Part 2: Mushnik's Skid Row Florists – Kid, age 12, 1953

"Sir, am I Jewish?"

Mr. Mushnik stares at him. "What put a crazy thought like that in your head?"

"The kids at the Home always said I was."

"What about down there?"

"Huh?" Mr. Mushnik drums his fingers as Seymour figures it out. "Oh! Oh. Um. No. But I thought, maybe, my last name—"

Mr. Mushnik rolls his eyes. "You're not Jewish. Good thing, too, I'd hate to be seen with you at temple. Back to work!"

Seymour feels rather displaced. He'd always thought he was Jewish. The idea of celebrating Hanukkah and playing with driedles made him feel special. But he wasn't Jewish. Was that why Mr. Mushnik wouldn't adopt him?

Mr. Mushnik says, "Although your last name does sound like a Yiddish word I know."

Seymour's heart beats faster. "Really?"

"Mmhm. Krelboyne. It means idiot."

Kid, age 13, 1954

Mushnik's Skid Row Florist has the front room, with the display cases and flowers galore. Seymour scrubs windows and sweeps the floor to keep things tidy. The counter, with the cashbox and the radio, is where Mr. Mushnik sits. Seymour slept under that counter until two months ago, when Mr. Mushnik had a fridge and a toilet installed in the basement. He tells Seymour that someday he'll get a shower. The back room, cluttered with supplies, leads to the basement.

Seymour enters from the side door, from the alleyway where the trucks park. "Here's the new shipment of geraniums, sir!" His arms tremble under the weight.

"Don't drop it," Mr. Mushnik growls the warning from behind The Skid Row Herald. Seymour sets the first box down on the counter. When he comes back with the second one, Mr. Mushnik is reading the label on the first box, frowning.

"Seymour, can you explain to me why, when I ordered geraniums, we have chrysanthemums?"

Seymour's stomach plunges towards his feet. Mr. Mushnik trusted him to fill out the order form.

Mr. Mushnik has very sharp eyes indeed. "I understand they have the same number of syllables. But they are most certainly not the same!"

"I thought I checked the right box," is all he can say.

Mr. Mushnik doesn't hear him. "Do you know why they're not the same, Krelborn? Because our supplier sells us chrysanthemums at one dollar more than he sells us geraniums. How many boxes do we have?"

"T-two."

"How many flowers in each box?"

"Eighteen."

"How many dollars did your screw up cost me?"

Seymour moves to get a pad of paper and a pencil, but Mr. Mushnik gestures him away. "This is simple multiplication, boy. You learned this in school, remember?"

Seymour gulps. Two times eight. Two times eight is—

"Are you even trying?"

Two times two is four. Two times three is six. Two times—

"Are you building a bomb? A rocket?"

Two times— Tears prickle at his eyes; his horror washes all math from his brain.

Mr. Mushnik grunts in disgust. "Look! Now he's crying. Got in himmel!"

"Please stop."

"Oh, he protests, does he? He cripples my business and now wants to get away scott free?"

"N-no! Just stop yelling at me." With a sudden surge of courage and anger Seymour never knew he had, he shouts in a tight, thin voice, "You're not my father!"

"Yeah, and who'd want to be?" Mushnik replies, dismissively waving his hand.

Seymour stands, shaking, then bolts from Mushnik's Skid Row Florists. He's never coming back. The streets become a grey blur. He trips over a bum ("Hey! Punk!"), scraping his hands as he catches himself.

He stays in the library until it closes at ten. Seymour stays in front of it, in the lamp-post light. There's a noise from the alleyway nearby; the rattle of a trash lid. A siren wails in the distance.

People are moving about the dark street. Seymour's heard about these kinds of people. Murderers, robbers, the 'bad women', hop heads who'll do anything for their next fix.

Outside the pool of lamplight, figures are gathering.

"Hey, kid, wanna make some scratch?" says a figure in the dark.

He shakes his head. The figures don't leave. They come closer. Seymour bolts again to the sound of laughter.

Mr. Mushnik is waiting for him when he returns. The bell rings as the door opens. "About time. Those thirty-six dollars are coming out of your pay."

Seymour throws his arms around him.

"Ack, get off," Mr. Mushnik grumbles. But he only shoves him away after a few seconds. Seymour takes comfort in that.

Kid, age 15, 1956

Mr. Mushnik plays poker every Friday with "a buncha Polack slobs" – he never comes in earlier than noon on Saturdays. His sister Sylvie lives in Czechoslovakia, "the old country." She "married some goy watchmaker." Mr. Mushnik sends her money every few months to help out. He has three nephews. Once or twice he's mentioned a lady-friend, but he prefers the life of a confirmed bachelor. "I already got a bum ticker; I don't need any more health problems." Mr. Mushnik willingly tells these things to Seymour.

One night Seymour learns something about Mr. Mushnik he never expected to.

It's near closing time when the order comes. "Seymour, set the traps!"

Seymour hates setting the rat traps. As much as he hates the skittering sound in the walls, he also hates the sound of that deadly snap – especially when it comes down on his own fingers. He sets two of them. When he comes back up, Mr. Mushnik is drinking from the silver flask he keeps in the top lefthand drawer of the counter. It's a common occurrence around the holidays.

"That was quick," Mr. Mushnik comments. Seymour grunts in assent and starts watering the poinsettias.

"How many did you use?"

"All of them."

"Where'd you put 'em?"

"Under the stairs, by the crack in the wall…um, near the bathroom…." Too slow. Seymour feels those eyes burning into his back.

"You used them all, huh?"

"It's almost Christmas, sir. Peace on Earth, goodwill….can't we give them a break?"

"You want to save your fellow vermin, you little rat? Or are you just too stupid to set the traps properly? Never mind, I know the answer to that! Come on!"

Mr. Mushnik staggers as he goes down the basement stairs. Seymour moves to help him, mildly alarmed – this is worse than usual. He takes the box of traps from him.

Mr. Mushnik eyes the room critically. "What a dump." Seymour notices the grungy floor, the old Cola bottles and the scattered books he usually ignores.

He orders Seymour to set all the traps. He shouts at Seymour when a trap almost takes his cuticles off. He shouts at Seymour for using the wrong kind of bait. He shouts at Seymour for being too quick and shouts at Seymour for being too careful. This is worse than usual.

When Mr. Mushnik turns to walk back upstairs, he almost falls backward. For a moment Seymour wants him to fall all the way. Then he's behind his boss, ready to catch him.

"Sir…is something wrong?"

"Krelborn, with all due respect, piss off." Seymour slings an arm around Mr. Mushnik's shoulder and begins to help him up the stairs.

He leans on Seymour, muttering, "Eleven years. Should be nothing."

"What should, sir?" He's heavy – a few steps up and Seymour is already out of breath.

They're halfway up the flight when he gets his answer. "My brother. Jozef. Since the war. No grave, no body. My sister survived the camps, Jozef disappeared…and all the time, I was here. My uncle had no children, he brought me here to make my way in the world. Me, the baby of the family. The lucky one."

He looks around and chuckles. "Fucking luck." His face is wrinkled, and very old. He's breathing through gritted teeth and his eyes are damp.

Seymour's stomach has sunk to his feet. He never thought anything could hurt Mr. Mushnik. "Oh."

At 21, Seymour knows he should have said 'That's horrible' or 'I'm sorry, sir'. They aren't great words, but anything is better than 'Oh,' which isn't even a word, really, just a placeholder noise. He might have gone on to suggest that Mr. Mushnik was spared for a reason, or say that Jozef is in a better place.

But he was 15, and stunned, with only a moment to think.

He tries again. "S-sir—"

"Shut up, Krelborn."

Mr. Mushnik never mentions it again. Seymour used to torture himself wondering if he missed an opportunity to be adopted that night. Now he realizes he needn't have bothered.