Volume Three

                            New Road to Woodstock

                                                121

                                    Chapter Twelve

                                  Margy The Pansy

“ ‘Florist’!”

August 16, 1945

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

10:23 AM

The inflection of the voice, more than likely that of a black man. “Uh?” Confused. Uncrumpling the napkin again, glancing at it. “I was given this number by a, uh, lady, that… Can’t remember her name, but it was something like a, uh, some kind of a flower, I guess.”

“You were given this phone number by a…” chuckling “...’lady’ you met ‘somewhere’, huh?”

“Yeah. She told me that if I ever, uh, wanted to…”

The tone more a command now than a question. “If you ‘ever’ wanted to ‘what’!?”

Having no answer that she wanted to admit to, to this question. “This lady…”

“That you met, that gave you this phone number, that…” coughing hard enough into the phone to cause Margy to move the receiver from her ear “...you can’t remember her name?”

Thinking, How smart you got to be to be a whore? As hearing phlegmy intake of breath, rightly assuming he was drawing in on a cigarette. Sighing. “Yeah, guess so, but for some reason, she also told me to mention the name, ‘Elmer’.”

“This name that you’re supposed to remember given to you by a lady who’s name sounded something like a flower that you can’t remember maybe could have been ‘Peony’?”

The line silent… “Yes.” Margy said “...that’s it, I think.”

“So why you calling here?” Pretended, sincerely asked, “Wanna buy a bouquet, maybe?”

This ongoing back and forth lighting Margy’s short fuse. “ ‘No’! Don’t want no flowers, just looking for, uh…” work? A job? To be a Whore? “...work, I guess.”

“Work, huh? How old are ya, sister?”

“Eighteen.” She lied.

“ ‘Eighteen’, huh! You sure’a that?”

“I’m ‘eighteen’…” angrily “… ‘Okay’!”

“Yeah! If you say so.”

“Yeah! I ‘say so’.”

“I’m, Rose…”

Incredulously, “Rose? You say your name is ‘Rose’?”

“Yeah. But the girls call me ‘Rosie’…”

‘Girls’! Margy thought. Got the right place!

“... and here’s where we are…” Giving the, maybe, eighteen year old girl on the other side of the line the address.

11:12 AM

Needing two street car transfers, and a ten minute walk dragging the heavy suitcase to — the address given her was located in the poorer section of a lower middle class neighborhood, and was within a two story, yellow brick building covering about one third of the entire city block with but one storefront business. The ornately, colorfully painted lettering upon the plate glass window revealed: ‘The House of Flowers’.

Accompanied by hidden chimes dinging the first stanza of the ‘Wedding March’, Margy entered the richly, floral scented shop.

He’d been sitting behind the counter and — In real life, looking as much out of place in a flower shop as the tone of his voice had indicated: A brute of a black man dressed in black slacks, a muscle strained short sleeved white dress shirt with a red bow tie —had been behind the counter daintily setting a beautiful mixed floral display into a tall cream colored vase. Looking up as she entered. “Good morning!” Obviously, by the lifetime smoker voice, the same man she had spoken to earlier.

“Good morning. I’m, uh…” the man stood, watching as the girl dragged her suitcase into the shop “...my names Margery but I go by Margy, and I’m who you talked to a while ago.”

“Thought so.” Coming from behind the counter, lumbering towards Margy, who fearfully back-stepped a pace. “Ain’t gonna hurt you.” Taking the suitcase from the girl’s hand, and turning the sign on the door from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’. “Come on, told ‘Gladiola’ ‘bout you and she wants’a meet you.”

“ ‘Gladiola’?’ Margy questioned.

“Gladdys the boss.” Rosie answered. “Come on…” making a ‘follow me’ hand motion “… ‘you’, she’ll want to meet!”

Following a few steps behind, they passed through a smaller room which obviously was the shops floral work area, then through a steel barred door-way that, surprisingly, opened into a huge, daintily lit ‘reception room’ decorated with lovely potted plants and beautiful vases of cut flowers placed onto small coffee and end tables before a dozen settees and closely set groupings of leather easy chairs along with barely heard music that seemingly intermixed with the soft scent of jasmine, creating an overall aura of friendly intimacy— mostly arraigned by the thug, Rosie, whom also apparently had a decorative flair.

Passing from the ‘flowers’ and ‘weeds’ daintily lit, ‘greet and meet room’ into a well lit hallway containing six rooms on either side, and an additional twelve rooms on the second floor. “She’s in here.” Knocking. “It’s Rosie, Gladdy and…” moving Margy, not too gently, from behind to in front of himself. “… I think, maybe, we got one for Elmer Fudd.”

The girl thinking: ‘Elmer Fudd’?

“Well…” in a commanding tone “...’don’t stand out there’! Let’s see!”

11:32 AM

Entering the, near stomach turning floral scented overly warm room, moving aside, Rosie nudged Margy forward, then — Aware of this procedure, backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

On a sofa angled to face the door, wearing a neatly pressed floral colored house dress; “Come!” Facially negro, the ebony complected lady is old. “sit!” She said, patting the area closely alongside.

Doing as told, Margy lowered herself inches from the thin— through the age induced wrinkles lining all visible flesh, Margy saw facial features that thirty or forty years earlier would have been considered as beautiful, but now only saw a — very wrinkled, once beautiful, cream colored old lady.

In a softly spoken, kindly tone. “I’m ‘ Gladiola’, but…” sounding less a suggestion, more a command “… if you ‘wish’….” gently taking hold of Margery’s hand “... you can call me ‘Miss Gladdy’.”

Apprehensive over this old woman’s near theatrical show of kindness. Thank you, ‘Miss Gladdy’.”

In the same soft spoken tone of voice. “How old are you, dear?”

Without the slightest hesitation. “Eighteen.”

Gladdys tone now as that of a hoarse truck driver: “Don’t you ‘fucking’ bull-shit me!” As the crack of a whip — Margy’s head snapping to the right as, slapping her, “I said, ‘how fucking old are you’!?”

Shocked more than hurt, her cheek stinging. “Fifteen…” stammering “... I’m fifteen!” Thinking: Next month.

“You brought a suitcase! Plan on staying, do you?”

Fearfully truthful. “Don’t have any where else to go.”

“Not what I asked! Do you want to stay? Be one of my flowers?”

One of her flowers? Thinking she understood. “Yes… Yes, I do!”

Reaching to the telephone on a side table, pushing the one button on the homemade wooden console. As though commanding a dog. “Rosie, come!” Then, in the same harsh, commanding tone — “Get naked!”

“Excuse me!”

Coming from hearty, old line Polish stock: Big boned — large busted for her age— A fifteen year old girl, having dark blonde hair and an attractive face, if dressed and made-up properly, Margery Binkowski would, could and, on occasion had passed for a woman of eighteen years of age.

Taking seconds for Rosie to respond, open the door, enter the room and stand with his back pressed agents the closed door.

“You heard me!” Pointing an arthritic deformed forefinger. “I said,’ get naked’!”

Feeling trapped. The girl’s heart thumping. Her eyes wide, shifting from the old lady to the huge black man.

“You want to be a flower, do you? Then get your ass naked and better get used to it, because all kinds’a ‘weeds’; some of ‘em pretty old and don’t smell so good ’ll be willing to pay ‘much-o’ bucks just to see your tits and pussy!”

Hesitating, not because of modesty, ‘oh, no’! As on any morning between the time, Helen, Margy’s mother was away at work— welcomed into the Binkowski apartment by Margy appearing as an eighteen year old woman, wearing one of her father’s well worn T shirts scarcely long enough to fully hide Margy’s patch of dark blonde pubic hair and worn and washed enough to allow the impression and shadow of her dark nipples to be seen.

Tony Buzzanka — welcomed into the apartment on his way to his job pumping gasoline at a Sinclair Station, and Margy — an hour before her first period, first year high school class at ‘Holy Trinity Catholic School for Girls’… Oh, yes! The eighteen year old boy was welcomed with, literally, open arms for what the two called, ‘Their Morning Quickie’.

“So!” Miss Gladdy angrily demanded: “ ‘Your choice’! Do it or get the hell out of here!”

Well, the girl thought, at least with Tony I wore that old T shirt. Coming off the sofa, standing before the old lady. “Everything?” she asked.

“Yes, of course! No! Okay to leave your shoes and socks on.”

Removing her jacket and blouse and, in a bit of a stalling motion, lay both neatly onto the sofa as, the thought passing through her mind, that Miss Gladdy might just be an old ‘Lessie’; while not caring if the black man did see her naked. In truth, the one bothersome thought was that she was wearing old cotton underpants, hoping they were not the ones with the quarter size hole in the back. Having no choice but giving in to the old lady: unbuttoning her slacks, wiggling out of them, they fell, bunched about her ankles. Reaching behind her back, slipping the three fasteners holding it together then, shrugging her shoulder, having no restraint, the bra also fell to her feet. Now, just wanting it over with, Margy lowered the cotton underpants… The underpants without a hole fell atop her crumpled slacks.

Taking hold of Margy’s hips, turning the girl fully in her direction while urging her closer, Gladdy momentarily fondled her tight buttocks and firm thighs and calf’s, then lifting both breasts from beneath, let them fall back— causing a mental picture of one testing the strength of a race-horse before perching the animal. Thinking, she’d better not. But, “Want to check my teeth, too?” Margy asked.

Ignoring the girl’s stab at sarcasm. “Rosie, what’s empty?”

“Seven.”

Thinking a moment. “ ‘Zinnia’?”

“Yeah. Archie finally talked her into quitting the, uh, trade to go live with him.— Maybe, even get married, she told me.”

“Archie’s a good guy and she’s a good girl, so, don’t usually, but hope it works out for them.”

“Just might…” Rosie said “...unless some guy she’s been getting paid to fuck runs into her at the ‘A&P’.”

Fortuitously the room was warm because, but for the clothing bunched atop her shoes and socks, still standing completely nude — although amazed at this every day back and forth conversation between the old mulatto ‘madam’ and…? Whatever Rosie is. “Excuse me!” Drawing Miss Gladys’s attention. “Want I should get dressed, or what?”

“Yeah…” studying the extremely well put together fifteen year old girl. The old mulatto — in truth, lesbian, and, when the mood strikes her, if the guy is young enough occasionally she’ll go ‘straight’—thinking of getting together with Margy another time “...Rosie, put her in ‘seven’ and make sure she’s comfortable, then get her the ‘school-girl’ setup for Elmer.”

Thinking: ‘School girl’? “School girl?” she said. “If I'd'a known, I could’a brought my own shit.”

“Yeah? What school?” Rosie asked.

“Unwilling to give too much of herself away: “A, uh, Catholic school for girls. ‘Hated it’!”

12: 05 PM

“Catholic school get-up would'a worked good— Rosie, haven’t given her a pot yet, have we?” Answering her own question. “Here’s your pot, ‘Pansy’.”

“ ‘Pansy’? That’s my name?”

“Yeah— You hungry?”

“Yeah. Haven’t eaten all day.”

“Rosie, get Pansy here set up in ‘seven’, then take her to the ‘Flower Field’ to get something to eat. And if there’s any flowers there awake enough, introduce them.”

“And you, Pansy; shame you got no freckles, but don’t get too made up, ‘cause you’re supposed to look like a...hmm…” thinking a moment “...actually you are, and do look like a school girl, so get into those things, Rosie here’ll get to you, and you hit the big room at…” nodding a dismissal to Rosie “...about seven-thirty.”

Closing the door behind him, taking hold of the handle to Margy’s suitcase, that had been left in the hall, motioning, “Come on.”

Following the big man to room seven on the left side of the long hall. Jerking his thumb to an adjacent door. “This here’s the way to the ‘Flower Field’.”

“ ‘Flower Field’s’, a restaurant?”

“Yeah... Well — two booths, three tables, twelve chairs and a counter: more a cafeteria that’s open to street traffic, and this here door’s…” taping it “... only for you flowers to come and go.” Reaching deeply into his pocket, removing a jingling key ring and, sorting through them; finding which he wanted and removing it, handed it to Pansy.

The door to room seven not locked, before opening it. “If you’re wondering, the food here’s…” nodding his head to the side “”… not free. You ain’t paying what those from the street pay, but ‘Missy…”

“Mistletoe’?”

“You’re a fast learner, Miss Pansy.”

“This Missy…” Pansy questions. “...she’s a, uh, flower, too?”

“Sometimes. When some weed’s looking for a broad with really big knockers to suffocate, or knock him around with…” smiling “… Missy’ll take the job. Anyway, like I was saying, Missy keeps a running tab for each of you lades and you pay up on Mondays, ‘cause weekends are kind’a busy hereabouts. Come on. Might as well introduce you.”

Widening the private door, stepping into the ‘Flower Field’s Cafe’, having but one customer seated at the window table at the far corner of the room.
Wearing an assorted food smudged, billowing white apron over what appeared to be a man’s T-shirt, the woman standing over the sink scrubbing a steel frying pan had long, gray-streaked black hair hanging mid-way down a wide back and thick, hairy arms. Turning as the two entered. “Hey, Rosie…” Missy said “...who’s this, young’un?”

“Me…” the young’un said, poking two fingers between her, in comparison. pimples to Missy’s gargantuan bosoms— causing the bottom half of the food streaked apron to hang freely from the woman’s body —“… I’m, uh, Pansy.” Adding. “Good to meet you, Ma’am.”

“This one’s got manners, Rosie; Come on…” gesturing first to Pansy, then to one of the counter stools “… on the house today. How you like your eggs? Ham? Sausage or bacon?”

“Got to get back to the store. When you’re finished here…” gesturing to Pansy “… do whatever you want to make your room look like, uh your room. Get into your school-girl stuff, and be on the floor at sever/seven-thirty.”

__________________________________________________

                                                  131

                                     Chapter Thirteen 
                                        The Bouquet