ABOUT THE FILM

• Logline: An ode to New York's Penn Station and one of its longest-running businesses, “The Petal Pusher” is a reflection on the economics of love (and desperation), and it's a testament to a bygone era — before recent construction transformed the station into a kind of mall filled with chain stores. At its heart, this is a story about love, loss, and family.

• Synopsis: "The Petal Pusher" is an ode to New York City's Penn Station, the busiest and perhaps dingiest transit hub in North America. It's told through the prism of what was one of the longest-running small businesses there: The Petal Pusher. It was a flower shop, with several strategically located stands, that served the daily crush of commuters, especially on Valentine's Day and Mother's Day. The 15-minute-long film is a reflection on the economics of love (and desperation), and it's a testament to a bygone era — before recent construction transformed the station into a kind of mall filled with chain stores. At its heart, this is a story about love, loss, and family. The director’s parents opened The Petal Pusher in the 1970s and ran it for decades, until the station's renovation forced the business to close.

• Setting: Menace lingered in the filtered air. It was dark and dingy. Rats and roaches scurried in the shadows. The stench of urine and stale beer mixed with the aroma of freshly made popcorn and pizza. There was a non-stop symphony of whooshing trains; tinny, incomprehensible announcements; a babel of languages; clacking heels; bleating cellphones; aggressive panhandlers; the din of construction — all of it accompanied by a steady rotation of aging crooners, earnest violinists, anyone from Spanish guitarists to kids banging steel drums. 

Penn Station remains the busiest transit hub in North America. Every day, hundreds of thousands of commuters crowd its dimly lit concourses. There are paupers and plutocrats; cops and convicts; vagrants and zealots. They throng through the decrepit labyrinth, racing to catch trains, sipping beer through straws, slurping oysters at a raw bar called Tracks. 

• Back Story: It was here where the director, David Abel, learned the meaning of a “New York Minute” — its organized chaos; its relentless pulse; its cauldron of good and evil, candor and guile, and the fear and thrill that anything could happen at any moment — a track fire or love at first sight; a hold-up or a hefty tip; a terrorist attack or a random act of compassion. 

It was also here where he learned about the economics of love and desperation — how time and space could be warped when there was a train leaving and a spouse waiting, especially on Valentine’s Day. Coming home empty-handed wasn’t an option, making even a single rose priceless.

It was on that truth that his parents built a business, one that endured for decades, through stagflation, crime waves, wars, 9/11, natural disasters, a Great Recession, other busts and booms, longer than perhaps any other small business in Penn Station. 

• The Work: Abel first came here as a child in the Seventies, gawking at the great mulligatawny of humanity. His dad put him to work at the business he called Flowerama, filling buckets with water, primping petals so the roses looked their best, using a staple gun to delicately but rapidly wrap them for impatient customers. When he was old enough, he made change and ran cash between the shops and the stands. 

Over the years, Abel watched thieves swipe bouquets, while others returned after he gave them too much change. He received tips for nothing more than a smile, while others berated him for flowers that died prematurely. He learned to be wary of the public bathrooms, after a man once reached into a stall he was using and grabbed him by the ankle. He was also careful not to stand too close to the tracks, where occasionally someone would get pushed into the electrified abyss. And as National Guard soldiers patrolled the station with radiation detectors, he wondered how concerned he should be about the threat of suitcase-sized nuclear bombs. 

• Family: At rush hour, on the busiest days, the business felt like a finely tuned machine — Abel's dad, mom, sister, cousins, and oldest friends, each with a specific job, each with a trove of stories amassed over the years. His dad, who was deaf, was the chief engineer, the master planner, the one who built the business from nothing and made it all happen. His mom was its heart, nurturing relationships and exuding warmth, but she was also its conductor, barking commands, upselling when possible, the ultimate petal pusher. 

They worked beside their longtime employees, most of them Dominican; ardent Yankee fans; masters of the station’s intricacies; connoisseurs of its delicacies, especially what was free or could be bartered; and most of all, keepers of its secrets. They knew who to turn to when a light went out or when something didn’t look right. Many of them watched Abel grow up; they were like family. 

• The End: This underground world — familiar and mysterious; seductive and repulsive; comforting and unsettling; hallowed and profane — always felt to him like home, like a mooring, a beacon, a sanctuary.  

When Abel's dad died shortly before Valentine’s Day one year, having organized every detail before entering hospice, the family celebrated him by selling flowers in Penn Station. Abel's mom tried to keep the business going. But it was too much. The station was changing. Big Box stores and chains were moving in. Landlords were jacking up the rent. Architects were planning long-needed changes to the concourses. 

And so the time had come to close, to let go, to move on. 

See more about the film on FilmFreeway here.