I finally realized, a few months after moving in here, that I was paying about $1 for a beer, and $3 for the man standing there selling it to me.
Let me back up. I live in Oakland, in a part of the city that is desperately trying to gentrify, while other parts of the city desperately try to un-gentrify it. My apartment building is very nice and very deluxe, while less than a mile away is some pretty desperately poor areas. When I first moved into this apartment building, almost 2 years ago, one of the first things I started looking for was my local convenience store; the place I could go at 11pm to just get a beer or a loaf of bread. I quickly discovered that there was only one: Fleuret’s Market & Spirits, at the corner of San Pablo and William. At first, it annoyed me. First, the lack of choice. Second, the prices were crazy high; $3.79 for a can of chili, $5.99 for a pack of tortillas, etc. And it wasn’t even that great of a store. The two things it had going for it were the location, and the fact that the guy stayed open until midnight, every night.
I started going there, begrudgingly. Probably once or twice a week, usually because I either wanted beer or wine, or I just wanted a snack. Occasionally the guy inside would chat me up. I noticed that he was always there; and I mean always. I’ve been there on Christmas Eve; he was there. All day, every day. I started responding to his little comments; we’d talk about the weather, or the area. It was tough because he talked really fast and had a crazy thick accent so honestly I didn’t understand 90% of what he said. One day he came out from behind the counter to open the door for me and I realized he was incredibly short; he can’t be more than 5 feet tall, he just stands on a shelf behind the counter.
Oh yeah: the door is locked. Sometime, after about 8 or 9pm, you can count on the door being locked. You ring a bell, or more likely he sees you from inside the store, and he checks to make sure you’re somebody he recognizes, and then he opens it. I’m not sure what happens if he doesn’t recognize you. I’m guessing he doesn’t open the door.
I slowly began to realize: the reason this man runs the only convenience store near me is because he’s the only one crazy enough to do it. People get shot sometimes in my neighborhood, and sticking up the small Arab guy who runs the convenience store…well, let’s just say he seems like an easy target. I realized I was paying about $1 for that can of chili and $2.79 for him to stand there, selling it to me. $1 for his time, $0.79 for being brave enough to have a business at all, and then an extra $1 that we’ll call hazard pay.
I started trying to actually talk to him. He told me his name, but as God is my witness, despite him saying it 3 or 4 times, all I got was a sort of Akhmed, but that seems way too stereotypical to be true. Did he have a family? (Yes). How long had he been there? (A long time, although he used to be around the corner). Does he make any money? (He does OK, although the rent is incredibly high). Could he stock Hostess cupcakes? (He said he’d try but he’s at the mercy of the distributors willing to work with him). I told him one time he should have tortillas and then next time there were tortillas. He told me a story - which I’m sure is true - about getting illegally scammed out of his old lease because he got a new landlord and the guy just basically didn’t like Arabs.
It’s not that I love Fleuret’s. I don’t. The prices are still way too high and the selection is bad. When I move - as I will someday - I won’t dream of going there again. But I do love the man who runs Fleuret’s. And I love what Fleuret’s represents. To me, it tells the story of my neighborhood, way better than I ever could.
