On a Friday afternoon in
downtown Pittsburgh, a vendor selling bouquets of flowers from white plastic
buckets that I associate with industrial foods is advertising to cars on the
way home. As I approach on foot, the man, who is facing away from me, is
practicing his martial arts moves, punching and kicking objects and people that
only exist in his imagination. I thought to myself that his practice session was,
perhaps, not conducive to selling his products. Flowers are usually the purview
of the marital arts, not the martial arts. He suddenly turned my way and was seemingly
surprised by my presences. He looked at me sheepishly and asked, “Flowers,
sir?”
