Otto's Night Watch: 'Day of the Magnolia Blossom' ... Flashback Friday

Here’s the next installment in our continuing series of republished “Otto’s Night Watch” columns written by Otto Boutin, which appeared monthly several decades ago in Printing Impressions. In this week’s short story, Otto reconnects with Speedy Smith, a former workaholic employer whose life revolved solely around running his business. He found that Speedy Smith's philosophy about life and the meaning of happiness — after consultation with a psychiatrist — had changed quite drastically from when Otto last saw him.

Just like when Otto penned this column some 50 years ago, finding the proper balance between work and personal family life is a delicate balancing act that's constantly in flux. And — especially with the advent of today's smart phones that keep us connected to our jobs 24/7 — the stress caused by struggling to separate and compartmentalize the demands of our professional lives from those of our personal lives is something that can easily make us feel like we're going crazy.

Day of the Magnolia Blossom

I was back in New Orleans, at the bend of the Mississippi near Thalia Street, looking for a banana boat to take me to Veracruz, where the beaches are wonderful and the water is warm and clear. As I turned a corner, I decided to drop in on Speedy Smith to let him know that I hadn’t starved, as he predicted I would. I had worked for him some 15 years ago.

I remembered him as a man who knew what he wanted and didn’t deviate an inch from his goal. Every minute of his life was devoted to becoming the richest printer in Louisiana, and maybe in the world. He lived in a bachelor apartment above the shop so that he wouldn’t lose any time traveling to and from work. He worked from morning till night, six days a week. On Sundays he did his paperwork, if there wasn’t a rush job on one of the presses. He had his meals upstairs, hurriedly cooked to save time.

Very strict with himself, Speedy Smith was also strict with others. He fired men for talking on the job. For a minute of tardiness, he’d sock an hour of pay. Three times tardy and a man was fired. He could get all the help he wanted because he paid well and his checks were good.

One morning the blonde secretary brought a magnolia blossom and put it on her desk. She was looking around for some kind of glass to put it in when Speedy Smith stalked into the office. With the back of his hand he brushed the flower to the floor and stepped on it.

“This is a print shop,” he told her, “not a garden. Keep your mind on business.”

Obediently she sat down at the typewriter, but the muscles of her neck were tightening. Suddenly she jumped to her feet, fists clenched, tears in her eyes.

“You’re plain crazy!” she cried. “You’d better see a psychiatrist!”

She quit on the spot. And so did I.

And now, after all these years, I was back in New Orleans, looking for Speedy Smith’s print shop. The place had become a warehouse, with gunny sacks of fragrant coffee stacked along the walls. I looked up Speedy Smith in the phone directory and was surprised that he had moved to the other end of town, away from the business district. He probably built a big new plant, like he always said he would.

As I got off the bus I saw a man walking down the street, leading an old Airedale on a chain.

“You’re Speedy Smith?” I asked.

“My shop is right around the corner,” he said. Then he recognized me. “You’re the linotype operator. I could give you a job, but only part-time.” He paused before he added, “And I wouldn’t be able to pay much. But if I had help, I could really grow.”

“I’m not looking for a job,” I said. “My banana boat sails Monday.”

He seemed disappointed as he sat down on a bench, inviting me to sit beside him. He leaned over to help the dog settle down. “Moppsie’s old already,” he explained. “She’s got arthritis. She’s also blind. That’s why I have to lead her around on a chain. Or she’d be bumping her head into trees and posts.”

Moppsie wiggled the stump for her tail as she looked up at us with her white blind eyes. She knew we were talking about her.

I offered Speedy Smith a drink from the flask of scotch I carried in my pocket. I knew he had a few things to say.

“Remember the magnolia blossom?” he began. “The girl told me I was crazy and I had the feeling she might be right. So I went to see a head shrinker. He told me I was losing my capacity to feel like a human being. When I insisted that I was quite happy as a bachelor, he shook his head and told me to get emotionally involved with something that had a heart and soul. That’s when Moppsie came into my life.”

At the mention of her name, Moppsie wiggled her tail again.

“She was just a pup at that time,” Speedy continued. “She ran into the shop through an open door and the first thing she did was flip a can of graphite that some knucklehead had left on the floor. She skidded through the graphite and kept running back and forth, spreading the damn black stuff all over the shop. Then she began rolling around in it. I wanted to kick the damn dog through the door.”

“Why didn’t you?” I asked.

“A gorgeous redhead come into the shop, looking for a lost puppy. Normally, I would have told her to take the dog and get the hell out. But I remembered the words of the psychiatrist. He told me to be sympathetic towards living things. Well, this one was a living doll. How can you pick up a dog full of graphite and give it to a girl in a white dress? I yelled for an apprentice to wash the dog, but the kid was out to lunch. So I washed the dog myself, while the lady kept murmuring sweet nothings to the dog. I could feel the quick beating of the puppy’s heart. Mine was pumping kind of hard, too.

“Then the lady remembered that she couldn’t take a wet dog outside because it might catch a cold. She asked if I could take care of it until it dried. She told me her name was Gloria, and she didn’t have a phone number because she was in the process of moving from one apartment to another. That’s how the dog escaped.”

“And that’s how you got stuck with the dog,” I said, nodding as I opened the flask once more.

“That’s just the beginning,” said Speedy. “I took the dog upstairs and tied it to the kitchen sink so it wouldn’t chew up the carpets or something. Then, remembering the psychiatrist’s advice about human involvement, I put two bottles of champagne into the refrigerator. I figured Gloria might be thirsty when she came to pick up the dog. But Gloria phoned later that afternoon and asked if I could take care of Moppsie for a few days because the new landlord was crabby about dogs right now, but he’d simmer down. So there I was, living with a dog in my bachelor apartment. Instead of running the Miehle, I was walking Moppsie through the alleys. Instead of doing my estimating at night, I was wondering whether to give Moppsie chicken livers or hamburgers. She didn’t like canned food. And she kept moaning until I let her sleep beside me in bed, with her head on the pillow, staring into my face. I wasn’t used to that kind of life. Give me another drink.”

Speedy Smith paused before he continued, “After a week it turned out that Gloria’s three children were crying to see their puppy. They wanted visitation privileges with the dog on Sundays. I almost blew my stack. I didn’t know she had three kids — all girls. But I remembered the words of the psychiatrist. I also remembered the two bottles of champagne.

“I had been thinking about buying a larger paper cutter, but I bought a station wagon instead. My convertible had become too small. We had fallen into the habit of taking the dog and the children for a ride on Sundays. I was ready to sign a contract for another offset press, but what did I do? I bought a house instead, so the kids could be with their dog and I could be with Gloria. Then she didn’t want me to travel through all that traffic every day and pay all that rent downtown. So I moved the equipment into the garage in back of the house. I had to sell some of it, but I’ve still got one linotype. If you’d care to run it ... we could get a lot more work...

Speedy helped lift Moppsie to her feet and aimed her head up the street. We finished the scotch while walking.

The house was really big. Purple wisteria was climbing the trellises. Begonias and azaleas made the back yard look like a painting by a Fresh impressionist. A clothes line was strung from the house to the garage. I studied the fluttering diapers.

“We have three more kids of our own,” Speedy explained. “Two boys and a girl. But we’ve still got plenty of room. There’s a cot in the attic if you’d like to stay. I can’t pay much, but you’d get some mighty fine meals. Gloria’s a wonderful cook.”

I sniffed the air. “Shrimp creole?” I asked.

“We have it every Friday. And a big breakfast every morning. Now and then we have bouillabaisse.”

Home cooking sounded real good to me and so I stayed. The beach at Lake Pontchartrain was only a few blocks away and I did plenty of swimming. And then, one evening, when all of us were working late, Speedy Smith asked me a question.

“Tell me,” he said, “when was I really crazy? When I stepped on the magnolia blossom? Or when I was washing the dog?”

I remained silent.

Gloria scowled as she looked up from the stitcher. “Go on,” she insisted. “Answer him.”

“My banana boat leaves Monday,” I said.