The Truth About Floral Folk
by Charles C. Cole
Back in my peak employment years — we’re talking decades ago — it wasn’t as common as it is today to work alongside human-plant hybrids. You saw a few in large grocery stores or delivering packages, but not many in white-collar, college-educated office buildings. Then, slowly, that changed.
I mostly kept to myself at work. As a software implementation specialist most of my career, I worked on large projects that took months of preparation. Many of my co-workers and teammates worked remotely, even in other states in other time zones. I lived with my parents, mostly to save money, so I actually preferred coming into the office where I had more personal space in the cube farm.
Anyway, one day just before lunch, I could hear my manager over the wall, floating from workstation to workstation, introducing a new intern. I turned up the music on my headset and waited for the inevitable intrusion. Finally, there was a tap on my shoulder. I pulled off the white-noise device and turned to see my boss and our new hybrid, Calendula.
I can say this now: she was beautiful. Until then, I’d never thought of the floral folk as having genders. I thought they were just “they,” you know? Sexual differences were for procreation while they had the help of the birds and the bees, pollinators. But similarities and differences are also the basis of new relationships.
Calendula had vividly green skin and a ring of small white petals like a halo just over her ears and around the crown of her head, like a fairy princess. When she looked at me, I felt seen, vulnerable. And she smelled like the outdoors, like an air freshener.
My manager, Hugh Gibbons, seemed to be judging my reaction. Was I going to be accepting or dismissive? Could I handle change? At the time, the answer was: I had car payments and future promotions I wanted; I could be very accommodating.
“Calendula, this is Corey. Though your work areas will be very different, I want you to think of him not so much as a mentor but as a primary liaison. If something feels weird or confusing, he’s your man. You okay with that, Corey?”
I jumped to my feet. “Consider me your new best friend.”
“Let’s not go overboard,” said Gibbons. “This is a social experiment. The folks at HR haven’t come up with any floral policies. Treat her like you would your Great Aunt Lucy, respectful but questioning.”
Gibbons left Calendula with me. I locked up my laptop. “Why don’t we head out to the patio?” I said, pulling a bag from my snack drawer. “I can eat lunch and you can get some sun. You game?”
Calendula nodded unenthusiastically.
“You do like the sun, don’t you?” I asked.
“It’s invigorating, but I’m here to work.”
“We’ll keep it brief. I’m starved, and they frown on us eating at our desks.”
We walked down the hall, through the lunchroom and out to the patio. Everybody stared. It was not a good feeling. Outside, the white metal table had a large umbrella speared through the middle. I grabbed the shade and, gallantly, offered my new friend the sunshine. Anyone could see she was unsettled.
“Is this okay?” I asked. Calendula made a fake smile (I could tell). “Go easy on me; you’re my first flower. I thought we’d get to know each other outside of the eyes and ears of the masses.”
“This is fine,” she said at last. “I appreciate the effort.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m sort of excited: my tiny little world of humdrum routines just blew up.”
“Maybe this was a mistake,” said Calendula.
“Hey,” I said, “I got your back. We’ll make this work. I just don’t know how I drew the short straw.”
Calendula furrowed her brow.
“You know that saying?”
“All my life, I’ve been exposed to the human experience. I’m part-human, raised by humans. Just an exotic varietal.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“You’re trying. I can see that. Most people won’t get this close, like we’re all related to poison ivy.”
“I’ve never had a conversation with a plant before.”
“I’m only part-plant. And my carbon footprint, and those of all my kind, are minuscule compared to that of one human.”
“Thank you.” What else could I say?
Calendula asked, “Are you — no pun intended — a carbon copy of everyone you know?”
“For good or bad, I’d like to think I’m unique.”
“Me, too. One smart green girl who, with generous amounts of sun and water, just wants to make something of her opportunities, maybe live independently.”
“Calendula,” I said, “I’m an ass, but I make you this promise: even after your internship is over, I will be there for you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“But I want to. I don’t know why Gibbons picked me. Maybe because I don’t have a wife and kids. Or because I keep to myself an unhealthy amount of time. Or because I have the desk near the big window.”
“Hah hah,” said Calendula, dryly but less hurt.
I turned my head just a little, enough so I could see several people inside the lunchroom, standing and staring our way. I finished my Mom-packed tuna sandwich. “I’m done. Let’s stop at my car and go back inside through a different door.”
“Are you embarrassed?” asked Calendula.
“I just want to give people something to talk about.”
Anyway, Calendula’s internship lasted three months. We had lunch together almost every day. Last I heard, she got a job working for a Fortune 500 company in the sunny southwest.
I’m not saying every human-plant hybrid is as well-adjusted as Calendula, but I have definitely met more unpleasant humans than unpleasant floral folk. So, give them a chance: I’ve never met one with thorns, but I’ve met humans who can cut with a remark or stare. Thanks for trusting me, Calendula. I know the world is better with you in it.
Copyright © 2025 by Charles C. Cole
