Tonight’s The Night.
A short story by Robert Cormack
“Tonight’s the night, it’s gonna be alright” Rod Stewart
I spent a Christmas Eve selling flowers once. We were on Rosedale Valley Road, what they call a green corridor in the heart of the city. It’s a busy place during rush hour, but cold as hell. They’d dropped us off with our buckets of flowers this one night. We had to stay until the buckets were empty.
The rush hour had been good. We’d been at our stations, each team of two going from car to car. But, as Greg told us — the guy behind this enterprise — there were still people after rush hour, people who’d forgotten to pick up a gift. “You’re a godsend at that hour,” he was saying earlier.
By “earlier,” I mean we were gathered on folding chairs in this drafty old warehouse. There were twelve of us, some students, a divorced guy trying to make his alimony. There were even these two East Indian couples. I doubt they were celebrating Christmas. Selling flowers takes all kinds, though.
We all sat listening to Greg tell us about selling.
He kept walking back and forth in front of this chalkboard, the routes marked out, showing us traffic flows.
He was quite the guy in his big puffer jacket. I couldn’t give you an exact age. Well-educated, good haircut. He kept walking back and forth in front of this chalkboard, the routes marked out, showing us traffic flows.
Over on the loading dock, there were buckets filled with bunches of roses. We’d each get a bucket. The roses were in groupings of six and twelve, that being the “optimal amount,” as Greg explained. Sixes could be divided up into singles. “Just don’t make it a habit,” Greg kept saying. “The money’s in the sixes and twelves. Sell the sixes and twelves.”
Every so often, he’d look over at his wife. She was wearing a big puffer jacket, too. Attractive enough. They both were, I guess. She was standing next to a table, holding a clipboard with our names. On the table was a ghettoblaster. It was there for some reason. We didn’t know what.
The warehouse itself was a bit confusing. Greg and his wife obviously didn’t own it. From what we could tell, it was used for produce storage.
Against one wall were skids and crates. Another featured large stainless steel refrigerators. Lots of refuse was swept up along the wall. The whole place smelt of rotten fruit and vegetables.
Anyway, this Greg was a talker, a real motivator. During the day, who knows what he did? But here, in this freezing warehouse, he was telling us the gospel. “Tonight’s the night,” he said, motioning to his wife.
With that, she hit the button on the ghettoblaster, and out came Rod Stewart’s Tonight’s the Night. It wasn’t loud because Greg was still talking. He had a pointer, and he was pointed at the chalkboard, showing us where two streets intersected at the end of Rosedale Valley Road.
Did his wife just turn the music up? “Kick off your shoes and sit right down, loosen off that pretty French gown…”
“Three sets of lights,” he was saying, “two of you at each one. The harder you work, the more money you make.”
“How much?” someone behind me asked. “How much do we make?”
“Up to you,” Greg said back. “Sell what we give you, you’ll do fine.”
Did his wife just turn the music up? “Kick off your shoes and sit right down, loosen off that pretty French gown…”
That made the East Indian couples uncomfortable. They whispered to each other. One student with a long scarf wanted more clarification.
“This is commission, in other words?” he said.
“That’s right,” Greg replied. “You get a cut, I get a cut.”
“So what’s our cut?”
“Twenty percent on twelve roses, fifteen on six, ten on singles.”
“That’s not a lot.”
“I’m the one with the overhead,” Greg said. “I rent part of this building, then there’s the vans outside, and the flowers.”
“And what are we asking for the flowers?”
“Okay, I’ll be honest you. Twenty bucks is break even on twelve. You ask what you think you can get. Size up the customer. Go from there.”
“Give us an average.”
“Go sixty for twelve.”
“On the street?” another man asked.
“Why not on the street?” Greg replied. “Last minute shopping accounts for forty percent of a store’s receipts at Christmas. Don’t underestimate desperation. Again, size up your customer. If you think you can get more, get more. This is a high traffic intersection.”
“And we’ll be freezing our asses off,” someone else said.
“Not if you hustle,” Greg said. “Like I said in the ad ‘Motivated individuals.’ You want this bad enough, you won’t freeze.”
“Says the man in the big jacket,” one student murmured.
“Tonight’s the night, it’s gonna be alright, ’cause I love you girl, ain’t nobody gonna stop us now…”
“That’s supposed to motivate us?” the divorced guy asked. He was in his forties, duffle coat, suit jacket under that. He’d come from work. I was like him, I guess. Except I wasn’t getting hit with alimony. I was working and going to school. I was always broke.
“It’s a theme,” Greg went on. “We’re the Tonight’s the Night Flower Sellers. I play this, you remember it. It’s a motivator.”
“Sure, if it was nineteen seventy-six,” the divorced guy said.
There was some snickering. The East Indian couples just sat there.
“C’mon, folks,” Greg said, “Keep thinking about what we can earn tonight. You want presents for your kids, your girlfriend, whatever.”
“We can do this,” Greg insisted. “Let’s get some positivity going here. Are we gonna sell those roses? Let me hear ‘Hell, ha!’”
“Don’t say a word you virgin child, just let your inhibitions run wild…”
The East Indian couples were whispering to each other again.
“We can do this,” Greg insisted. “Let’s get some positivity going here. Are we gonna sell those roses? Let me hear ‘Hell, ha!’”
He had his hands up like some evangelist, and his wife had her hands up, too. So we did the same. It was better than sitting there freezing. And he was bringing out something that could be useful. We were each getting a toque with “Tonight’s the Night” written in red letters across the front.
“Grab one,” Greg said. “We’ve also got your change belts and a float. Don’t walk off with these.”
“What’s a float?” someone asked.
“It’s money to make change. Floats are deducted from your final tally. Okay, the vans are waiting outside. They’ll bring more flowers when you run out. Remember, everybody, Tonight’s the night, right?”
“Yeah, right” someone muttered.
“Maybe we’ll finish before the frost bite sets in,” someone else added.
We were hustled out to the vans with our change belts and toques. The guys driving the vans were smoking with the windows open. It was colder in the vans. Greg and his wife were standing on the loading dock, Rod Stewart still singing inside on some sort of loop.
Fifteen minutes later, we were in the valley, the wind blowing. Cars were lining up at the three-way stop.
The van drivers pulled over to the side of the road, jumped out, pulled open the sliding doors. We grabbed our buckets of roses.
“When are you picking us up?” someone asked one of the drivers.
“Hell if I know,” the driver said, getting back in and driving away.
So there we were. God knows if any of us knew how to sell flowers. The divorced guy was with me. His name was Collin. He kept stamping his feet in his regular shoes. It was too cold to stand there. We started moving down the line of cars, tapping on windows, saying season’s greetings.
Some people were interested, some weren’t. One guy tried dickering, saying he’d give us twelve bucks for twelve. “Take it or leave it,” he said.
“Up yours,” Collin said. “I got a family.”
“So do I, asshole,” the guy replied, speeding away.
We were all shivering like crazy. Flowers were selling, though. As much as we fumbled around with our change belts, our buckets were emptying.
When the rush hour ended, we were just about out. Then one of the vans pulled up, the side door slid open, and more buckets of flowers were handed to us. Nothing about taking a break, or maybe warming up in the van. They kept those things freezing.
Collin was threatening to pack it in. But we were a long way from a bus stop. Cars kept coming. The late ones. Some saw flowers as a good idea. They stopped, they bought. The buckets were emptying again.
Then this car comes up to the lights. Nice Lexus. Window comes down.
“How much for the rest of your flowers?” this silver-haired guy asks.
We didn’t know. We were scattered around the intersection.
He starts telling us he wants all the flowers.
He pulls off to the shoulder and gets out. Before he closes the car door, we see this woman in the passenger seat. She’s a beauty. Maybe late thirties. A lot younger than the silver-haired guy, anyway.
He starts telling us he wants all the flowers.
“Every goddamn one,” he says. “Give me a price.”
“Four hundred bucks,” Collin says without even checking.
“Load’m in my back seat,” the silver-haired guy says.
He takes four bills out of his wallet. All hundreds. Hands them to Collin. Meanwhile, the rest of us are bringing over our buckets. Who knows how many roses there were? I doubt it was four hundred dollars worth.
We loaded them in the back seat. It was warm in there. We could smell the woman’s perfume. She smiles and says, “You must be freezing. I told Teddy we couldn’t leave you out in the cold like that.”
So the guy’s name was Teddy. Her name, it turned out, was Monica.
“They’ll just bring us more buckets of flowers,” I told her.
Teddy was getting back in the car.
“Bloody freezing out there,” he said to Monica. “Come on, let’s go eat.”
“They’re just going to bring them more flowers,” she tells him.
“What do you expect me to do, Monica?”
She was looking at the East Indian couples.
“Teddy, they don’t even have boots.”
“I just spent four hundred bucks on flowers, for chrissake.”
What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t invite us all to warm up in their car. The back seat was full of flowers. There were too many of us, anyway.
Then, who shows up but Greg and his wife in this big Ranchero. All they see are buckets lying at the side of the road, and us standing there by this Lexus, looking like a bunch of panhandlers.
Greg jumped out and came running over.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“They just bought all our flowers,” I said.
Greg saw all the flowers in the back seat.
“Did you tell them they’d be standing out in the freezing cold for hours? Those people over there don’t even have proper boots.”
“All of them?” he said, leaning down, looking at Teddy and Monica. “Gee, thanks, folks. You really made our Christmas. I’m — ”
“Are you the manager?” Monica asked.
“Yes — the owner, actually.”
“You should be reported. These people are freezing.”
“Well, we certainly indicated in the ad to dress warmly — ”
“Did you tell them they’d be standing out in the freezing cold for hours? Those people over there don’t even have proper boots.”
The East Indian couples were clearly shivering.
“My wife and I actually came to see — ”
“To see if they were warm enough?” she said. “I doubt that very much. You just wanted to know how much you’ve made.”
“Okay, Monica,” Teddy said. “Enough lectures.”
“Why don’t you let them warm up in your car?” she asked Greg.
“My wife was just suggesting the same thing.”
“No she wasn’t.”
Teddy kept looking at his watch.
“Don’t you tell me to shut up!” she says.
“Okay, Monica,” he said, trying to sound calm. “We’ve missed our reservation. This isn’t our business. Now shut up and let’s — ”
“Don’t you tell me to shut up!” she said.
Just like that, she got out of the car and slammed the door. She was standing there in stockings and high heels, thin coat blowing around.
“Monica — ” Teddy called out the window.
He was glaring at her, she was glaring at him. Meanwhile, Greg was looking across the road at his wife. She started getting out of the Ranchero.
“Stay there, Cindy,” he called to her.
Either she didn’t hear him, or she wasn’t going to just sit in the car. She came across the road, leaving the Ranchero running.
All this time, the buckets were rolling around in the wind, one going out on the road. Cars were slowing down.
“Look,” Greg said to Monica finally, “I’ll get the vans back here. We’ll call it a night, okay? I’ll take everyone for a coffee — ”
“And stick these people out here again tomorrow night?”
“Dammit, Monica,” Teddy yelled. “Get back in the car.”
“No! I’m going to report this jerk.”
“It’s not your problem — ”
“Oh, right, Teddy, nothing’s our problem.”
“Last chance, Monica. You coming or not?”
“No.”
Teddy banged on the steering wheel. He banged several times. Then he rolled up the window, put the car in drive, and stepped on the gas.
A car honked as Teddy swerved out on the road.
Cindy was standing next to Monica now.
She tries to ease Monica over to the Ranchero. Monica’s having none of it. Cold as she is, she’s not going with Cindy.
“He’ll come back,” she said, putting her hand on Monica’s arm. “Come sit in our car. Greg will get the vans here. Everyone will be nice and warm soon.”
She tried easing Monica over to the Ranchero. Monica was having none of it. Cold as it was, she wasn’t going with Cindy.
Greg called the vans. Then he walked around, picking up the buckets. Nobody helped him. He finally motioned us over.
“The vans will be here in a few minutes,” he said to us. “We’ll stop for coffee, then settle up back at the warehouse.”
He went over to where Cindy is still standing with Monica.
“Let’s go,” he said to Cindy.
“What about her?”
“You want a ride, Monica?” he goes.
“Not with you,” she replied.
“We can’t just leave her here,” Cindy said.
“What am I supposed to do?” Greg said, flopping his hands.
The vans were pulling up. Greg went over, told the drivers to put out their goddamn cigarettes and turn on the heaters. Then he started back to the Ranchero.
“Cindy, c’mon,” he called out.
She tried taking Monica’s arm again. Monica pulled away. Cindy finally crossed the road and got in the Ranchero. They drove off while we piled into the vans. I see Collin slip one of the hundreds into his pocket.
Then he offered me one.
“Fuck them,” he said and winked.
“Hell, if I had my car, I’d come back and offer her a ride. Maybe more, right?”
I looked at Monica standing there in the cold, coat pulled together, arms crossed. “I sure hope she knows what she’s doing,” I said.
“Piece of ass like that?” Collin replied. “Hell, if I had my car, I’d come back and offer her a ride. Maybe more, right?”
He winked again.
“She’ll be fine,” Collin says. “Teddy’ll come back.”
He smacked me on the leg and stuffed the hundred in my pocket. We pulled away, leaving Monica at the side of the road.
Maybe Teddy would come back. We weren’t sticking around to find out. It was Christmas Eve. We had our own lives to worry about.
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Robert Cormack is a satirist, blogger and author of “You Can Lead A Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive).” You can join him every day by subscribing to robertcormack@medium.com/subscription.
