Tulip Thief
(Published in “The Customer is Always Wrong,” edited by Jeff Martin, Soft Skull Press, 2008.)
Tulip Thief- I worked as a florist for eighteen years, but always wanted to do something more masculine, so I became a poet. There were however manly moments on the job.
“Call 911,” I yelled over my shoulder as I ran towards the door. Someone had been stealing plants and flowers from the display in front of the store.
In order to help sales and make the store more attractive, we had been putting plants and flowers on the sidewalk in front of the store.
Bales of hay, buckets of pink lilies- fragrance that was a cross between first girl friend and just baked pie. Bright red azaleas in an old wooden wheelbarrow. An A frame sign with daily special written in chalk. Country village feel.
I made a mental note to keep my eyes open for the thief. There he was! A man was walking by, he bent a little, didn’t slow down, and scooped up a fire orange tulip plant and kept going.
By the time I got out the door he was at the end of the block. He wasn’t looking back and I was picking up speed. I had played football in junior high school and knew how to tackle. I lowered my shoulder and hit him waist high, solid with all my weight.
The tulip plant popped loose from his grasp and broke on the ground, dirt spilling, red clay potshards splintering. He lost his balance and I took him down, smacking the cement sidewalk. I grabbed him by his shirt collar and said, “You are under citizen’s arrest.”
I got him to his feet and started walking him to the police station, which was at the other end of the block. He came willingly until we got back in front of the flower shop. Then he came out of his daze. Saw I wasn’t joking and really was taking him to the pokey.
He was a regular customer. “I know you! Why are you stealing from us?” I shouted. He just looked up kind of embarrassed and shy. He was drunk and it had worked before and seemed so harmless.
He began to struggle and slip out of my grasp. I wrestled him to the ground and a crowd began to form. I yelled, “Call 911.” The flower shop crew yelled back as a chorus, “We did, we did, the cops are on the way.”
I was on top of him and he was wriggling and raised his fist to hit me. “Stay down you %#@&!!,” I screamed in his face. A woman came up to me and whined, “You are using excessive use of force.” “Get away from me you %#@&!!,” I replied.
The crowd began to chant “Hit him, hit him!”
Florists are part psychologists. People rarely buy flowers unless they are in a heightened emotional state. They are falling in love, or they had a big fight, or a baby, or they want to seduce someone, or someone has died. People look to florists to help them choose the right bouquet to express their feelings, to accomplish those goals. How could I help this thief express himself?
When will the police get here? Where are they? How could it take so long? The station was just a minute away.
The streets, which were normally empty, now had crowds of people, all drawn by the scent of violence. People spilled out of the movie theater, the deli, car repair place, jewelry store, from the two barbershops and even people from, “Rick’s World-Wide-Web Café.”
Meanwhile, people were saying, “Do you think he will hit him?” “I bet he will hit him.” “He’s gonna hit him.” The street was buzzing and they offered encouragement. “Hit him! Hit him! Hit him!”
The cavalry comes, four police cars with two cops in each, hop out, guns drawn, ready to shoot.
They want to know what happened and are very interested when I say “I put him under citizen’s arrest”
“Did you say, Under citizen’s arrest?”
“Yes.”
They say, “Take him away,” and put him in the patrol car and drive the half block, turn, park in front of the station and perp walk him inside.
Later a policeman came back to the store to fill out a report. He said, “What happened?”
I said, “A man walked by, grabbed a tulip plant, I tackled him and put him under citizens arrest and then you took him away.”
He replied, “Tulip, how do you spell that?”