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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."

This week I had "a domestic". It's what the police call a "domestic disturbance", but in my community it's what we refer to as a delivery so laden with apology it makes it ten pounds heavier to carry with the added guilt. In most cases it's the usual: a fight, staying out too late, flirting with the wrong woman or man, the usual marriage discourse. They are almost always roses. I'm wondering if roses ever think to themselves: "Why us? Why are we always responsible for patching up relationships?" They must feel like default couples therapists at this point.

In any case, I was delivering four dozen roses, which in my world means a seriously heavy transgression must have occurred. The apartment was in a very upscale neighborhood and my first thought was four dozen isn't going to be enough. I rang the bell and a beautiful woman in her 40s opened the door, well dressed and with an expression as though to say "What now?" She looked the flowers over as a chess grandmaster scrutinizing their next move. "What are those?" She asked, her tone dripping with derision. "They're what we call in the industry 'a floral arrangement'." She was not amused and now included me in her mental list of whom she hated. "What if I don't accept them?" I pondered this a moment and realized that this had never happened to me before. No one had ever refused a delivery. I answered: "I guess I'll just take them back." She thought about this for a moment before she looked at her credenza in the hallway where a vase with slightly wilting flowers were slowly shuffling off their floral coil. The elegant woman looked back at my flowers said in a voice almost to herself: "I'm keeping the flowers, but it'll take a lot more than four dozen roses to fix it." She reached her hands out and I gave her the delivery. Without saying a word or even thanking me, she closed the door while I stood shivering in the wake of a bristling cold front that had just dropped the temperature forty degrees.

I don't know how much more it was going to take to win this woman's heart back, but I do know that if she kept the flowers, this person at least had a fighting chance.