The Carnation Effect

As she forced her eyes open, she encountered the day’s oppressive greyness. The alarm had sounded, signalling the call to work. Standing, she attempted a half-hearted stretch and glanced around her flat, noting the slight lumpiness of her recently vacated single bed. That familiar depression settled over her.

It was a flat large enough for her needs, but only because her needs were so limited. Technically, it was one large room, with various screens dividing it into sections—the bedroom, really only consisting of the bed, a small closet, a hanging clothes rack for her ‘Sunday’ black clothes, and a chest of drawers for her underwear and knick-knacks.

The next section was the sitting room, with a brown faux-leather two-seater sofa and a heavily stained coffee table in front of it. It was the type of table she’d put something on for a short while, then months later realise she’d left it there to collect dust and more coffee cup rings. She had a small bookcase, but it was rarely delved into, and a wooden display unit for her best friend, the large TV, to sit on.

There was a desk she’d always told herself would be put to good use when she was creating something. That day of creativity had never arrived.

Then there was the cluttered, minimalist kitchen. It had enough equipment to support her meagre means.

The one true ‘other room’ was the bathroom, housing a bath with a fixed shower head and a curtain, a basic washbasin, a small cabinet, and a toilet. There was a door that shut and locked, presumably so that, in the unlikely event of a visitor, she’d have privacy.

Other than that, there was the odd dead plant, a cheap printed picture, and brown curtains.

It was the sort of flat one tolerated living in. She couldn’t imagine going out shopping for trinkets to liven the place up.

She worked at the head office of a large corporation that adorned its bland, colourless interior with blazing, bare electric lights, ensuring its enslaved workers could provide the accurate figurework the company demanded. Each member of staff wore a grey business suit—admittedly in different tones—and black shoes. The women wore limited make-up and no nail varnish.

Leaving her dark brown flat for the dull autumnal climate, she would eventually end up under the screaming lights of a huge, soulless corporate office. The featureless workspace was filled with the woebegone faces of staff, all scuttling quietly and unobtrusively to their assigned desks. Everyone looked almost exactly like the person sitting next to them, behind them, or in front of them.

Norma often found that the stark electric lighting gave her a thumping headache and made her almost long for the brown of her flat.

On a good day, she might speak to her boss to deliver the day’s number-crunching results, arrived at after hours spent slaving over the adding machine and transferring the final figures to the ledger sheet. Otherwise, like everyone else in the office, she would speak to no one. At the end of her allocated working hours, she would look forward to descending in the lift to the ground floor.

The lifts, ten in all, would whisk the dark-suited, cheerless faces down to the lobby entrance, where most employees would, without a word, slip through the revolving doors and onto pavements crowded with equally soulless faces heading home to presumably equally brown flats.

However, things had recently changed. She had begun to look forward to the downward journey in the lifts, always hoping against hope to squeeze into lift number nine. There, she would enter the domain of Joseph Wilding, the lift operator. At Meadows Inc, he was the only employee she knew who actually smiled and spoke.

He was an attractive man, about thirty, with blonde hair—unusual amongst all the dark-suited, dark-haired employees. His white, even teeth shone in welcome to each employee who entered his moving chariot. He wished them all a pleasant evening and hoped to see them again the next day. She would watch in amazement as most—not all—smiled back, pleased to have ridden his lift.

She would try to squeeze into the back of the lift so she could furtively stare at the back of his perfect head. She longed for the day when she would be the last to leave, hoping he might speak to her. So far, in the limited time she’d been riding in his lift, this had never happened.

One night, she patiently waited for lift number nine to stop on her floor. She had studiously ignored all the other lifts that had stopped to pick up the homeward-bound workers. She got into the lift, despite it being full to bursting, and was forced to press her body against his as she squeezed in. She felt his hot breath on her neck and thought she might pass out.

“Careful, Miss. You OK?” said the cheerful operator.

Shocked to hear another human speak to her, she just nodded, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment. “He spoke to me!” The rising elation surged through her.

She had longed for him to notice her. He was the man she dreamt about, a heartthrob. Peculiarly, when she was near him, the usual colours of black and grey disappeared; she would look at him and see sunshine and rainbows. She knew it was a hopeless longing. She was rapidly approaching her middle years, clearly a spinster, having lacked male attention for most of her life, not holding a senior position in the company, and living in a dingy brown flat far from the office, with a long, boring commute each day. She reasoned she had nothing to interest the jolly, blond, handsome man.

As the lift reached the ground floor and the passengers spilt out, she could hear him wishing them all good night and receiving good nights in return. As she approached the lift doors, he busied himself with his red carnation buttonhole, removed it, and stood smiling at his last passenger—herself—before approaching her.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you when you got in on the 17th floor.”

“No, no, not at all. How kind of you to ask.” She was shocked to find herself speaking to the man she longed for.

He held out the red carnation and said, “I wonder if I might give you my buttonhole. It’s nearly home time, and I no longer need to wear it. I thought it might brighten your outfit.”

He carefully slipped it through the buttonhole of her suit and stepped back, smiling.

“Thank you so much,” she said, thrilled.

“I’m Joe Wilding. You’ve always smiled and said hello, but we’ve never actually spoken to each other.”

“I’m Norma—Norma Jones. It is always a treat to see you smile and to hear you talk to everyone who gets into your lift. Conversations are not encouraged on the work floors. So thank you… Joe.”

She carefully placed the buttonhole in a cup of water when she got home, and found herself smiling at it throughout her solitary evening.

The next day, unable to leave the carnation alone, she carefully wiped it, wrapped its stem in kitchen foil, and put it back in her suit’s buttonhole. Feeling rebellious, she walked along the pavement to her bus stop, drawing the attention of other pedestrians, who stared in surprise at the red carnation, brazenly displayed on her grey suit.

The lift arrived, and she was thrilled to see Joe’s smiling face, with a fresh red carnation in his uniform.

He wished her a good morning and added, “Wow, Norma, that carnation suits you so well.”

She felt the whole lift compartment turn to look at the red carnation displayed so flamboyantly on the front of her grey jacket.

On reaching the 17th floor, the lift doors slid back with a gentle hiss, and Norma and her nameless work colleagues stepped out into another mind-numbing day of unflaggingly wrestling with the numbers deemed so important to Meadows Inc.’s functioning.

Today, however, was slightly different. A woman who had worked to Norma’s right and had assiduously ignored her for two years actually stretched her lips—almost a smile—then gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Over the course of the working week, each time Norma made her way to the ladies’ restroom, she swept her eyes over the busy working area and, surprisingly, her gaze fell on one red carnation after another. It was difficult to be exact about how many workers were wearing a red carnation, but there were many. As she made her way back to her unattached desk, she began to see eyes lift from half-completed ledger sheets, glance at the carnation on her jacket, and nod at her.

Getting into Joe’s lift had become increasingly difficult. A group of workers, all wearing buttonholes, had begun chatting to each other whilst waiting for Joe’s chariot to arrive. As the numbers grew day by day, Norma found herself pushed further and further back from the entrance to his increasingly popular lift.

Eventually, as she stepped into the last available lift, she noticed she was the only one wearing a carnation. The lift operator was a young, dark-haired man of nondescript looks, wearing a light grey suit that did little to enhance his complexion and had no buttonhole. As she moved to the middle of the lift, joining the other travellers, she realised she was the only one wearing any colour at all.

As the lift reached the entrance lobby, she was surprised to see Joe there.

“Joe! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out of your lift.”

“Hi, Norma. You’re looking lovely today. Your buttonhole looks very flattering.”

“Well, I have you to thank. You were the first to give me one. Have you noticed that everyone in your lift is wearing a carnation? You’ve started a trend,” she giggled.

“That’s why I’m waiting for you. I’ve noticed you’re not travelling in my lift as often these days, so I thought I’d try to catch you. Is everything OK?”

“Frankly, I love getting into your lift. It’s always so jolly. Not only are people wearing buttonholes but the chatter and laughter are just lovely. The carnation seems to have loosened everyone’s tongue. I’ve worked here for several years, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone talk in those lifts. You seem to have changed things.”

“Thanks, Norma. I’ve noticed that too.”

“I’ve had to take a different lift some nights. I noticed everyone looked miserable and bereft of buttonholes. Even the operator looked miserable.”

“I overheard the bosses—Mr Henderson and Mr Sanderson—talking in my lift yesterday. They’ve noticed changes upstairs,” he said. “People are asking to move to your floor.”

“Is it the carnations?”

“Could be,” he said, shrugging. “But as the lift operator, I have to pretend I haven’t heard their conversation.”

Over the weeks, Norma had begun to notice that, as she entered the 17th floor in the mornings, before the klaxon sounded, people were drifting over to the next desk to chat. Some were clearly talking about the carnations, while others had moved on to homes, husbands, wives, pets, and the like.

The highlight of Norma’s day would be hearing the lift doors open as employees, carried from floor to floor, stepped in and out. Norma would grin widely at Joe as he appeared and disappeared throughout the day.

The weeks passed, and one day, as she descended in the lift, she saw Joe standing in the lobby. She was curious. Was he perhaps waiting for someone? He wore his black overcoat, his red carnation now hidden. She had never seen him outside the lift before, let alone in an outdoor coat. He turned and saw her, and his whole face lit up.

He approached her with a confident air and, to her immense surprise, behaved as if Norma were a woman one might fling one’s arms around, then kissed her full on the mouth

He observed her carefully whilst weighing up how the kiss. had been received. Pleased with her smile, he squeezed her arm and said:

“Norma, you were the first person I ever gave my buttonhole to, and I’m glad you kept it. Would you like to come out for a drink with me?”

As she looked into his handsome eyes and nodded in agreement, their conversation was interrupted by the frequent “goodnights” from Meadows’ employees as they left for the evening.

As they made their way out of the lobby, Joe took out a fresh red carnation and carefully pinned it to her jacket. This time, she didn’t feel alone wearing it.