The Broke Stem Rose

Alfred Street had been narrowed to a single lane by piles of crusty, exhaust blackened snow. When Willie saw a plowed parking space in front of Ciaramitaro Produce, he pulled his Chevy Malibu into it, even though it meant he would have a longer walk in the bitter wind. He didn't trust that there would be a closer spot.

He shut off the engine and slid the zipper of his coat all the way up to his chin. He pulled his wool knit Detroit Lions hat down over his ears and tugged on his gloves.

There was a brief moment, as he stepped out of the car, that the cold did not seem as bad as he feared. But by the time he had opened the trunk and fetched his reusable shopping bag, his cheeks and nose were already feeling its sting.

The few places where the sidewalk had been shoveled were coated with ice, so he had to walk in the street. There wouldn't be much traffic. The cleared center of the street wasn't wide enough for the big trucks pulling into the market, and on a winter day in the middle of the week, few other vehicles would be using it.

By the time he crossed Riopelle, his legs were burning, even though he wore long johns under his slacks. Either it was getting colder every year or he was feeling it more as he aged.

"This gettin' old is some bullshit," he muttered to himself.

Eastern Market stretched for blocks in every direction. It was a warren of warehouses and wholesale stores, some showing their ancient brickwork, others displaying brightly painted murals. Meat, produce, cheese; if you bought it in a grocery store or ate it in a restaurant anywhere in the state of Michigan, chances are, it passed through Eastern Market. There were wine shops and paper goods distributors, diners and food carts, there were even a few bars where the teamsters and warehouse workers could grab a beer and a shot after their shifts.

The heart of the market was a row of large wholesale vendor's sheds. They were open on all sides in the summer, but now, the retractable steel walls had been lowered.

Even in February, the market swarmed with shoppers on Fridays and Saturdays, when Willie usually came, and the parking lots surrounding the vendor's sheds would be filled with cars. Today, barely a third of the spaces were filled. Willie ducked his head low, shielding his face from the snow blowing along the street. Damn, he thought, I could have parked right by the sheds.

He approached Shed Five. The flower wholesalers would be inside, and he assumed they would be very busy. Except for Mothers Day, Valentines was by far their best sales day.

Willie walked around to the far side of the sheds. He rounded the corner, thankful to be out of the wind.

A row of green dumpsters stood along the back wall. He felt a moment of dismay when he saw a dozen people rooting through them. They were certainly looking for food, so they were not competing with him, but he feared they would damage merchandise he could sell.

In the midst of the group he saw a stout Black woman in a canary yellow coat that reached her ankles.

"Why, Mother Martha, how are you?" he called.

The woman turned and showed him a bright smile.

"Brother Willie," she said, "It's been a minute since I've seen you. I am doing just fine, how are you, dear?"

"Gettin' by, I suppose," Willie said with a shrug.

"Well, you are welcome to come on by the Mission anytime for a good hot meal."

"Now, Mother, you know my wallet ain't hurtin'. I got a forty year pension from working at the Chevy plant. There are plenty of others who need your help more than me."

"Well, I know you got plenty of bills, too" she said, putting her hand on his shoulder, "And people don't only come to the Mission for free food. Sharing a meal is about more than just eating."

A young man approached them, toting a full produce box. "Are these good?" he asked Mother Martha.

She looked in the box. It was filled with cabbages, their outer leaves brown and wilted.

"Why, yes," she told him, "We'll have to cut those bad parts off but there is plenty that's still good beneath. We can make soup and maybe even some cole slaw to go with the sandwiches for lunchtime. Good work, son. Now, go put that on the truck."

Another Mission volunteer came up with an armful of five pound bags of potatoes. "These smell sort of funky," he said.

"Half of them are likely still good," she told him, "Put them on the truck."

He started to walk away, but she asked him, "Jamal, you see any flowers in any of them dumpsters?"

"Flour? Like to make bread?"

"No, sweetheart, flowers. Like I sure hope you are giving your girl tonight."

"Oh. Yes, ma'am, there was some flowers down there," he said, pointing to the end of the row. "Second from the end, I think."

Willie nodded his thanks to Martha and Jamal and went to the dumpster. Sure enough, there was a bundle of flowers, and in easy reach. They were mostly lilies and carnations. Ordinarily, he would have taken them all. If they didn't sell, he had nothing to lose.

Tonight, though, all he wanted was roses. Nobody gave their lady lilies for Valentines Day. He pushed the flowers aside and found a dozen or so roses beneath them. Yellow, mostly. Not as good as red, but they would do. They'd been rejected by the florists because their stems were too short, or too curved, or the blossoms were blotchy or asymmetrical. But Willie could sell them.

Mother Martha's crew finished their rummaging, closed up their truck and dispersed, some in cars, others on foot. Willie waved as the truck drove away.

Bless her heart, Willie thought, even if folks got nobody, they got her.

Alone now, he made his way along the row of dumpsters. There were far fewer roses than usual. That made sense. The vendors were likely being less picky than they normally were, expecting such a large volume of sales.

Willie had hoped that he would a good evening, with so many couples out celebrating, but he was beginning to worry that it might not even be worth going out on such a cold night if he didn't find more merchandise.

He perked up at one of the last dumpsters he checked. There was a large bundle of roses right on top of the trash. Their stems were sticky, as if something had been spilled on them. He figured he could cut them off at about six inches. That was too short for the vendor who had discarded them, but it would be just fine for him.

He looked at the roses he had carefully placed in his bag. It was a smaller haul than usual. He had told Mother Martha that he had no trouble living off his UAW pension, but that wasn't entirely true. Valentines Day was a bonus though, he would still be going out to peddle on the weekend.

He had yet to check the vendor's stalls themselves. It was likely he would find at least some roses they had discarded but not yet taken to the dumpsters.

He went into the shed. There was a heater above the door and he stood beneath it for a minute, his head tilted back to feel the hot air on his face.

This late in the day, most of the produce vendors had sold their goods and closed up, but even from far down the aisle, he could see that the flower stalls were still doing business.

He walked past Michigan Garden and Floral Supplies. Roy, the proprietor, was unfriendly, and acted as if Willie was up to no good, when all he was doing was gathering up product he had discarded. It didn't look like there was much but scraps and stems at his stall anyway.

Holmes Plants and Flowers was still doing a brisk business. Several clients were waiting for their orders to be filled. Willie nodded to Mrs. Holmes, who waved and said, "We just dumped the trash a while ago, but help yourself to whatever is in the bin."

Willie thanked her and said, "Looks like you had a busy day."

"We've been backed up for hours," she said, "And to be honest with you, we've sold a lot of flowers we wouldn't have otherwise, just to keep up with demand."

That explained why there were fewer flowers than usual in the dumpsters. Willie had been right about that. He looked into the trash bin. There were just a few roses there, and they were in pretty bad shape. He only managed to find two that were fit to sell. As he was tucking them into his bag, he heard someone calling to him.

"Willie! Willie Roses!"

He looked down the aisle. Ibrahim, from Midwest Floral, was gesturing to him. As Willie approached him, he threw his arms up in a welcoming gesture.

"Happy Saint Valentine's Day, my friend," he said, enthusiastically.

"The same to you," Willie replied.

"Ah, well, he is not my saint," Ibrahim said, "But today, I honor him, and his contribution to my purse."

"Good day, huh?"

"Yes, but here..." He turned and picked up a bundle from the counter, perhaps three dozen perfectly good long stemmed roses. "All my order are filled, you can have these."

Willie smiled. "You sure? You can still sell them tomorrow."

"No one will be buying roses tomorrow. Except maybe a few husbands who need to do penance for forgetting to buy them today. Take them."

As Willie tucked the roses into his bag, Ibrahim said, "Oh, and one more thing. This I must show you."

Ibrahim reached under the counter. He lifted out a single rose and held it out toward Willie.

The blossom was large, perfect in shape and symmetry. It was a deep crimson. Willie had the impression that if he stroked the petals, they would feel like plush velvet.

"That might be the most beautiful flower I ever saw," Willie said.

"Indeed," Ibrahim said, nodding in agreement. "This is a rose that would win a prize. But look..."

He turned the rose in his hands. Several inches below the blossom, the stem had been snapped. Its lower end dangled by a few strands of fiber.

"Take it," Ibrahim said, "But promise me you will give it to someone special."

"I will. Thank you."

Willie took the rose. He started to put it into the bag, but hesitated. It might get damaged if it were shoved in with the other, lesser flowers.

He thanked Ibrahim again. "I'll see you on Friday," he told him.

He held the rose close to his chest as he left the shed, sheltering it from the wind. He walked quickly back to his car. Cut roses could withstand cold temperatures for hours, he knew, but he was afraid the bitter wind would damage the precious blossom.

Once he was in the car and had the heater running, he laid the special rose on the dashboard. He carefully slipped the rest of his inventory out of the bag and on to the passenger seat. He sorted through the flowers and removed a few that were too damaged to sell. He got a pair of shears from his glove box and trimmed away any damaged or sticky stems.

When he finished, he stashed the discarded stems and leaves in a litter bag that dangled from the rear of the seat.

There was a box of colored tissue paper on the back seat. He felt a twinge in his shoulder as he stretched to pick it up.

"This goddamn cold," he grumbled.

He made quick work of wrapping the stem of each flower, only getting nipped by their thorns once or twice.

He placed the bag on the floor, then took the rose with the broken stem from the dashboard and gazed at it. When he looked out the car windows, all he saw was gray sky and dirty snow and dull brown brick. The rose, by contrast, was a color so intense that he imagined it glowed, that it gave off warmth. Reluctantly, he laid it down carefully on the passenger seat.

Almost time for the supper rush to start, he thought, I ought to get a move on.

The Malibu spun its tires a few times, but caught clear pavement and rolled forward. Willie rounded the block and stopped near Rocky's Historic Market. He dashed to the store, nearly slipping on the icy sidewalk. When he stepped through the door, he breathed deeply, taking in the rich aroma of roasted peanuts.

Rocky's was filled with bins and dispensers of candy and nuts of every variety. Willie went straight to the bin of pistachios. He filled a small bag and took it to the counter.

"We don't usually see you on weekdays," the cashier said.

"Valentines," Willie said.

"Yeah, I gave up on all that a long time ago," she muttered.

Willie paid and left the store. He hopped into the car, sat for a moment, then took a single yellow rose from his bag.

He went back into the store. The cashier was not behind the counter. Willie set the rose down next to the register and left.

Back in the car, he poured the nuts into one of the cupholders in the console, taking care not to spill any, then stood the paper bag up on the passenger seat, next to the rose.

He deftly cracked open the shell of a nut with his thumbnail and with two quick flicks of his wrist popped the shell into the bag and the nut meat into his mouth.

It was nearly dark when he drove out of Eastern Market. He made one more stop, at the Mack Avenue McDonalds for a large coffee, then headed downtown to make his rounds.

He had decided his first stop would be Cliff Bell's, on Park Avenue. It was more upscale than the joints he usually worked. His thought was that the fancier places would be packed on Valentines Day.

He was pleased, but not surprised, when he had to park a good way down the block. It looked like it was as busy as he had hoped.

He took off his Lions hat and tossed it on to the dashboard. Reaching around to the back seat, he picked up his selling hat, a crimson fedora. It was a lucky charm of sorts, and even if it didn't really provide any good fortune, it was distinctive. That amounted to the same thing, the way he saw it. When folks saw that red hat, they knew Willie Roses was there with his flowers.

As he approached the door, he remembered another Valentine's Day, many years before. He and Regina had dinner at Cliff's. It was called something else back then, he could not recall the name. It was pricy and they didn't generally go in for fancy food, but they were still young and set a lot of store in things like Valentine's Day.

She looked so beautiful that night, in a fine red dress. It dipped low in the front, and while they waited for their food, she caught him looking at her cleavage.

She had laughed and said, "You're like a fella who already bought the car, but keeps going back to look at the ad."

Nobody ever made him laugh like she did. Nobody could ever set him straight with a few sharp lashes of the tongue like her, either. Sometimes, she could do both at once.

After dinner, they had gone to the Fox Theater to see Teddy Pendergrass. He was her favorite. That brother's voice was as smooth as glass. Some folks called him the Black Elvis, because he made the lady's swoon.

That was before he had his accident. Before Regina had hers.

A couple came around the corner. Young white kids. The boy had his arm around the girl, holding her close, either to shelter her from the cold, or because, like a lot of suburban kids, they were nervous downtown.

As they moved toward the restaurant's door, Willie put on his friendliest smile. Time to do your thing, he told himself.

"Good evening," he said, "and Happy Valentine's Day."

The boy mumbled an indistinct greeting in return.

Willie held up a handful of roses. "Sir," he said, "I wonder if perhaps you might be interested in gifting your lovely date with a fine blossom. While it could not possibly compete with her charms, it would provide a splendid compliment to them."

Teddy wasn't the only one with a smooth delivery.

The boy glanced at his companion, then asked, "How much?"

"I'd only ask you to pay what you think it is worth to please the lady," Willie told him. When the boy looked flustered, he added, "A dollar a bloom will do."

The boy dug in his coat pocket and held up a five dollar bill. Willie took it and gave him five roses in return. The boy handed the small bouquet to the girl, who smiled at Willie and thanked him.

Willie wished them a pleasant evening as they went inside. A few minutes later, an older couple came out and the gentlemen bought his lady a flower. It was looking like he had been wise to start his night at Cliff's.

He saw a figure running toward him, and stiffened, expecting trouble. As the man came closer, he saw him lift his wrist and look at his watch. Willie relaxed. Just a guy running late, not a mugger.

The man slowed, but still moved quickly past Willie, showing no sign that he had seen him. He grabbed the restaurant's door handle, but stopped, and looked back over his shoulder.

"Wait," he said breathlessly, "Are you selling those roses?"

"Yes, sir."

The man dug in his pocket. "Jesus Christ, man, you're saving my life. Give me a half dozen."

Willie handed the roses to him.

"Will twenty bucks do it?"

"It will do fine, sir."

The man paid Willie. "Great," he said, "She's going to be pissed off that I'm late. Maybe this will cool her down."

"Good luck with that," Willie told him as he went inside.

Willie pocketed the money, feeling good. But ten minutes passed, then fifteen, and he had sold no more flowers.

He was figuring he would move on, or at least go to the car to warm up, when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Hello, Willie."

He turned and saw another couple approaching the restaurant. The man was middle aged. He was large and wore a camel hair coat that looked like it had cost as much as Willie's car. But it was the woman on his arm that had greeted him. She wore a short blue dress with a long black leather coat and knee high black boots.

"Good evening, Miss Elizabeth," Willie said, grinning nervously.

She smiled at him and her eyes sparkled. He thought she was as pretty as any movie star.

He remembered the first time he saw her. It was in front of the Alley Cat Saloon. She had come out of the bar alone, wearing a lacy white top and a pair of blue jeans so tight they might have been a second skin. She was holding a pink carnation, one that he had sold to a young man not fifteen minutes earlier.

"So you're the flower seller,"she said.

"Yes ma'am, folks call me Willie Roses."

"I'm Elizabeth, my friends called me Liz."

"I think Miss Elizabeth suits you best. It's got more..." He stumbled over his words. What did he want to say? Grace? Style? Class? They all fit, but none was really right.

She gave no notice of his nervous display. "Well, Willie," she said, "A gentleman gave me this flower. I assume he bought it from you. It's quite a nice gesture, but it didn't achieve the result he hoped it might. So if you'd like to get a second sale out of it, please do."

He couldn't remember what he had said in reply. Something foolish, no doubt. He took the flower back.

"Good night, Willie."

He watched her walk down the street to her car. When she got in, he looked down at the carnation in his hands.

That boy was the fool, he thought, trying to give her that flower. It wasn't good enough for the likes of her.

He had seen her again, a week later, with a much older man, getting out of a BMW in front of the Motor City Casino. Then once again at the Alley Cat, drinking with that gay Puerto Rican fella that was always there.

Every night he made his circuit he hoped to catch a glimpse of her, with her clear pale skin, her wide brown eyes, the dark hair that tumbled over her shoulders, and those legs, those long, graceful legs.

He saw a lot of beautiful women coming and going from the nightspots where he peddled his flowers. He was a man, of course he looked at them. He appreciated their good looks, but he had never felt that any of them could tempt him, except for Elizabeth.

He imagined her milky flesh against his dark skin, pondered what she would taste like, what sounds she would make in a moment of passion.

Before long, he realized that she made the Alley Cat a regular stop, usually late at night, often just in time for last call. He also realized why she was out at night so often, with so many different men. He was not naive. Nor was he judgmental. Man or woman, folks did what they did to get by.