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."
