A Promise of Flowers in the Desert

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I’m not sure why guys here feel the need to urge me on with promises of gifts or favors or the moon at my feet. News flash: I work here, if you need something, it’s sort of my responsibility to help you out. Sadly, I think most men do it out of reflex–they are used to offering up something to get something in return.

It’s a very American trait, this insistence on a trade-off. I’m usually offered all manner of edibles (chocolate, candy, muffins, fruit, yoghurt), or drink (Red Bull, Monster, coffee, soda), small items or amusements (a scarf, a DVD movie, go to the boardwalk, and one time – an ipod). I’ve gotten used to graciously accepting the little tokens, sweetly refusing inappropriate ones, ignoring the downright weird.

This morning, I had to come in on my day off to hand out room keys and take care of some paper work for employees that were back from their break. The guys were all apologetic that they woke me up and were really nice about saying thank you. This guy though, was just a little bit different from the rest. All he needed was for me to forward an old email with documents that I sent for him before he went on break. I said I’ll search for that particular email and will send it to him as soon as I find it.

He said ‘thank you’ several times, then gathered his bags and headed for the door. Before he went out though, he turned back and stammered, “Thanks again, okay. I’ll ahh… umm… I’ll buy you flowers.”

I thought I was hearing things. Really, flowers? In this desert wasteland, where would you even get them? I smiled to mask my incredulous expression, and he blinked, turned around quickly, and was out the door.

Flowers. Yeah, right.

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