sash of cigarette butts and old chewing gum extends away from her. I glance around again: no one noticed.

My experiment has started and I ready my notebook, subtly, for Agnes's interactions with the people of San Francisco. Soon Queen excuses herself from her table. She steps outside and zeroes in on Agnes. At first she shifts her weight to one leg, fidgets with her blond hair and takes in what she's seeing. Something in her posture says, "What the fuck is a purple flower doing outside my bar" and I can almost hear the ominous creaking of her leather jacket. A guy having a cigarette follows her gaze and this is all Queen needs. "That's fucking weird," she says in her guttural tone. "‘Leave me alone.' That's cute," Smoker responds coolly. His light grey sweater-vest is threadbare through the right shoulder. Queen shifts and her studded belt glimmers in the evening light. "Who would do that?" She reaches down and straightens Agnes's sign. "I dunno," Smoker responds, again quite coolly. Queen's tone has completely softened. "I love the purple and white." Before Smoker can respond coolly, seemingly out of thin air, a burly man in a Ghostbusters t-shirt bursts into the doorway of Toronado behind them. "THIS IS THE WORST BAR IN SAN FRANCISCO! YOU'RE ALL A BUNCH OF FUCKING LOSERS!" he screams across the happy crowd inside, which falls a bit silent. Goth Muscles is on her feet and delivers a two-handed shove to Ghostbusters's chest. She starts to scream back but Queen is there like a wasp. She puts her nose against Ghostbusters's and points down the street. "Keep walking, tough guy. No one wants you here either," she says not raising her voice. Queen's table of roughnecks notices that she's involving herself and they begin to drift toward the door. By now a handful of other patrons have exited to see Ghostbusters on his way. I'm quietly ecstatic. People are pouring outside and they're all going to see Agnes. I imagine a scenario where the crowd sends Ghostbusters off and then circles around to marvel at the strange orchid on the sidewalk - a strange, cosmic contrast to his ugly antics. But nothing. Not one person glances at her. Everyone says good riddance to Ghostbusters and returns to their cigarettes or beers. A few guys fire up a bowl. No one acknowledges Agnes. Queen eventually returns from chasing Ghostbusters to the next block and I wait for her to resume focus on Agnes, but she heads straight for Goth Muscles. "Did he scream in your face?" she asks abruptly. "Yeah," Goth Muscles answers and it's suddenly clear that the altercation frayed her. I replay the interaction in my head; Ghostbusters did scream right in her face. And he was a big guy. "Well, he was fuh-cking shitfaced," Queen says on authority. "And apparently he was kicked out of here last week and wanted to let everyone know how mad he was about it." Goth Muscles nods. She doesn't care why he did it. On the other side of the sidewalk, in an evening breeze, Agnes nods her five purple faces too, but only to me.

A half hour later my girlfriend returns on foot. I tell her of Queen's initial interest and Ghostbusters's outburst. "But since then…" I shrug. Perhaps the "Leave Me Alone!" sign is working too well; I'd thought it would provoke more interest. Quietly Goth Muscles asks for IDs from a group of girls in vintage dresses and sweaters. Ghostbusters seemed to have shouted the smile off her face. Since his drive-by idiocy Queen has kept a watchful eye on the door and the entire establishment; earlier she walked over to a guy in a patterned leather vest swaying by the bar and interrogated him, then reported to Goth Muscles that he wasn't anyone to worry about, "He's just fuh-cking shitfaced." Goth Muscles had given the same indifferent nod. My girlfriend asks, "Don't you worry about people seeing you writing notes from the window?" I finally have a chance to speak what's been battering around my mind for a while. "No one's paying attention," I say and wave my pen at the rest of the bar and Haight Street. "I think when you're doing something weird, you tend to assume everyone will immediately figure it out; it feels so obvious to you. But why the hell would someone assume I'm taking notes on how people interact with an orchid on the sidewalk from inside the bar? I'm not sure I'd even notice if—-" A one-man, unintelligible soccer chant erupts over the crowd, Bon Scott and Angus Young's guitar solo. As before, I hear Hooligan before I see him. He bursts past a guy in a Hartford Whaler's hoodie and spills out the door. For a moment Hooligan looks as if he'll continue stumbling across the sidewalk and right onto Agnes, but some unseen restraining device grants him composure. I hold my breath. His gaze is fixated on Agnes. One of his shoulders is cocked slightly higher than the other and his breathing is labored; I can't see his face but I imagine it resembles a rabid wolf's. He takes half a shuffle-step towards Agnes. She looks up at him; the bike lock around her tiny plastic pot pins her snugly against the telephone pole. I am suddenly reminded of old Westerns where the damsel is tied to the tracks of an oncoming train. Hooligan reaches a critical balance point and adjusts his footing; he shifts shoulders; he rubs his eyes; he scratches behind his ears. He saunters away, peacefully, carving vague sinusoidal waves in the sidewalk. * "IDs, please," I hear Goth Muscles ask. Outside two buddies stand over Agnes smoking and chatting. This is their second round of cigarettes. One clears his throat in a long, grading hock and unleashes a sprawling lugi over his shoulder. The whirling snot net lands a few feet from Agnes. I glance at the unused space in my notebook and realize I'm vaguely disappointed it didn't drill her. "Caleb!" Three of our closest friends are showing IDs. I am suddenly aware of how ridiculous this entire experiment is - the naming, the waiting, the subtle note-taking, the heightened expectations of destruction, the over-engineered delivery to the sidewalk, the "beauty and the beast" juxtapositioning, the resentment I've been ignoring about the fact that no one cares about Agnes, the dreams of some profound orchid-induced event occurring outside Toronado, all of it. To this point I think I'd "known," but not "understood" the elaborate foolishness of it all. I immediately resolve not to let our friends know what I'm doing. "We're doing an experiment," my girlfriend says, on cue, as they walk over. "On what?" one asks. I pretend not to hear the question. "That orchid outside. Caleb wants to see how people…react to…it." I hear her hearing her words. Our friends nod distantly; they don't even crane their necks to look for Agnes. I can tell they're not sure if we're joking. "We'll come find you guys in a minute," I say. I turn to my girlfriend as they walk away and start to tell her she can go hang with them if she wants, but Queen bursts through the door. Her face is strangely flushed. "Here," she says gruffly to Goth Muscles. "You need this. You didn't deserve to have a fuh-cking asshole like that shout in your face." A vase of roses rests in Queen's strong hands. There are exactly five roses. They are pink, maybe like you crossed purple and white (and, I guess, red). Goth Muscles's face shines. "Thanks," she says and takes the gift. "Don't mention it, honey. Nothing makes a girl feel better than flowers, right?" Goth Muscles nods sweetly. I look back to my girlfriend and close my notebook. She smiles skeptically and prepares an "Are you really making that connection?" but lets it go. She sees what is surely a light in my eyes. "Let's go socialize," I say and nod towards the back of the bar. "What are you going to do with Agnes?" "Take her home," I say quickly. "You're not going to see if she makes it through the night?" "Nope. Experiment is over." "Do you know how to care for that type of orchid?" "No, but I'll read up on it."