He was gone!
Shelter-in-Place had been in effect for two days when I ventured out to get some vegetables from the street vendor on the Upper East Side in Manhattan. He was not there; not him, not his cart. Maybe he is sick. I walked two blocks to another stall. Gone. Walked another few blocks to the third stall: gone. If grocery stores were open—essential services—why were roadside vendors shut down? Isn’t outdoor shopping safer! I worried about his loss of income, as I walked by the supermarket, not venturing inside, and decided to try my luck at on-line shopping.
Last week, when Phase-1 opened in New York City, the vendors were back. As I picked out Granny Smith apples and mini cucumbers, I overheard my husband Khalid asking our vendor how he had fared during the pandemic.
“Maybe I should interview him for my blog,” I said to Khalid.
For the record, I don’t have an agent. Who needs one when I have my husband Khalid to make connections. The procurer of groceries in our household, he knows the vendor on first name-basis. “My wife is a writer,” Khalid said to him. “Can she interview you about how the pandemic affected your business?”
“I am busy now. Can you come tomorrow at 7:00 a.m.?”
It takes a major change in my routine to be out by 7:00 a.m., but we were there. Except, he was not. Another man, who didn’t speak good English, stood in his place. Next day we showed up again. He was not there. His stand-in didn’t know when he would be back. This went on for a few days. I hope he didn’t come down with COVID-19. Today, we were back again, and this time a third person was in his place, speaking good English. Khalid asked him about ‘our man’. “He is on vacation for a few weeks. Gone to Turkey.” Turned out that this man was the owner. I will call him Farook.
“When will he return?”
“Maybe four weeks. He has to be quarantined in Turkey for 14 days before they allow him to visit his family.”
I whispered to Khalid that perhaps we can interview Farook.
“Can we interview you?”
“Yes. But come back in an hour. I have to stock the shelves and I haven’t had breakfast.”
We came back at 9:00 a.m.
“How has the pandemic affected you?” I asked, making notes.
“We were closed for two months. No income.” He has no unemployment benefits.
“How did you survive?”
He shrugged.
“How did your family make out?”
“My daughter is doing schoolwork from home; my wife is O.K.”
Farook comes to work at 5:00 a.m., driving his refrigerated truck over the G.W. bridge from New Jersey, paying $45 in toll. It takes him four hours to set up. First the steel shelving, then stocking the shelves. He stands at his stall till closing time—9:00 p.m., packs away all unsold produce in his truck and dismantles the shelves. If his goods are sold out earlier, he will close early. Then he drives to the Bronx where the shelves are washed, and from where he picks up his supplies for the next day. He is one of the few owners who has a refrigerated truck. Others discard their produce.
“We are not allowed to be a 24-hour service.”
“What do you do on bad weather days?”
“We just close.”
“What do you do for bathroom breaks?”
He pointed to a recreation center. “They let me use the bathroom. But not now, not with COVID. So I go to the nearby café. They are good about it.”
“Who watches over your stall?”
He shook his head. “Sometimes people take away my change.” I noticed a tiny cardboard cup nestled below the strawberries, with nickels and dimes.
“Have you ever been robbed?”
“This is a safe place; but in other areas, they have been robbed of their cash.”
A customer walked up and examined a banana bunch. “Please, help your customer.” I waited by the fence. He bagged the bananas, made change, and came back to where I was waiting.
Farook has been in the United States for 21 years. He graduated from high school in Turkey. He worked the stalls in New York for seven years before starting his own business.
“Did you know English when you came to the U.S.?”
“No. I learnt it here on the street, selling vegetables.”
“How long did it take you to learn English?”
“It is hard to say how long, because I learnt a few words at a time; 60% of the time I know what to say, but 40% of the time I don’t.”
“Well, if you have mastered percentages, I say your English is very good. There, you have another customer. I’ll wait.”
Farook has three employees who man the stall one at a time. Each works a full day. Today he is covering because none of his employees is available.
“How much does your permit cost?”
“I pay $375 and renew it every two years and get an inspection sticker.” He showed me the stickers pasted on both sides of his stall.
“Can the authorities deny renewal and give your space to someone else?”
“No. This space is mine. As long as I renew it, I keep it.”
I point to his truck. “Do you have to pay to park?”
“Oh yes! $4.50 an hour. But these days there is no parking fee.”
His biggest cost is fines.
“Fines! What fines? Who issues them?”
“The police. They come and fine me for anything you can think of.”
“Like what?”
“You see this display of the price,” he pointed to the small cardboards sticking out above the blueberries. “They will say: this display should be centered. I pay $10,000 to $15,000 in fines over two years. It’s a lot.”
“Can you fight it?”
“I fight it. I go to court. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose.”
$15,000 in fines!
Farook poses for a photo as Khalid pays for a bag of lychees and grapes.
“Thank you for the interview,” but Farook has turned to serve his next customer.
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