By cliff_switzer@hotmail.com
Date: 26 November 1999

Tiffany's Rose

     She had them on stage with her.  A dozen long-stemmed white roses.  They

were beautiful.  Tiffany came out from behind the curtain and looked out into 

the audience.  Her blond hair, streaked with strands of gray, hung to her 

calves in a long braid.  She smiled as she rhythmically set the braid into 

motion.  The men howled.

     The woman on staged hadn't changed much from the one I knew in Iowa.  Her 

beautiful brown eyes were caked with black eye shadow, but she still had the 

honey-sweet looked of a knock-em-dead strawberry blond.  The grind of showing 

herself to groups of men had haggard her, but she was still a beauty.

     I found her dancing on the "strip" in Santa Rosa, an area that catered to 

lonely men far removed from the mainstream of the pristine downtown area.  I'd 

seen a poster on a telephone poll.  I hadn't been in Iowa for ten years, and I 

couldn't believe it.  I knew Tiffany had lived in California as a child, but I 

though she'd still be in Iowa.  She'd been such a shy person.  Not a stripper.



     The last time I saw her we'd held hands outside a little church by the 

convenience store where I worked.  Her dad and I had had it out, and I'd been 

warned to stay away.  That's why she stopped.  To say goodbye.

     Warning or no, it hadn't mattered.  Her dad didn't understand.  He'd come 

up from Kansas for the holidays, and drove into with his vintage pick-up.  It 

was painted with bright red and orange flames.  Perhaps if I had asked what was 

under the hood instead of yelling, he might have been friendlier -- but I 

doubt it.

     Tiffany had spurned me weeks earlier.  I had been so worried about her 

age, and the status of my heath, I couldn't begin to tell her how I felt.  Even 

as a young woman, she'd been able to hold her own, and with ice-cold 

rejection, she'd walked out of the store and left me hanging.


     And so I sent roses.  And then more roses.  

     Not a word.  Not even a thank you for the roses.  And so I sent more 

roses.  This time to mom (to say good-bye, and maybe worm my way back into 

Tiffany's life).  No luck.  Instead, Tiffany's dad came in, and he was anything 

but polite.  After years of taking customer's garbage, I'd had 

enough.

     "To hell with you," I yelled at him.


     He stood behind the door of his truck and took off his sunglasses.  He'd 

called me a child molester and stalker, and it was time to talk

     "You fell in love with my daughter just because she came in the store?" he 

said.

     "She was flirting," I said.

     And she had been.  No woman before or since has done what Tiffany did.  

But it made no difference.

     "You've been warned," he said.  And he drove off the lot.  


     I was lobbing trash bags into the dumpster when I saw her.  She passed by 

the store a couple times, and then stopped across the street by the church.

     "I thought I had a flat," she said when I walked over.

     "It looks okay," I said.


     "I was worried about you," she said.  "I didn't know what to tell them."  

     I knew then she had gotten hell for the roses.

     Customers were standing in the door watching.  I wanted to hug her or 

something when someone yelled about leaving their money on the counter.

     "I missed you," I said.  "I guess I went kind of crazy."

     She smiled and I took her hands. 

     She was everybody's dream.  Stardust.  That's what came to mind.  But for 

me she been just a customer.  I knew her mother.  I knew her grandmother.  I 

knew Tiffany.


     She'd come in all the time, and when she got older, she came into buy 

gas.  I would say hello as usual, but Tiffany seldom spoke -- even as she got 

older -- and I tried to engage her in conversation.  She'd speak, but you 

couldn't hear her.  She'd walk over and put her money down with a quiet, 

unassuming grace that puzzled me.  After hours of the regular blue collar 

grind, Tiffany was different.  In the thick landscape of the local

foul-mouthed women, most of whom held their nose while ogling men 

they "liked," Tiffany sparkled.

     My effort paid off, and she grew bolder.  She came in a lot, but again, 

she remained a customer.  I didn't think one way or the other until I noticed 

her watching me.  I can still see her standing there.   I'd be working the 

gizmos at the Pay 'n Pack: the money order machine, the lotto machine, and 

she'd be by the candy isle.  It never failed,  I'd get someone a lotto ticket, 

a money order or something, and I'd look over to see Tiffany  watching me.   It 

was astonishing.  The little girl with the long blond hair.  



     She camein regularly now, and I'd wait on her with deference, 

marveling at her silence, and my ability to say calm and collected.



     It didn't last.  The calm broke the minute she left the store, and I'd 

gush on and on about how wonderful she was.  As usual, the customer looked at 

me like a stupid clerk.  One guy even got cross.  Tiffany was so quiet and 

unassuming.  I must be a pervert.

     But the feelings were real, and I was falling in love.  

     As our understanding of one another grew, she came on to me with a 

strength that drove me wild.  Tiffany was strong and bold.  It didn't matter to 

her I was a convenience store clerk, and I watched with increased interest as 


she drove off the lot in her red convertible.  Always alone.


     "She'll break hearts one day," I said  to yet another uncomprehending 

customer.  And that was it.  I never expected to enter Tiffany's world.  The 

thought hadn't even crossed my mind.

     I'm not very romantic.  The world had gotten too weird.  What with HIV and 

other goodies in the world,  I was celibate, and had been for years.  I didn't 

miss the dating game either, and outside of longing for love and marriage, I 

couldn't have cared less.  I was lonely without a doubt, so I guess I should 

have seen in coming.  But when cupid hit one warm fall afternoon,  it was a 


surprise.  And not exactly welcomed.