Slugfest

Fifty-two

I didn’t know how much water can come out of overhead sprinklers in ten or fifteen minutes, but it was enough to dash dreams and bankrupt a few businesses. By the time the downpour stopped, some hearts were broken. Others thanked their lucky stars that, like a capricious tornado, the deluge had miraculously skipped their aisles or booths and landed next door. All they’d suffered was a light misting, compared to devastated neighbors who’d been washed away in mini-mudslides.

Stancik ran off to find security and to make sure there wasn’t a real fire anywhere in the old building. I hurried to Primo’s booth and breathed easier when I saw his sculptures had gotten sprayed but were otherwise fine. David’s light fixtures had been spared, as had the sumptuous breakfast he’d brought for us. Nikki was less fortunate.

The wooden and wrought iron furniture and tools in her booth could be wiped down, but the dried flower arrangements looked like piles of refried beans, the vintage linens were ruined, and the sarcophagus was filled with water that had leaked through the decorative grate that served as the tabletop. It would be difficult to drain and would probably start to smell soon, since the water that had come out of the sprinklers was hardly Poland Spring.

All around, people wondered how to salvage the last day of the show, one that historically saw an increase in foot traffic from shoppers who knew bargains could be found when vendors were faced with the prospect of shipping home all the merchandise they hadn’t sold. This particular day there would be lots of bargains.

In a calm and determined voice (did nothing fluster the woman?) Kristi Reynolds announced that the show would open ninety minutes later than originally planned and that tubs and plastic garbage bags were being distributed by Wagner personnel to help people get rid of any debris. Fans and water extractors were available by calling the building’s maintenance number.

Very quickly, the atmosphere changed. Out of the chaos grew a spirit of camaraderie I hadn’t seen before at the show, as exhibitors helped one another clean up and improvise in those gardens and booths that had been most severely damaged. In a remarkable display of solidarity Mrs. Moffitt’s Jensen got the ball rolling by offering their award-winning specimen plants, window boxes, and container gardens to anyone whose display had been irreparably damaged. She had plenty of takers, and it inspired me to make the same offer for the temporary use of Primo’s remaining artwork. Selfishly, I also thought it might even help them sell if they were seen in situ.

Connie Anzalone’s Coney Island Garden was unscathed but, wanting to help, she called Guy and the Tumbled Stone King diverted a truckload of rocks and faux flagstone to the loading dock, where Fat Frank and Cookie handed them out like Romans flinging bread into the crowds at the Colosseum or, to use a more recent and perhaps more appropriate analogy, like old-time mobsters handing out turkeys during the holidays.

In some instances, exhibitors joined forces and created one decent display where previously there had been two or three bedraggled ones. As they worked, people shared stories about how their home gardens had survived sudden downpours and freak hailstorms. I was loving my gardening community. In fact, it was the first time I’d felt like part of a professional community in a long time and I was happy to pitch in to help. I called Lucy and left a message for her to come as soon as possible.

Through the frenzied last-minute activity before the opening bell, Stancik and Labidou were clustered around an ever-changing knot of uniformed cops, private security guards, and convention center employees not far from my booth. Periodically workers pointed to the ceiling at the sprinkler heads that had gone haywire and caused all the destruction. A maintenance worker came over with one of the rubber carts.

Five exhibitors asked to borrow small sculptures, so I loaded them onto flat carts and they were whisked away. As I walked the floor, I began to notice a pattern. Not the exhibits that had been ruined—the ones that had been spared. Among them were all Mrs. Moffitt’s entries; SlugFest; three major plant suppliers from the Northwest; and, as far as I could tell, any vendors and gardeners with electrical equipment. Perhaps the deluge hadn’t hit with the randomness of a tornado.

Like a good citizen I circled back to my booth to share my observation with John Stancik. I may not be have been as young as Kristi Reynolds, but as my mother would have said, I had a much better personality. I just needed a little lipstick. I swung by the ladies’ room before looking for John.

The smoke stung my eyes, and I wondered if there really had been a fire, but it was just Allegra Douglas, puffing away in the first stall. In an uncharacteristic display of thoughtfulness, she tossed the butt when she heard me enter.

“I’m sorry,” she said, waving at the air. “I know I shouldn’t be smoking here. I’m just so frazzled. How is your booth? Is everything all right?”

Our previous conversations hadn’t been that much fun, so I nodded politely and got to the business of primping. Allegra stood there, not saying anything. She seemed genuinely distressed, and I couldn’t keep up my cold shoulder routine. I asked if her booth had survived the flood. She shook her head, close to tears.

“It’s all under water. It was the way I designed the garden. All the water collected in the middle and didn’t run off. It looks like a swamp.” I knew she wanted another cigarette and was grateful she didn’t light up again.

“Is there anything I can do? Is there anything you can borrow to fix it?”

“From whom? Everyone hates me. I know it. But it’s not easy to change when you’re as old as I am. What am I going to do—just start being nice at my advanced age? People will think I’ve gone senile. I’d rather have them hate me than pity me.”

“No one hates you. They may think you’re a little rigid, that’s all. About the rules.” God, how I could lie in the name of a good cause. I guess I had retained some skills from my former job. “C’mon, maybe I can help.” I pulled on her spindly arm and dragged her to her garden.

She was right. It was a disaster. The water hadn’t drained, and she had a large murky pond surrounded by a ring of bedraggled plants. With a little luck and a lot of hard work it could look as good as a toxic sinkhole. We had fifty minutes.

“All right. You have three choices: bog garden, amphibian pond, or a high-concept, first garden after the apocalypse, I Am Legend/The Road–type thing.” She just stared. “Scratch that,” I said. “Two choices: bogs or frogs. What think?” She went with the frogs.

In fifteen minutes we’d foraged two broken pieces of lattice; more than two dozen stone, ceramic, and metal frogs (they had not sold as well as the hummingbirds and the vendors were happy to part with them for the price of a mention); and three bruised but living water lilies. It was a start. I set her to work, while I went in search of other less obvious materials—an empty six-pack and a neon beer sign. I went to the gangsta garden display, which was in pristine condition.

Some were convinced that was due to the students themselves being the vandals, but I thought it was the wiring in the exhibit. Whoever had arranged for the downpour didn’t seem to want electrical items shorting out and potentially causing a real fire or a permanent blackout. They just wanted to screw things up temporarily. Stancik thought it was someone creating a diversion. I thought it was someone with an ax to grind, but a carefully wielded ax.

I was anxious to talk to Lauryn about Jamal, but that would have to come later, in a more private setting. Right then, I needed her help on a smaller but more time-sensitive matter.

“C’mon, Lauryn. This is one of those moments when you get to be the person your dog thinks you are. To be good to someone who’s been mean to you. Allegra Douglas.”

“I don’t have dogs, I have fish,” she said, arms folded but a slight curve to her lips. “I also eat fish.”

“Is that what y’all do in the suburbs?” one of her students asked. “Worry about what your pets think?” It earned the speaker a sharp, critical look from her teacher, who wasn’t really hesitating, just savoring the moment. And strategizing. I told her what I needed.

“Not just the suburbs. Trust me,” I said to the kids, “you’ll feel good about doing it. You’ll be making another garden. And this one has a television theme.”

I’d said the magic word. And Lauryn knew where I was going with the six-pack and the beer sign.

“Do we need to find someone with a football jersey?” she asked.

“Maybe you can bribe one of the workers?”

With that she and three of the students judiciously picked hardware and plant material from their own display and brought them over to Allegra’s booth. I left the kids practicing ribbit noises. The girl who had asked about pet habits in the suburbs was telling Allegra about Frogs, a cult classic B movie that carried the memorable tagline, “They’re not the ones who croak!” Someone went off in search of a jersey or a football and I headed back to Primo’s booth.

Amid the sounds of exhibitors, rushing to be ready when the doors opened to the public, and convention center staff, scrambling to put away floor fans and water extractors, Nikki’s gasp could barely be heard except by those closest to her, which included me, David, and John Stancik, who’d returned to see how I had fared.

She’d been trying to straighten the decorative grate on top of the sarcophagus when she noticed something colorful through the wrought iron of the grate. Fabric, with patches on it, bobbing in the water.