Slugfest

Sixteen

I breathed easier when the last of Primo’s pieces arrived. With Nikki’s help they were test-driven in every possible location until the arrangement met with her approval. Her own booth looked ready for a glossy magazine shoot with dried flowers and decorative throws artfully dropped around the vintage tools and furniture. I’d seen at least one photographer strolling the halls, taking pictures during setup, and there were sure to be others on opening night.

The central element of Nikki’s booth was a sarcophagus topped with a decorative iron grate to be used—if you owned a property big enough—as an outdoor dining table. There was no rearranging that baby, so Nikki contented herself with tweaking everything else she’d brought: a wrought iron bistro set, antique plant stands, Japanese lanterns, carved stone pots, and a hundred smaller items—busts, birdbaths, and vintage tools—for those of us who didn’t live on huge properties but still wanted to feel like the chatelaines of great estates. Then she moved on to Primo’s pieces.

“If Mrs. Moffitt comes back to see you and happens to also buy my sarcophagus, I will give you anything in my booth as a commission. You’re going to bring me luck, I can feel it. Last year I was next to a couple selling Alaskan fish fertilizer. It was awful,” she said. “Stray cats followed me home.”

After staging his light fixtures, David had a minor crisis when the power in our aisle died. It was as if the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center had failed to light. It was impossible to appreciate the detail and intricacy of his work without a warm light glowing behind the shades and sconces. Forty minutes and a fifty-dollar tip later, all was well, and we wondered if it was the Javits Curse again or one last attempt by Wagner employees to squeeze additional baksheesh out of frantic exhibitors.

When the public address announcer made his first feeble attempt to eject us, all the kinks had been ironed out. The heavy machinery was gone, the carpets were in place, and the industrial-looking building had been transformed into the series of New York gardens the organizers had hoped to inspire.

And while we’d been tinkering with our displays, Cinderella’s mice had been hard at work. Temporary bars and buffet tables had materialized, and in twenty-four hours they’d be filled with finger foods and beverages of every stripe. If Connie Anzalone was correct, some attendees were already laying out their clothing. I hadn’t seen her all day and secretly hoped she’d forgotten my promise to have a drink with her.

“Leave business cards out,” David said, as he packed up. “Business-to-business sales are key. Other exhibitors walk around at off-hours, and they can be some of your best customers.” It was a good tip, and I spent the last fifteen minutes before lights-out doing as David had advised.

I wandered haphazardly and found myself in an aisle dedicated to single plant specimens—the Gloxinia Society, the Hosta Association. The plants were impossibly perfect, like pictures in a White Flower Farm or Park Seed catalog—no brown edges, no yellowing leaves, and no telltale nibbles. Like a kid, I wanted to touch them to see if they were real.

Connie was gone, so I poked around and inspected her garden entry. Coney Island was one of the most famous beaches in the world, although it was anyone’s guess whether or not the creatures and plants Connie depicted could be found there. It didn’t matter. The display was fanciful, whimsical, and the tiniest bit tacky, like the woman herself. As I leaned in for a closer look at her botanical version of a Whack-A-Mole game, I noticed two men in the shadows checking me out. Maybe they were the mob bodyguards Nikki thought Connie’s husband would bring in to protect her plants from human pests. Both men were slim enough to be almost hidden by the trio of rosemary topiaries from a penthouse garden display. I moved on.

There was no major category without a Moffitt entry. I didn’t see how she found the time to submit all the entries I saw. I had only covered one quarter of the room before a loud slam and a dimming of lights told me it really was time to leave.

The two men had disappeared. Only one other person was in sight, a young girl in a polo shirt and khakis taking pictures of a booth designed to re-create the Feast of San Gennaro. I didn’t buy the white hydrangeas as zeppole, but gave the entry extra points for imagination.

On my way out, I swung by the horticultural information booth for handouts on deer-resistant plants and others on hostas, amaryllis, and clivia. I grabbed another called “Poisonous to Pets” as a goodwill gesture to Lucy’s downstairs neighbor. I was tucking them in the outer pocket of my laptop case when a woman I hadn’t seen approached. She shoved handfuls of assorted flyers in her canvas bag. I realized I was staring.

“Getting some for friends?” I asked.

“Stacking them at my own booth as a service to show attendees.” She sounded defensive, as if I were going to report her to the flyer police. Hell, I didn’t care.

“Good idea,” I said.

“Just doing whatever it takes.”

She handed me her card and proceeded to tell me her story.