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When the guy reemerges from behind the opened back doors of the van, he’s holding a bouquet of white roses in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
“Stop right there,” Sander raises his voice. Only it isn’t his voice. That isn’t the voice of my best friend. The guy that I grew up with and laughed with. This is the voice of authority. Someone who isn’t fucking around and has no problem letting you know that.
The man stops in his tracks, clearly understanding all of these things.
Sander stands, pistol aimed toward the ground somewhere between himself and this flower delivery guy, one hand bracing the other. He lifts his left arm, palm open, to the guy who is clearly shitting his pants right now.
I can’t blame him, though. I’d be scared, too.
“I need you to stop and set everything at your feet, slowly,” Sander instructs him calmly, and the man complies.
“Good, good,” Sander says. “Mind telling me what you’re doing out here?”
“L-look, man. I-I don’t want any t-trouble. I’m j-just supposed to deliver those,” he says, nodding toward the flowers on the ground.
“Who sent you?” Sander asks, voice never wavering.
“No one, man,” the guy swears, growing more flustered by the second. “I work for Flores on National and Harbor Avenue.”
I know the place. It’s only a few streets down from The Coffee House.
Sander seems to contemplate this for a second before finally asking the guy, “Are you armed? Any weapons I should know about?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. And then, without thinking, quickly shoves his hands into his pockets to turn them out.
Sander raises his pistol, pointing it right at this guy. It’s obviously a reaction, something that he was trained to do, but I’ve never been more thankful for his ability to stop and think things through than I am at this moment right now.
The guy knows he fucked up the second his hands leave his pockets. He raises them both, showing Sander his open and empty hands.
“Turn around for me, in a full circle,” he explains to the man, and I’m sure he’s determined by now that this guy isn’t a threat by the way the tension in his shoulders has released.
“Alright, you’re good,” he says finally, holstering his gun and motioning for the guy to grab the items at his feet.
Bodhi’s hold on me loosens, and we follow Sander as he approaches the delivery guy.
He takes the clipboard from the guy’s trembling hands and signs it quickly.
“Maybe next time an officer tells you not to move and has his gun trained on you, you don’t stuff your hands in your pockets,” Sander says, brow arched in accusation.
“You’re a cop?” the guy asks, all the blood drained from his face.
“Yeah,” Sander responds, taking the bouquet from him before clapping him on his back and sending him on his way.
Only after he’s pulled away does Sander hand the roses to me.
“For me?” I ask, taking them cautiously.
“That’s what the paperwork said,” Sander says.
“Who sent them?” Bodhi asks.
I notice that a small card is tucked in between the blossoms and pull it free.
“Didn’t say,” Sander answers, watching me.
I pass the roses to Bodhi, opening the dark green envelope and retrieving the card.
Rest up, Mami.
