The Flaming Florist In The Lavender Van
One of the other loveable characters in my neighborhood growing up was the local florist. My hometown has lost a little of its uniqueness since he passed away and the flower shop closed. His name was Mr. Paar, and he was a trip. He was always around when I was a kid, tooling up and down the streets of our town in his big lavender delivery van. Yes, I did say lavender. Now, let me just say that everyone in town knew very well that Mr. Paar was indeed gay, and we were okay with that. I actually thought that was pretty cool for a small town in the 70′s. Oh sure, the old timers were a little scared of him, but they all gave him their business. Everyone knew his story -how he did have a partner, and they lived together happily for many years. Mr. Paar’s partner died in a tragic car accident, and he just never found anyone else. He was a very kind and good-hearted man, despite his unique personality, and he was a joyful little guy. Half of the fun was calling the shop. He would answer the phone “Hello, Paaaaaaar……” Now, there’s gay, and there’s parade gay. This guy was totally, banner-waving-skipping-down-the-street parade gay. To top off the complete look, he had his wild wavy hair dyed a shade of brown that is not found in nature, and he had one of those pencil thin little french looking mustaches with the tips waxed straight out. He kinda looked like David Niven on really good quaaludes. He was an awesome florist though. Everyone in town had their weddings done by him. He had two Persian cats that hung around with him in the shop all day. Honest to God, their names were Fufu and Gigi. Gigi was the weird one…she had a meow that sounded like an old woman smoker clearing her throat. When my aunt got married, we all went up to Paar’s with her to help choose her flowers. Just hearing his voice was enough to make you crack up-kinda wispy and floaty. He would almost dance around the shop as he showed her the archways and candlestands he had that she could use for the wedding, like they were prizes on a game show. My mother nearly peed her pants when he was showing my aunt a hairpiece that hooked on to her veil with orange blossoms on it. He put it on his own head and did a little Vanna White twirl for us. My aunt made all her selections and believe me, nothing could prepare us for Mr. Paar on my aunt’s wedding day. We were all at the church early, and along comes Mr. Paar’s bright lavender van with his own name emblazoned across it in pearl white. He leapt out of the van, and I watched my grandmother’s jaw drop as she spied him- He was wearing a bright lavender polyester tuxedo, with wide pointy lapels. If a stiff wind hit him, he probably would have taken off. Under the jacket was a wide lavender cummerbund, and a white shirt with giant poofy ruffles down the front, tipped in lavender. More giant ruffles peeked out of the ends of the jacket sleeves, and the cuffs were finished off with giant porcelain cufflinks with lavender roses on them. His little mustache was waxed to pointy perfection, and the crowning touch was a lavender damask bowtie, and the white vinyl shoes. He quickly went to work, almost dancing about the church, putting out all the arrangements, and twirling around them like a ballet dancer. He finished in the church, and walked down the hall to help my aunt with her headpiece. He flounced his way into the room, and held out a white box with her headpiece in it. It really was beautiful, and the scent of the orange blossoms quickly filled the room. My aunt took it out of the box and put it on her head. Immediately, Mr. Paar was not pleased. “Oh, no no no no deary…thtop, thtop…it goes this way.” He arranged it and played with her hair for about 5 minutes. The way he was playing around with her hair, I was waiting for him to hike her bra up for her too. Then he grabs her veil and literally twirls in a circle around back of her and puts it on behind the flowerpiece. He primps and preens around her for a few more minutes and good thing he left when he did, because we were all about to burst out laughing. He does a little dramatic pause in the doorway, and says, “Alright, my dahlings, I’m all finished in the church, tho I’m off to the retheption…tah tah everyone…. Oh, and mumsie, I have your corthage right here dearie…” My grandmother rolled her eyes and tried to stay at arms length while he pinned it on her. He blew out the door, and we all just stood there in stunned silence, until my grandfather said in his thick Scottish brogue, “Jeeesus Etch Christ, he’s queerer than a three dollar bill.” He made a comment to my grandmother about how he’d have decked Mr. Paar if he’d have touched gram’s bosoms, and she said she thought Mr. Paar was more interested in what Grandpop had under his kilt. My Grandfather was Scottish through and through, and one thing you quickly learn is that genital arrogance comes standard on every Scotsman. Pop made some comment about what was under there being way more than he could handle. The wedding party made its way down the hall toward the sanctuary, and there was Mr. Paar, waiting in the lobby. In an Emmy worthy performance, he whisked his hand to his mouth, and tears welled up in his eyes. He scurried out the door like he always did, hopping into his lavender van and headed off into the sunset. When Mr. Paar passed away, my mom said that even Mr. Hughley, the funeral director, put special order lavender drapes in the hearse windows, and his floral displays were the biggest display of lavender my hometown had ever seen. The funeral home couldn’t hold all the mourners who came to pay their respects. He was buried in his beloved lavender tuxedo too. That would have made him happier than a two-petered puppy.
