A pile of plantains is keeping the New York Post in order. El Diario has a net bag of onions on top of the latest.
Flaco, que pasa?
Nada, soy cansado.
These guys have called me slim since moving on from flacito (little slim) when I was a kid. Nothing is up, I am tired, I tell them. It is always like this lately—I am tired, nothing is up because I am working all the time, deriving neither pleasure nor money from the hamster wheel of the city.
Puma is playing Tigres on the little tv. The picture is scratchy, they have some funky reception that gets Univision with a wire coat hanger and tinfoil antenna that brings in live Mexican soccer just above the aspirins lined up for late night wanderers like me. Tylenol, Advil, Bufferin, all in their single foil pouches. Rolls of instant lottery tickets, nail clippers, Phillies Blunts, fly paper. Standard NYC bodega stock. They are open late for El Pico, Coco Lopez and little cans of Friskies cat food, bright orange chicharrons in plastic bags, decks of cards.
Takis and hot Cheetos. Small aisles packed from top to bottom, these places are amazing for breadth, for convenience. Who knew you could get 8 oz Styrofoam cups with lids, a sleeve of 25 for 99 cents?
How do they make money off this stuff?
Mr. Salas is perched on top of two plastic milk crates zip tied together. He is a Pumas fan.
Line of refrigerators humming away with malt liquor, pink guava juice, tonic water, along one wall, opposite the hard goods I never see anyone buy Mops, plastic buckets, religious candles, moth balls, –Fly swatters all colors gathering dust with a sticky film push pinned above the Heimlich maneuver poster, and dusty paper wrapped rolls of off brand toilet tissue.
At the far end of the narrow store is a back door with a deadbolt. The door has a window, but this is covered in packing tape to keep the broken glass from shifting and that window is sheathed in a thick wire mesh, like tight diamonds, but all dusty diamonds, not shiny diamonds. Between the dust and the tape, you can’t see through the window anyway. Tonight, the deadbolt is open and the door is ajar.
Mr. Salas sees me look at the door and raises his chin slightly.
Nods at the door.
Pushing the door gently, there is a small set of steps into a mud room with another door, a single light bulb surrounded by chipped plaster walls. A paper exit sign is taped at the back, just above the bilingual Heimlich maneuver poster. Beyond that door is a small village.
Lights are strung in the trees, and a few hammocks stretch from tree to tree. This courtyard keeps going and there are small clusters of men playing dominoes, drinking pineapple juice and Malibu. A woman I have seen in the neighborhood sits by one of the trees and plays the accordion.
I stay until it gets light and everyone folds up their chairs. We go back out through the door at the top of the stairs, past the mops, past the Goya and the Bounty. Mr. Salas is reading his paper. Outside it is the same as when I first came in.
Do you sell wire of chickens? Fil des poulets?
Pardon?
Wire for the chickens? Fil pour des poulets?
Wire against chickens? Fil contre des poulets?
Wire to protect your chickens? Fil pour protèger vos poulets?
Pardon?
Wire to prevent the escape of chickens? Fil contre l’ échape des poulets?
Non, je crois que non. No. I think not.
Auriez-vous des poulets qui sont en train d’ échapper? Ou des poulets qui doivent d’ être protèger?
Do you have chickens that are escaping? Or chickens that need protection?
No. Non.
Donc, pourquoi vos avez besoin ce fil magique pour faire ça?
So why is it that you need the magic wire for this?
I drew a grid and said “like this in aluminum.” Comme ça mais dans aluminium”
Ah.
Grillage.
Oui.. On vendre du grillage ici.
This was my first encounter with Bruno. I learned plusieurs noms des outils chez l’ancien Quiancaillerie de Lancry.
My shop used to be a news kiosk.
Every day a man on a moped would drive by one at a time from each paper—The Hindu, The Express, The Declan Chronicle and toss a bundle of the mornings papers tied with a string. The family that ran the kiosk was there every day to receive the papers and to sell the papers along with small packets of soap, instant coffee and flags on holidays.
When they left for their home village the papers continued to arrive and sit outside until several months had gone by and the papers had been left outside for so long they were no longer recognizable. The rickshaw drivers used the bundles to sit on or to make beds for a short nap.
At first I sold shoes outside, using the walls of the news kiosk as a backstop for my displays, and then added portable racks I found, which I would tie up with a bicycle chain each night> one morning I came in and the front gate had been pried open—just a few inches, but enough so that I could slide a box or so in for safe keeping. Gradually the gate was lifted further, and I moved in. At first I used the shelves as they had been for years, then added my own, higher and higher up to keep more stock. I moved the floor boards and the stones beneath them, making almost as much space below as above. I can keep shoes for rainy season here, shoes for dry season here, and below it is cool on a hot day. Sometime someone comes to ask about the newspaper and where to find one.
(For more small places)