I showed The New Yorker to the clerk behind the bulletproof glass. “Your place got featured in a big magazine,” I said.
I pointed to the poem’s headline, "The Mercy
Supermarket," by Miami poet Campbell McGrath in the May 23 edition.
The clerk nodded vaguely, not sure what I was up to. He
looked like he might be from India or Pakistan.
I showed him a business card stating I represented Miami Web News. He studied it for a long time. Maybe he thought I was trying to sell him something. Or he wasn’t sure what to think. I was carrying a Nikon D850 with 24-70 mm lens -- a bulky imposing camera. It was about 8:30 in the morning.
“I want to do a blog item on your place.”
He nodded uncertainly.
I pointed to the salient section of the long poem:
…no drama or falsity, just the moon above
the Mercy Supermarket
and the city beating its heart for the numberless,
the unknowable, the unnamed.
Who’s with me on Biscayne Boulevard tonight?
Who else is in the market for a pint
of papaya juice, a scruple of compassion?
He glanced at it and nodded again. His market is at
6600 Biscayne Boulevard, across from Legion Park. “I can…” he said, mumbling something I didn’t
catch.
I pulled out my notebook and decided to start with a
simple question: “Are your customers from around here?”
He brightened. “Yes.” Something concrete to focus on. “But others come from all over. Italia. Romania.” He used the Spanish names for the countries.
The main panel of the thick glass was slid open.
Maybe it was closed only at night. Or maybe the protection belonged to a more
dangerous, bygone era. Behind him were small packets of Advil and other pain
relievers, plus Juul cartridges. An electric sign announced the status of three
lotteries in millions: $150, $157 and $3.
He said his name was Ansari Mamun. He had come to the United States from Bangladesh in 2011 and went to work right away for his uncle at this convenience store, which had already been there for many years. His uncle had since moved on to another location. He worked there 12 hours a day – 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. Seven days a week. Another fellow did the evening shift.
Had he thought about cutting back his hours? Well,
yes, but. That would cost money to hire another clerk. And could you trust the
clerk?
He didn’t say it, but I figured most transactions
were in cash. “Debit and credit card each transaction is 50 cent charge,” said
a piece of typed paper taped to the glass. “We do not accept E.B.T. Thank you,”
said a sign on the thick glass. “NO REFUNDS. All SALES FINAL.”
A squat young man, maybe from Central America, came
in. He looked around and spotted something high on the north wall. He made a
pinching motion with his right hand, and Ansari handed him a yard-long wooden
pole with a pincher on the end. The man used it to retrieve a bright orange
poncho. He handed the clerk a five-dollar bill.
Ansari shook his head. The fellow handed over a
dollar bill. Ansari raised both hands, fingers spread: 10.
The fellow handed him a twenty, and Ansari passed
back a 10, plus the two original bills.
Did Ansari own the building? No. How was the rent? “Now it’s OK. If it go more, it’s too hard.”
All around him, gentrification was transforming the
boulevard with upscale remodeling or new buildings. The north portion of the
Mercy building was now occupied by Uptown 66 Tacqueria with its tables occupying
part of the parking lot.
I said there used to be quite a bit of crime on the
boulevard. It’s been getting better, he said. He still had occasional
shoplifters, often working in teams, one distracting him with a question or
small purchase while the other ran out the door with the loot.
A black guy came in and rattled off a complicated
lottery order, which involved a lot of sevens.
I showed him the poem. He glanced at it and at my
notebook. “Great place,” he said. “I come here all the time.” He lived close by.
After he left, I took a couple of photos of Ansari behind the counter. He looked at them and suggested I use a different location. He came from behind the counter and I shot him by a rack of chips. He thought that was better.
Did he sell papaya juice? He wasn’t sure. We looked
around. Every inch was taken up by something. A table held bananas with brown
spots. A counter contained Perfume Wands for Hand-Dipped Incense, with flavors
including Wild Wonder and Caribbean Spice.
High on a wall were white T-shirts reached only with
a pole. A big wall sign said $19/ mo. Haiti with Lycamobile. A white
pegboard contained hardware items: extension cords, power strips, bicycle tire
repair kits, auto amp fuses
In a refrigerated case were PIZZA and "Hot Poket.” To the right was a small black microwave.
Most of the north wall was taken with refrigerated beer cases – everything from Bud Light to Veza Sur Mangolandia. A smaller case was for refrigerated white wines.
On the other side of the aisle were red wines – your
basic Yellow Tails for $11 (versus $6 or $7 in a Publix), but also some higher
end brands, such as Josh Cellars, in the mid-20s, versus $17 at Total Wines. Of
course, folks expect higher prices in convenience stores, but the Josh was a
sign that some high-end folks dropped by.
We stopped at a refrigerated case that he thought
might contain papaya. It held Minute Maid grape, orange and apple, each labeled
“100 percent Vitamin C.”
Another case contained Pocasville Mango Nector.
“Maybe he mixed up mango and papaya,” Ansari
suggested. Or maybe the store had papaya when McGrath dropped by. Or maybe
papaya just sounded better to the poet. No reason a poem had to portray
journalistic reality. Or maybe McGrath meant a sly reference to the Cuban slang
for vagina. Probably not, I guessed.
NOT JUST A SUPERMARKET
At any rate, I found his poem to have astonishing breadth
– loneliness and death and vulnerability and alienation. Of course, Mercy is
not just a supermarket.
Would it help if we could itemize
every lost or misbegotten soul,
enter every name in a vellum registry?
Would it summarize my life
To list every object
I have touched with these two hands?
His poem is available here: https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/05/23/the-mercy-supermarket
with his corncob pipe and jovial, over-eager, button-black eyes,
holding, in my palm, the leathery, wine-colored purse
of a pomegranate, I realize, yet again, that America is a country
about which I understand everything and nothing at all.
That poem is available at https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2010/01/11/shopping-for-pomegranates-at-wal-mart-on-new-years-day
Perhaps McGrath does best when his feet are in a store, allowing his mind to soar far afield. Or perhaps my critique reveals more about me than about him.
Ansari and I roamed the store as I searched for possible papaya. The south wall had a large ice chest, stacks of cases of Corona beer and dresses hanging on the wall. A freezer contained Haagen-Dazs ice cream and frozen Snicker bars. On shelves were plates, glassware, pet food, mops, cleaning supplies. A rack of baseball caps included “Miami I Was Here” and “U.S. Marine Corps.”
Ansari asked if I wanted anything. I thought I should
buy something, to thank him for his time. I picked out a 16-ounce Diet Coke. I handed
him a $10. He waved it off. I insisted five or six times. Each time, he shook
his head. I pulled out three ones. Again he said no. I decided it would be
insulting to just drop the money on the counter and leave. I put the bills back
in my wallet.
“How about some candy?” he suggested. “Chips?” I
shook my head.
I’d read a Yelp review of the place before coming. “Owner is super-nice,” wrote Lorin G.
I offered to email him a copy of McGrath’s poem. He gave me his
email address but did it with a shrug. I sensed the poem was as irrelevant to
his existence as, well, a Whole Foods gluten-free 7-grain bread.
A white woman, in a mid-calf office dress, dashed in and pulled a blue Gatorade from a refrigerated case. At the counter, she eyed my notebook suspiciously.
“This place is in The New Yorker,” I said, showing
her the poem, thinking perhaps she’d heard of the magazine.
She glanced at the magazine as she paid.
“This guy takes care of me,” she said as she ran out
the Mercy door.
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