Glasgow Flowers

Marching band with just a hint of ballet. Aye. Footwork looks grand. The white pants with red stripes look best on me. Vintage sneakers on point. An imaginary Shure 565SD mic with matching half an imaginary mic stand. Glued-on moustache. I hope it sticks longer than twenty minutes this time. Time to bend over. And again. Bend over yet again so I can see the crowd better. That's it. A proper arse shot. All set. This is the big one. The careermaker. I'm taking this all the way to the Glasgow council soc. It's that time again. They need to have a word with me. We'll haggle about Universal Credit. How's the floristry business? Are you still trying to make it as a flower merchant, John? Aye, and nah. The flower market is nay picnic. When the times get tough politicians and florists are the first to get discarded. I put together some very lovely bouquets but nobody's bloody buying in this economy, know what I mean? I was actually fired because of complaints of too much vocal improvisation and other strange behaviour, including some cocksure strutting and bumping arse-first into potential customers. Deep down I'm an entertainer, but the pay is a bit stiff. Welfare bitty looks at me like I'm a common clown. Can't blame her, I suppose, as the adhesive between my upper lip and the moustache fails once again. It's time you get your act together, Mr Mcintyre. Time for you to stop the flumgummery and make a difference. I hope to never see you again.The Carousel was a disaster. The Louder's was no Live Aid either. They say the money's in Memphis. But I'm not gonna do Elvis. Everyone else already is. I dread strolling the few miles of broken asphalt towards the hospice in the distance, but I need the experience. You must be John, says a ferntickled nurse. No, I'm Freddie. She looks up and down at me and tells me to at least straighten the stache. The hospice looks clean and well maintained. In one of the rooms is a sickly lass of forty something years. Hardly any life left in her eyes. She's had a rough life; I can tell by the cutting scars in her forearms. It's probably leukemia or brain cancer, because she's still breathing unassisted. She refuses to break eye contact so I approach her. Fenella can't believe I'm here. Maybe its the morphine talking, but she tells me she called for me last night like never before. So I just sit next to her and listen to a life's highlights condensed into forty-one minutes. Gigs, both watched and performed. All her friends OD'd or escaped Hutchesontown some other way. Fenella used to play keyboards in the nineties. But she has no photos left to show. We don't need photos tonight. I can picture this woman, shot after shot, in black eyeliner wearing a pair Doc Martens and a bright red leather jacket, being a part of the continuum of life and going places. I'm right there beside her in 1991 and beyond. I'm watching over her piles of self-published CDs. I'm running by her side during the heat waves of 2002, the last time she was truly happy. After that it was dole money, windy council flat balconies, and bad karaoke. I rescue as many of her experiences into my memory as I can. I become the nerve-racking moments of her coming out as goth in a world of neds and sengas. I'm her first love, a cherished poster on the wall, a videotape of her awkward band performance from high school. Can I take a photo, darling? We pose with Fenella like a million dollars as the phony shutter in my poverty Android phone goes off. Just something for backstage.She musters all of her last remaining strength as she begins to share her biggest regret. Getting married to the goth boy, divorcing within a year after a baby girl she couldn't take care of was born. Fenella would first drink, quickly following her man to score and rescore H. Her ex-husband shattered the pelvic bones in the child during their first month as a family. The child protective services had to step in and take Davina from her. She's somewhere in the system or perhaps out on the streets. They said she'll never walk. More than Freddie Mercury guiding her to the big gig, Fenella wants to hold her daughter for the last time. But not even Freddie can offer this much. So it's time for an interview pose. Tiger teeth firmly in front, eyes deep into the soul of the interviewer, and speaking voice set to both velvet soft and matter of fact. It's quite alright darling. I've seen her around. She's doing very well and you two will meet again in your next lives as mother and daughter. It might surprise you, but Davina wants to be in the business. She said something about playing drums. You don't have to be a fleeting gazelle to do that. I'll put a good word in for her, dear.Fenella's breathing becomes slower and more pained. Hold my hand, Freddie, please. She tells me dying feels like a big, scary premiere. I tell her to just think of all the flowers she'll be swimming in afterwards. She closes her eyes and seems to quickly freeze in time with a faint, barely visible smile on her face, blending with the evening blue. From the window I observe a common lineria vulgaris break through the hospice parking space asphalt. A bunch of marquees are switching on, one by one, around Greater Glasgow at around six twenty pm. Fenella has left the building. Some cocky strutting and fist-pumping at the windy sky ensues outside. The moves are perfect tonight. A long, deep bow is soon performed in Fenella's honor as a massive, welcoming crowd roars in the distance far, far beyond the orange glow of yet another sunset. There will be no encore, but the show will go on. “Fenella's Fields.” This lovely new bouquet is an assortment of passionate red avalanche roses, fierce stallion chrysanthemums, and gentle carnations. It's perfect for any occasion, especially for graduations and premieres.