Flower Man stood in the middle of the street. Heavy traffic slowly passed by. He called out “Flowers, flowers!” The frigid night air tore viciously through Flower Man’s thin jacket. What will I eat tonight if no one buys flowers, he asked himself.
Flower Man looked down at the four bouquets in his hands. The daisy petals were drooping, the leaves a faded green. He knew no one wanted his pathetic flowers. Flower Man only had these bouquets to sell because the flower shop had thrown them in the dumpster.

Flower Man continued calling out “Flowers, flowers! Daisies, real cheap!”
A Crowned Victoria stopped beside him. The window rolled down. The driving officer peered out at Flower Man. Flower Man told him, “Daisies, real cheap. Only two dollars.”
“I don’t want your flowers,” the cop scowled. “You need to move from this intersection. Last thing I need is for the flower man to get run over on my patrol.”
Flower Man glanced at this officer’s partner. The officer in the passenger side was much younger than the one driving. He looked sorry for Flower Man.
“GET A MOVE ON I SAID,” the first officer warned. “And take your flowers with you.”
“Dale, maybe you could take it easy,” said the younger officer.
“Shut up,” he said his partner. “I didn’t ask you.”
Flower Man had moved to the sidewalk by the time the officer turned back to face him. It had been a long, hard day. He hadn’t sold any flowers. Tonight, he wouldn’t eat.

Across the street, a man wrapped in a long wool coat put his arm around the shoulder of a young boy. This boy was approaching his 12th birthday, an event to take place a week after Christmas. He and his father were Christmas shopping.
The boy saw Flower Man and pointed him out to his father. “Dad, let’s buy flowers for Mom.”
They crossed the street to ask Flower Man about his daisies. When they came to Flower Man, the father saw that the daisies were ragged. “Son, I don’t think we want these.”
“Please, sir, I’ll give you two for the price of one,” Flower Man said.
The father looked at Flower Man’s face. A look of recognition appears on the father’s face. Flower Man looks down, ashamed.
“Dad, buy flowers,” the boy urged.
“Hold on… Professor Morton?”
“Nah, nah, you’ve got the wrong person,” Flower Man replied.
“No, I’m sure I’m right. Professor, what happened? Why are you-”
“I don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout.”
The man looked at Flower Man and noticed for the first time the pleading in his eyes. Flower Man didn’t want his situation discussed. All he really wanted was a hot meal and a dry, warm place to sleep.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have the wrong person. I’ll take four bouquets, full price.”
“Eight dollars, sir.” Flower Man looked to the man with appreciation. He handed over half of his stock.
“Look, I know this is strange, but it’s the holiday season,” the man whispered so his son wouldn’t hear, “and I’m trying to teach my son about giving. Would you be so kind as to come have dinner with my family tonight?”
“I’m no charity case. I appreciate the business, but I am no charity case,” Flower Man argued.
“I’m sorry. I just… please. You look like you could use a hot meal.”
“I guess… I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“Well then, I insist. I can take you home after.”
“Won’t be necessary,” Flower Man replied.
“You’re coming for dinner, aren’t you?” asked the man.
“If you insist.”
“Home is this way,” the man pointed down the street.

“Honey,” the man whispered. He looked into the living room where Flower Man and his son were watching the small television screen. “Honey, this is Professor Morton, my favorite English professor from state college. I mean, without this man, I would not have my job at the paper. He’s selling flowers now and I think he’s homeless.”
“I just don’t know why you invited him tonight, John. I wasn’t planning on having a guest.”
“I know why you’re acting like this.”
“Oh yes, why?”
“Because you cannot bear being around people who are less fortunate than you. But I’ve got big news for you,” he said, “we’re not that well off. We’re in debt and you’re going to have another baby. I just… just wanted to do this for the man who shaped my life, no matter how imperfect it is.”
“Okay, he’d better be prepared for meatloaf.”
“I don’t think he’s all that picky.”

The next morning, John walked his son to school. On his way from the school building to the subway stop, he took a shortcut through the alley. The pungent smell of urine hung heavy in the air.
John saw an alley cat scamper across his path. Then he saw a leg kick the cat. John thought this was just another hobo until he saw his beloved Professor Morton.
John felt his ears grow hot. What happened to this man? He was such a great teacher, loved by everyone. He had a wife, a family.
“Professor Morton,” he called, forgetting his silent pact not to address his new identity as Flower Man.
Silence.
“Professor Morton,” John urged, awaiting a response.
Flower Man rose angrily. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? YOU COME TO EMBARRASS ME NOW?” he yelled.
“I just want to know what happened to you.”
“YOU WANNA KNOW? You mean you really wanna know?”
John could only muster a nod.
“My wife left me.” He paused, as if to absorb John’s reaction. “She divorced me, took the children, moved three states over. Said she was in love with another man. I had a mental breakdown. State fired me. After a while, I couldn’t afford the house. I packed up my books and lived with my mother until she died a few months later. Then, I pawned all my books to afford one month’s rent at a crappy motel. All money went out the window. Now I’m homeless. That’s what happened to me and nothing you do can fix it, so just leave me well enough alone.”
“I can fix this. I can do it,” John began muttering.
Flower Man’s face softened. “Honestly, there’s nothing you can do. I heard you talking to your wife last night. Fine woman you got, and she’s pregnant and you’re in debt. I heard it all.”
John shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other.
“Look, kid, least you got love. You got love and a family and a job. You’ll work it out. And I’ll work it out too. I just gotta keep thinking on making money and it’ll happen. Called the law of attraction. You just visualize what you want, and it’ll come to you.”
John looked away for a moment. “Did you ever write that novel?”
Flower Man stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “What novel?”
“That one you always talked about in class. You said every man’s got a story to tell and you had yours. You said you were waiting for the time to write it.”
“No, John. I never wrote the novel.”
“If you wrote something good, I bet I could show it to the people at the paper. You might get some money.”
“I got my flowers. The flower shop throws away some pretty good bouquets. I’ve got this.”
“No, seriously.” John opened his briefcase and took out pen and a notebook. “It’s got some notes on a few old stories I did, but please, please use it.”
Flower Man didn’t take it. “I don’t want to write. I haven’t written in years. I’d be real bad, I’m telling you.”
“Here, just take it and come see me at the Inquirer if you write anything.” John opened the notebook to write down the address and his telephone number.

About a week later, Flower Man called John’s office phone. He needed more paper. John and Flower Man met up and Flower Man handed John the first notebook. John opened it and read the title “Flower Man, by Larry Morton.” Beneath this, a small paragraph said, “The story of an English professor’s fall from grace and how he became nothing more to society than a pest; the street corner flower man.”
“I knew you had it in you,” John said.
Flower Man smiled. “You keep that one. Type it if you can. I’ll bring you the next one when I’ve filled the pages.”

That week passed and John got another call. This time, Flower Man had three notebooks. “Where’d you get the books?” John asked.
“You’d be amazed what you find in dumpsters,” Flower Man said and smiled.
“Professor?”
“Please, call me Larry,” he said.
“Larry, will you please come stay with my family while you write this?” John asked, and added, “As a matter of fact, I give you no choice.”
“I guess it would help if I didn’t have to worry about shelter or food.”
“No, and I would feel better if I knew you were okay.”
“Once I’m finished, I’m out, though,” Flower Man said.
“How about once it’s published,” John proposed.
“Deal,” they said in unison and shook on it.

Within a month, the first draft was handwritten by Flower Man and typed by John. Then they worked together to edit it over the next couple of months. Finally, a year later, John and Flower Man opened an envelope from a small publishing house in New York City.
The letter said that his novel was good. They were going to publish his work. The first check Flower Man got was a small one, but it was enough that he could afford an apartment.

The book was published and became a bigger success than the publishing company expected. The rights were sold to a larger publishing corporation. Flower Man became the number one bestselling book in the country.
Larry Morton continued to receive royalty checks. He offered many times to help John. John, after all, had been the only one to help him when he was just the flower man. John refused financial help many times. Finally, Morton insisted, handing over a check for a fifty thousand and eight dollars to pay him back for the bouquets with plenty of interest.
John, his wife, and their two children were finally out of debt. And John, with the help of Morton made the transition from lowly staff writer at the Inquirer to an editor at Morton’s publishing company, Flower Man Publishing House.

It was all thanks to four bouquets that could buy Flower Man some food and a man who never forgot the good done for him.

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