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People are So Ungrateful No One Ever Thanks Me for Having The Patience Not to Kill Them Shirt

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People are So Ungrateful No One Ever Thanks Me for Having The Patience Not to Kill Them Shirt

Business is booming at Bill Jackson’s Shop for Adventure. (Douglas R. Clifford | Tampa Bay Times) The store used to sell an average of six traditional kayaks per week. Now the Jacksons move 40 or more — when they can get them. It’s warm this morning. On the porch, workers are sweating behind their masks. A man named Rich Allen is explaining the new “Shark Ray 12-foot-6,” an inflatable paddleboard whose double layers are “heat-pressed, puncture resistant, very stiff.” Each comes with its own backpack, so you don’t need a car rack. “We wanted to bring you a board that’s more affordable, and easier for everyone to use,” says Rich, whose board retails for $749. Rich is a tri-athlete who competed in the Sydney Olympics. At the beginning of 2020, he was starting a company in Clearwater manufacturing high-end swim goggles and gear for triathletes. “Then all the triathlons got canceled,” he says. “So we had to switch gears, adapt.” The workers clap when Rich finishes, then Darry raises his hands. “Okay, you guys, it’s time to open up!” A basket of masks greets customers now. Beside it, on a counter by the cash register, a whiteboard dares: Chase Adventure! Try something new this month! The layout of the store hasn’t changed much since the pandemic. But it closes at 6 now instead of 9 p.M. For the first time in their lives, the brothers aren’t on-call through dinner. “We might never go back,” Darry says. They’re teaching fly fishing, kayaking and paddleboarding again. 

No groups, only private lessons. Gun safety classes are limited to 10 people instead of 16 — and are booked through April. Trade shows still are canceled. They Zoom into Orlando and Fort Worth virtual conventions from an empty classroom. “I miss touching the products,” Darry says. “But we saved $15,000 in travel last year.” The Jacksons are giving $100 to workers who get the vaccine. Doug got his Sunday. Their extra income is buying a new computer system for the store. And providing bonuses to employees — thousands of dollars each month. “Even though they’re still working, many of their spouses aren’t. We want to help where we can,” Darry says. “I feel guilty, sometimes, that we’re doing so well.” Waiting for Word The afternoon is already slowing at Irene’s Florist in Largo. In the back, a designer stuffs stems into a decorative jar. Snip , swoosh . Snip , swoosh . She prunes excess greens, swipes debris off a metal counter into the trash. Buckets of baby’s breath and yellow daisies lie by her feet. Acenett Peters-Vasquez, owner of the shop, picked up the new flowers from a local supplier Monday morning. For days, she has been juggling work with a family crisis. An administrator from her father’s nursing home called the week before to say he had died of the coronavirus. The burial would be today. She had wanted to send roses and carnations, because she couldn’t travel to Panama. But she didn’t know where to send them. She’d been given the name of the wrong funeral home. In the uncertainty, Acenett found a strange hope: Maybe all of this is wrong. Minutes after the burial was supposed to have begun, her half-brother texts a picture of an official record, outlined in blue. República de Panamá. Zulvago Gualtier Joseph Boyd. “So it is my dad,” she says, standing at the front desk, beneath a painting of tulips. He was 93, a former embassy worker. Acenett, 66, tries to call the cemetery where her father had paid for a plot. No answer. 

She waits. And waits. A man walks into the flower shop, the last customer before closing. He grabs a vase with a red arrangement and quickly leaves, having paid online. Today, Irene’s had 16 orders. On Friday, it was 30. Funerals and weddings dropped off in the last year. More people were cremated. Romantic partners didn’t send as many “I’m sorry” bouquets to home offices. Acenett had already struggled to keep clients after moving from St. Petersburg to Largo because of a rent hike. She does some deliveries herself, to save money. Her favorite part is seeing people perk up at a surprise bouquet. Like in a nursing home, when the residents ask: “Is that for me?” Now, florists drop arrangements by the door. A woman who ran a delivery once for Irene’s had stopped in this afternoon to sell empanadas. Acenett bought two, in a little brown bag. She knows right now, especially, it’s important to help each other out. By midafternoon, Acenett is alone at the front desk. The designer and an office manager have gone home. It’s bright inside, the shelves lined with stuffed bears. The room smells sweet, what perfume wishes it could be. Acenett reaches the cemetery. In Spanish, a man directs her to a new funeral home. A woman there says yes, they had her father’s body. They’d buried him an hour ago. Acenett hangs up, hoping the woman from the nursing home was at the service and took a video. A couple of men call the flower shop before closing, putting in orders. One wants a devotion bouquet sent to an office down the road. To: “My love. My everything.” Another wants a bouquet of 12 light pink roses, breast cancer colors, for a woman undergoing surgery

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