The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up by Jacob M. Appel

Might I not at least save one baby bud? I answered by scooping up the marooned rainbow parrot tulip cocoon and discreetly sliding it into the pocket of my threadbare overalls while my father paid for his Dutch irises and vermiculite. While I realized that I couldn’t rescue all of the nascent blossoms, I grieved for those kernels stifled at the cusp of verdant infancy. Like ours.Īnd so launched my life as a delinquent. Yet never had I previously wondered, certainly not aloud, Where do they plant the bulbs that nobody buys?Įvery bulb won’t have a chance to get planted, my dad explained in the tone, he likely used to reveal grim diagnoses at the hospital. Not once before had my grimy fingers itched. I’d savored the earth-scented shade of the aisles, dug my hands into the deep cool soil around the impatiens and Mandevillas. Admittedly, I had cased the joint many times prior-yet always in the company of my law-abiding father, tagging along as he purchased his chrysanthemums each spring and assorted yard flowers every autumn from the same grizzled arborist who lorded atop his cast-iron shop stool with all the conceit of Lucullus overseeing his orchards. In hindsight, the store’s design posed a hazardous nuisance for an eight-year-old: row upon row of ventilated cardboard sluices emblazoned with images of blossoming daffodils and dahlias, each containing dozens of embryonic tunicates. Although my loot consisted of precisely one rainbow parrot tulip bulb pinched from a suburban plant nursery.

Okay, that may be an overstatement: I didn’t hold up the neighborhood piggybanks or kneecap kindergarteners for their lunch money, and the closest that I came to prison was a family excursion to Alcatraz. I was an unrepentant grade-school bandit.

The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up by Jacob M. Appel