Take the 7 to the Last

The 7 train, old and rattly from the pounding of metal on wood, might be the longest or the shortest New York Subway line depending on how you look at it.

Buying flowers is the hardest thing to do in NYC. Everybody sells flowers, the Halal guys? flowers, the corner store? flowers, the flower shop? well they sell pizza and say it’s just a name they really don’t sell flowers.

When I was here I stayed with my aunt and uncle from my mom’s side of course. In a city where no one makes food, choosing takeout is easier, saltier, and for some reason cheaper than vegetables at the grocery. The whole city lets the chefs be chefs and for everyone else be whatever the city needed them to be. My aunt made the three of us dinner every night and for that I have all the love in the world for her. At a time when the greasy phones of Chi-talian takeout places were off the hook with orders, we sat at our table deep in the heart of Queens enjoying the our food to the noisy street below her place.

Dinner was always at 7:30. This certain July day led me to find flowers for dinner in Gramercy. Like all New York summers the air was a deep miserable rising past even the 50th floor among highrises.

What kind of flowers are those? Don’t know. The shopkeep tuned me out for the Yankees game, but I ain’t no Yankees fan. I’ll give you three for all the ones in the bucket. No Deal. It’s for the family come on. Finally the shopkeep relents from the Yankees game just long enough to turn his body toward his customers. Fine.

The flowers were blue with smaller white flowers interrupting the sea of petals. The hilarious thing was I didn’t even buy the flowers at a flowershop. He, the shopkeep, was more of a butcher, white stained apron and all, than a delicate man curating flowers.

I waited for the 7 train to pull into view. Usually the faint screech of the train blunders through the tunnel to announce its arrival. In a minute I’d be in the 7 watching New York City grow smaller as I go into the deep of Queens with my blue and white flowers in hand. Miles away my aunt and uncle are setting the table for dinner slowing the unrelenting New York day down. The only thing missing is me and the bundle of flowers in my hand.