The Rose

The Rose

There was never a dull moment in my inner-city Detroit neighborhood. The wail of sirens was as normal as a church bell to us—loud, insistent, but easy to ignore after a while. It was the city’s daily soundtrack, and when they blared, we might pause, take a quick glance, and then return to whatever we were doing. My block was its own symphony, with characters that added their own unique instruments to the mix. Curly, a loud and frequently incoherent alcoholic, delivered slurred soliloquies at any hour, while the street corners were splashes of color and noise, thanks to the ladies who dressed like they were ready for Mardi Gras any night of the week. Even the apartment buildings, overrun with cockroaches, added their own kind of hum. So, no, I wasn’t easily surprised.

But every once in a while, the universe likes to throw you a curveball.

On one particular day, I had dressed in my usual—torn army jacket, well-worn jeans, and a mane of wild hair that belonged to the hippie era. My destination was the neighborhood florist. I was picking up a rose for my girlfriend; I liked to surprise her like that. After buying a single, perfect red rose, I tucked it inside my jacket for safekeeping and started heading to my high school, Cass Tech.

The first sirens I heard were nothing out of the ordinary. But as I continued down the street, I noticed that these sirens were getting louder and closer, multiplied by several more sets joining the noise. I kept walking, figuring it was just another incident in the city.

Then, I heard tires screech and an abrupt silence as a police car stopped behind me. I turned around to see an officer jump out, gun drawn. Instinctively, I froze. My heart pounded in my chest as three more police cars swarmed around me, like bees protecting their hive. 

“On the ground! Face down!” the officer shouted, and before he finished speaking, I was already sprawled on the cold, gritty asphalt. 

Another officer came over, slapped handcuffs on me, and yanked me up to my feet. He patted me down, his hands searching, until he felt the small bundle in my jacket. He pulled my coat open, revealing the rose I’d carefully tucked away. I watched the officer’s expression shift as he held the flower. His face went almost as red as the rose in his hand, and he looked back at his colleagues. I had hoped for a laugh to break the tension, but instead, he gave me a look I couldn’t quite read before taking me aside for a less intense round of questioning.

Once he was satisfied that I wasn’t carrying anything more dangerous than a high schooler’s love for his girlfriend, he unlocked the cuffs and told me I could go. I picked up my rose and kept walking to school, my heart finally beginning to settle down.

With each step, the fear faded, replaced by a strange sense of pride. I had just survived a police ambush and had a hell of a story to tell my friends at school. By the time I arrived, I felt like a hero from an urban legend, clutching my single red rose like a badge of honor. In a city that could numb you with sirens and strangeness, I had managed to find my own small, crazy adventure.