Joe works at a convenient store at Beaumont and E. 31st in Oakland. I assume Joe isn’t his first name since he speaks with an accent and converses in Arabic with his older buddies, who smoke in front of the store, hang out on the side of the counter and act as clerk when Joe is restocking. I hope he owns the place as he’s there every day of the week.
In the last 6 months, the front doors of the store were smashed during protests and a late night attempted burglary of an ATM – the thieves driving their vehicle through the front door in hopes of finagling the heavy-ass ATM into the backseat of their car or truck. This type of burglary never ends well and is quite common in spite of being so dramatic and loud. I always associated this type of crime as regional – southern or rural. In urban environments, they’re too many narcissists with cell phones vying for attention on You Tube to drive by and think, “It’s none of my business, just keep driving.” Nope, they breakout their phones. Letting things be is no more. With Big Brother in your hand and imminent likes on the screen, the dopamine euphoria of standing out on the Internet is too great a temptation.
My approach to the daily customer vs. checkout clerk interaction has changed. Up until two years ago, my style was to be nice as possible, littering pleasantries in our brief interactions: “Thank you soo much” and “Have a wonderful day (the secular version of “Have a blessed day”).” The latter is the equivalent of shaking someone’s hand and then cupping the shake with your left hand, while nodding and doing your best to show the utmost empathy in your eyes. I defend this action, thinking that somehow my obsequious behavior might offset the asshole that came before or after me. Having been a cab driver for a few years, I should know better. Human nature dictates that you take home the asshole interaction and leave the good ones at work.
In the years since I changed my approach to retail interactions, I’m more comfortable with simple hellos and goodbyes, refraining from questions or observations. With this new approach, I convinced myself that the beleaguered retail clerk needs a break from small talk and would appreciate curt, polite pleasantries. Like my video-wielding You Tube fame hunters, it’s just a different form of narcissism.
Getting to the convenient store from the east is never easy. It requires a small jaunt through a homeless freeway underpass, tents and all sorts of discarded furniture lining the sidewalks, and then a quick right, quick left and a U-turn to an outer road, before pulling into the far right parking space. Adherence to blinkers at every turn helps facilitate a safe arrival. If not, you get a lot of hands thrown in the air in anger.
In front of my favorite parking spot, an air pump machine is wrapped in yellow caution tape. Since I’ve been going here, it’s never worked. A homeless late model sedan is parked to my right. The cabin is full of wrinkled clothing and essential belongings, the windows blocked with various button-ups and polos, and the driver’s side door always open. The open door is a warning that the owner is near.
The owner of the vehicle stands next to the defunct air pump with a squeegee in his right hand. I get out of the car and walk past him, acknowledging his presence.
“Can I clean your windshield?”
“Aww, no thanks. No amount of cleaning is going to help that vehicle,” pointing to my dirty, sea foam Prius. It was my not-so subtle attempt at absolving me of giving him money. An excuse, if you will. Like most people, though, I’m more comfortable giving money on the way out instead of the way in. However, I’m smart enough to never say, “I’ll get ya on the way out.” A lot can happen between going in and out.
Joe is not at the checkout. A younger man of similar origin sits halfway between the register and checkout counter in a swivel stool with a back support. Instead of the ubiquitous mask, he wears a full plastic mask shield. Between the shield and the Plexiglas that separates us, his security is covered.
I shuffle in, my flip-flops clacking at every step. My mask covers most of my face; my exposed eyes are watery and sad. I fill my recycled soda cup with Diet Pepsi and move toward the register. Instead of asking about Joe’s whereabouts, I adhere to my rules of conversation and say nothing. I pay $2.00 for a $1.85 soda and leave without getting the change. Joe doesn’t sweat being short so I always round up, leaving the change. When I’m short, he doesn’t care. I assume this tactic of not worrying about the small stuff is a survival tactic, benefitting his well-being.
Outside, the homeless window washer is still next to the defunct air pump. I walk over, hand him a dollar and say, “It’s smoky today from the fires. It doesn’t seem fair with the pandemic and all.” He nods. His face is kind. He knows my liberal kind.
A few days later, Joe returns…with a cast on his left arm. The top glass to the right front door is replaced with plywood. Joe must have been assaulted. I got my soda and approach the counter. I want to say, “I’m sorry, Joe. Did someone assault you? I’m sorry about the door, too. I know you have insurance but I’m sure the deductible is high. People are fuckin’ idiots, man.”
I refrain, though.
“Refill, Joe.”
I take out 2 dollars from my wallet and slip it under the dome-shaped hole in the Plexiglas. No change.
As I walk away, I say, “Take care, Brother” and nod. He looks at me and nods. I like to think that was his way of saying, “Thanks for not asking.”
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