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Of wildflowers and weed.

By David Sedaris

February 12, 2007

PHILIPPE PETIT-ROULET

In Paris they warn you before cutting off the water, but out in Normandy youre just supposed to know. Youre also supposed to be prepared, and its this last part that gets me every time. Still, though, I try to make do. A saucepan of chicken broth will do for shaving, and in a pinch I can always find something to pour into the toilet tank: orange juice, milk, a lesser champagne. If I really got hard up, I suppose I could hike through the woods and bathe in the river, though its never quite come to that.

Most often, our water is shut off because of some reconstruction project, either in our village or in the next one over. A hole is dug, a pipe is replaced, and within a few hours things are back to normal. The mystery is that its so perfectly timed to my schedule. This is to say that the tap dries up at the exact moment I roll out of bed, which is usually between ten and ten-thirty. For me this is early, but for Hugh and most of our neighbors its something closer to midday. What they do at 6 a.m. is anyones guess. I only know that theyre incredibly self-righteous about it, and talk about the dawn as if its a personal reward, bestowed on account of their great virtue.

The last time our water went off, it was early summer. I got up at my regular hour, and saw that Hugh was off somewhere, doing whatever it is he does. This left me alone to solve the coffee problema sort of Catch-22, as in order to think straight I needed caffeine, and in order to make that happen I needed to think straight. Once, in a half-sleep, I made it with Perrier, which sounds plausible but really isnt. On another occasion, I heated up some leftover tea and poured that over the grounds. Had the tea been black rather than green, the coffee might have worked out, but, as it was, the result was vile. It wasnt the sort of thing youd try more than once, so this time I skipped the teapot and headed straight for a vase of wildflowers sitting by the phone on one of the living-room tables.

Hugh had picked them the previous day, and it broke my heart to think of him marching across a muddy field with a bouquet in his hand. He does these things that are somehow beyond faggy and seem better suited to some hardscrabble pioneer wife: making jam, say, or sewing bedroom curtains out of burlap. Once, I caught him down on the riverbank, beating our dirty clothes against a rock. This was before we got a washing machine, but, still, he could have laundered things in the tub. Who are you? Id said, and, as he turned, I half-expected to see a baby at his breast, not nestled in one of those comfortable supports but hanging, red-faced, by its gums.

When Hugh beats underpants against river rocks or decides that it might be fun to grind his own flour, I think of a couple I once met. This was years ago, in the early nineties. I was living in New York, and had returned to North Carolina for Christmas, my first priority being to get high and stay that way. My brother Paul knew of a guy who possibly had some pot to sell, so a phone call was made, and, in the way that these things happen, we found ourselves in a trailer twenty-odd miles outside of Raleigh.

The dealer was named Little Mike, and he addressed Paul as Bromine. He looked like a high-school student, or, closer still, one of those kids who dropped out and then spent all day hanging around the parking lot: tracksuit, rattail, a wisp of thread looped through his freshly pierced ear. After a few words regarding my brothers car, Little Mike ushered us inside and introduced us to his wife, who was sitting on the sofa watching a Christmas special. The girls stockinged feet were resting on the coffee table, and settled between her legs, just south of her lap, sat a flat-faced Persian. Both she and the cat had wide-set eyes, and ginger-colored hair, though hers was partially hidden beneath a woollen cap. The wife remained seated as my brother and I entered the room. I guess you couldnt blame her for being inhospitable. Here you are, trying to watch a little TV with your cat, and these two guys show uppeople you dont even know.

Dont mind Beth, Little Mike said, and he smacked the underside of the girls foot.

Owww, asshole.

He advanced upon the other foot, and I pretended to admire the Christmas tree, which was miniature and artificial, and stood on a barstool beside the front door. This is nice, I announced, and Beth shot me a withering look. Liar, it said. Youre just saying that because my stupid husband sells reefer.

She really wanted us out of there, but Little Mike seemed to welcome our company. Sit down, he told me. Have a libation. He and Paul went to the refrigerator to get us some beers, and the girl called after them to bring her a rum-and-Coke. Then she turned back to the TV and glared at the screen, saying, This shows boring. Hand me the nigger.

I smiled at the cat, as if this would somehow fix things, and when Beth pointed to the far end of the coffee table I saw that she was referring to the remote control. Under different circumstances, I might have listed the various differences between black people, who had been forced to work for no money, and black, battery-operated channel changers, which had neither thoughts nor feelings and didnt mind doing stuff for free. But the deal hadnt started yet, and, more than anything, I wanted my drugs. Thus the remote was handed over, and I watched as the pot dealers wife flicked from one station to the next, looking for something that might satisfy her.

She had just settled upon a situation comedy when Paul and Little Mike returned with the drinks. Beth was unsatisfied with her ice-cube count, and, after suggesting that she could just go fuck herself, our host reached into the waistband of his track pants and pulled out a bag of marijuana. It was the size of a small cushion, eight ounces at least, and as I feasted my eyes upon it Little Mike pushed his wifes feet off the cof-fee table, saying, Bitch, go get me my scales.

Im watching TVget it your own self.

Whore, he said.

Asshole.

See the kind of shit I have to live with? Little Mike sighed and retreated to the rear of the trailerthe bedroom, I guessedreturning a minute later with a scale and some rolling papers. The pot was sticky with lots of buds, and its smell reminded me of a Christmas tree, though not the one perched atop the barstool. After weighing my ounce and counting out my money, Little Mike rolled a joint, which he lit, drew upon, and handed to my brother. It then went to me, and, just as I was passing it back to our host, his wife piped up, saying, Hey, dont I count?

 

Questions 

1) Choose at least two of the above characters and describe him/her with a few adjectives.  Provide evidence from the text to support.  For example, if you say Beth is ignorant, then find a line from the text that proves you right.  Also consider whether you would use adjectives such as masculine or feminine for each person and why.  An example for David is given but you are welcome to add more descriptors for him too.

 

2) EXTRA CREDIT: Now that youve described some of the characters, consider which adjectives you would use to describe each couple; explain why you chose those terms.

 

3) How would you describe the tone of the essay?  (With tone, consider how the author speaks to you not necessarily the other characters in the story.  Were talking about the tone of voice he uses to convey the story to his audience).

 

4) What is the authors main point/conclusion?  Please summarize in one to two sentences.  Be as concise, specific, and precise as possible.  Where does the main point surface in the essay?  Do you agree or disagree with the main point/conclusion? Why/why not?

5) How do you think Sedaris, as both the character in the essay and as the narrator, handles the situation with Beth (when she asks an uncomfortable question)?  How well do you think he executes his main point/conclusion in the piece?  Please explain your answers.