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I enjoy the museums of New York. The Guggenheim, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Frick. They're all enriching to the artistic and cultural fabric of New York, and a large reason why this city is the greatest in the world. But that's not to say I understand all art. In fact, I have discovered I'm really a bit of a snob about art, which is strange because I have been wearing the same jeans for six days straight. I don't quite understand what most contemporary artists are trying to say. I mean, show me a landscape or a still life of a bowl of fruit and it may not be a revolutionary idea, but I get that the artist is attempting to show me something of his world. After Warhol, art sort of lost me. So when I was given the task to deliver to a local visual/performance artist I was intrigued and thought maybe I could ask her a few questions. Sometimes we delivery persons can do that if the deliveree isn't too busy or too unwilling to speak to the unwashed masses.

The address was a loft space (of course) in the Lower East Side, a four flight walk up over a restaurant and it reminded me of the Old New York. I entered the space and it was filled with everything I imagined an artist's loft would accommodate: canvases, easels, mannequins, tons of old artifacts like typewriters and horseshoes and, of course, paint tubes littering every surface. 

The woman who approached me was well into a pregnancy and wearing one of those mouth-germ protectors. She took it off indicating her belly and said matter-of-factly: "Fumes." I nodded solemnly, the way I thought a doctor would for some bizarre reason. She signed for the flowers and I gathered the courage to ask her: "What sort of art do you do?" She simply gestured around the loft as though that would explain anything. When she saw my expression, which bore no sign of recognition that this gesture was, in fact, an answer, she unceremoniously took the flowers out of the basket and laid them out on a canvas where she pressed them with a rolling pin before finally pouring paint on them. She must have noticed the new expression on my face which looked like I had just seen someone kill my dog for fun. I shouldn't have cared, but I walked those flowers for three miles only to witness their utter destruction with as much care as someone ripping up a flyer handed them on a street corner advertising a sale on suits. My look prompted her to explain: "People have been sending me flowers all month to congratulate me on my pregnancy, so I thought I'd do something useful and make an art piece out of it."

As I left I couldn't help but think that if I sent someone an $80 bouquet of hyacinths and cymbidium orchids and they immediately crushed them to death on a canvas, I might be a little put off. But then it occurred to me if I sent someone flowers and they included it into an art piece that would perhaps live years longer than the actual flowers, that might actually be the best thank you I could get. But I still probably wouldn't understand it.

High end strip clubs have become a regular item in New York. Sure, there have always been strip clubs, but now they're mostly owned by corporations and they're big money makers. Full disclosure: I've never been to one. I figure, why would you spend the money on someone you know isn't going to sleep with you when you can spend that same money on a date and at least have a  chance? But, to each his or her own.

I had delivery of two dozen long-stem red roses to a well known and well populated strip club on the West Side addressed simply to "Patience". Look, I'm a man, so if I get to meet a stripper, yeah, I'm a little charged about even though I'd be going during the day, and if you've ever been to a strip club during the day, it's a pretty rough time. No one's on their A game, and let's face it, if you're a patron either you're depressed or desperate or both and that's not a pretty smell. I gave my usual patter to the front doorman about "having to deliver these personally" and was ushered to the back of the club under the protection of a man I simply knew as "Bone". When we arrived at the stable door, he called out for Patience who came to the meet me and I handed her the flowers. As far as strippers go, Patience was definitely a stripper. She was wearing a robe open at the front and a leopard print, two piece that her parents probably wouldn't approve of.  Her reaction was not what I expected as her face registered total disappointment. She seemed to age ten years as every line in her face became a road map of her past. She asked me: "Are those from Jack?" I nodded solemnly as though I were her best friend commiserating over some sad news. "This guy. He came in once and I gave him a lap dance, like two months ago, and he sends me flowers every night I'm here." She took the flowers and I heard another woman from the back of the room scream: "Jack's back!" But before she closed the door I heard her answer to her friend: "I'll probably end up marrying the guy. God knows he's earned it."

Bone laughed and said: "She probably will."

New York is a moneyed city. It has always been the center of finance in the United States and probably always will be which means a great deal of those whom reside here work for various financial concerns. You've got your brokers, your lenders, your traders, the guy who will loan you money at 50% or take your fingers. There's money for everyone and everyone wants to make more if you're smart and savvy enough. I'm apparently neither nor have I ever been blessed with the ambition to own a vacation house ... or really just a house. But I am surrounded by those who do, and as a flower delivery person, I often come into contact with some heavy hitters because they are usually the recipients of sycophantic offerings from obsequious underlings.

In this instance, I was to deliver an arrangement for the wife of what I can only assume was a very important manager in his company, but I was surprised by the notable modesty of the delivery. It was a simple vase of 6 tulips, not the usual overblown delivery of dozens of roses or full bouquets of exotic flowers, just tulips. I rang the bell and a housekeeper opened the door. Usually housekeepers are very kind and often invite me in at least for a glass of water especially when the weather is oppressively hot as it was on this particular day.

I entered the home and saw it was completely crammed with the most ostentatious arrangements I'd ever seen. Flowers from every continent were packed one on top of another covering every surface of open furniture. While in the kitchen, the wife of entered and greeted me kindly. She then indicated to the encroaching flowers and asked wearily: "Is this another arrangement?" I handed her the simple bouquet and she smiled with relief. "Thank God!" She exhaled. She read the card and smiled. "I don't know who this is, but they certainly won this contest. I'm going to put these in our bedroom. These others are going to charity." The smartest person knows that to stand out, sometimes that means doing less.

Last week I had a delivery that made me rethink my entire philosophy on marriage. In a good way. We see and hear so much about floundering relationships, dissatisfaction, and divorce, but occasionally something happens that reaffirms our commitment to the idea of life-long partnerships. It's like seeing someone win the lottery and thinking to yourself: "Hey, I can do that too!"

Two orders came in for the same address, an office building on 8th Avenue, and coincidentally, both were White Roses with Green Hypericum and Orchids. While I try not to deliver two at once, it wasn't a long walk so I juggled the two arrangements for the seven block trek. I entered the office building, one of those throwback designs to the 1950s with ashtrays in the lobby and Erté flourishes on the elevators. It was like stepping into a Frank Capra film. I expected to see Jimmy Stewart rushing down the hallway dropping papers and telling me to "hold the doors". I then looked at the card and realized that both deliveries were for the same office and I thought to myself: "This is odd." Odder still when I opened the door to a cramped office with two desks that looked like they sprouted crumpled paper like a fern. It was a dingy, single room affair with computers that could very well have been made of wooden parts. There, seated at their respective desks, was a man and woman who looked like they were in their 70s and I seemed to walk into the middle of a hostile corporate takeover.

The man was yelling to his co-worker whose ears were roughly seven feet from his mouth: "Why did you send them through the Azores? You know that's a nightmare!" To which she replied heatedly: "They wanted to go to Spain on a Sunday evening! That was the only route!" I stood there completely confused with two arrangements in my hands waiting for someone to recognize my existence when finally the woman yelled to me: "Yes?" I told them I had a delivery for Janice and Mort and they each looked at each other and, I swear to God I wish there was a soundtrack, because I could see the years melt away as these two, who seconds before were yelling about a chain of islands off the West Coast of Europe, now gazed upon one another as though they were in a soda shop after a sock hop. This only lasted a second before he blasted: "Why did you get me flowers on our Anniversary? You know I always get you flowers!" And, not to be outdone, Janice retorted: "I always get YOU flowers!" She looked at me with complete disbelief and informed me: "He's an idiot. We've been married for fifty-seven years and I buy him flowers every year. And he buys me flowers every year and every year we yell at each other for buying each other flowers on our anniversary. You'd think one of us would relent, but every year it's a contest." He turned to me and said conspiratorially: "We're just waiting to see which year one of us will forget. That's when we declare a winner."

I closed the door to hear them continue their argument about the Azores and thought to myself: "Those two might just make it."