A Taste of Ethiopia and Lottery Tickets

Bodegas are, if you live in a city that has them, about the best little shops on earth. If you are from the suburbs or rural places, you'd have to visit a truck stop to find the next best thing.Except at truck stops you don't have the diversity factor. Bodegas are rarely owned by people who hail from the United States, and they are located in inner city neighborhoods that often have high crime and poverty rates. No matter the nationality of the owner, I call them all "bodegas". It's just easier than trying to remember how to say "weird little shop" in 10 languages.

Their merchandise is comprised of random samplings of essential and nonessential items. All products are usually toward the front of shelves in perfect geometry so as to fool the eye into thinking there are more than, say, four boxes of Cornflakes. Individual rolls of toilet paper, sewing kits and candy bars occupy the same section. Alcohol takes up most of the wall space, followed closely by cigarettes, and lottery tickets are available at the front counter.

Those are the commonalities. What I love about a true bodega is the stuff for sale from the owner's country of origin. Across the street from me is a shop owned by a woman from Ethiopia. She moved here as a young child, so her English is better than mine most days. When I request a lottery ticket, she always recites the same caveat: "If you win, you must buy this place so I can get the hell out of here. Maybe Paris." Her half sister, on the other hand, barely speaks a word of English.

My last visit, I had to circle past a group of addicts and dealers trying to steal beer to do my browsing. After they begrudgingly bought the beer with coins, I arrived at the counter with an armload of what I thought might be tea, a plastic pack of what looked like mustard seeds, an interesting melange of spices and a Butterfinger. I have a pretty good handle on what a Butterfinger is, but I needed clarification on the other three.

The non-English-speaking sister was on duty. After a few attempts at communication, much improvised sign language and a gestured request for a lottery ticket I bought all four. Everything cost $1.99.

Much to my delight, what I thought might be tea is, and it's amazing. It's smokey and strong, and goes beautifully with a little honey and some milk. The mustard seeds (?) I've yet to put to use. They are irregularly shaped, and smell faintly of red peppercorns. The spices must be for making chai. I've harvested out the cardamom seeds for baking. The Butterfinger is long gone.

My next adventure is to visit the Algerian bodega for some goat jerky and bobby pins. Then to the Korean one for some canned hearts of palm and a second bag of multicolored tapioca beads. Why? Because they're there.

Mystical Garbage

Mid-July is hitting without hesitation. The heat is bouncing off buildings and amplifying itself. The pavement is bleached, the plants are scarred, the people are stripped and burnt, and the shadows are steaming furiously--and it stinks out here. I'm dragging Sam-dog up some steps away from a couple of Rottweilers, and I nearly trip over an empty can of Krunk Whatever and some Cheeze Yucks stuck to tree sap.

As if I've never been here before, I'm now noticing that every few feet there is a small pile of fast food and sugary drink byproduct, clearly given a further once-over by scavengers. Candy wrappers are ripped by raccoons, french fries pecked by crows, morsels of dog shit are barely visible under a thick coat of flies. Cigarette butts show signs of being resmoked by the dozens and are mounded into noxious, yellow pyramids. Camels, of course.

There are a lot of dumpsters in this part of town, thanks to the many apartments and condos. Multi-dwelling buildings are good for that sort of thing. One need walk but a step or two to lift a lid and drop in whatever debris doesn't contain nutritive value, but, no. Everyone is busily building their shrines to obesity, lung cancer and tooth decay as though there are native urban gods in need of offerings.

Enough of this obnoxious heat. I think I'll go get myself some iced tea. That hit the spot. I wonder which god would like the empty bottle?

My Corner

I was almost picked up for solicitation the other day. Apparently standing in a group of prostitutes and drug dealers when the police roll up, while they pet your pooch (literally my dog), is ill-advised. Several police cars showed up all at once, sirens and lights, billy clubs, guns, etc. I must have looked positively terrified, which is probably why they let me wander off in a daze without saying, “Hey. Where the hell do you think you’re going?” No one else in the group batted an eye. Seasoned vets. Just another day on the corner.

Obviously I’d prefer it if the neighborhood stock brokers, bank tellers and store owners were the only ones to show an interest in Sam-dog, but I have to live with the other element, too. Discriminating against them would only make me stand out and possibly invite conflict. Who am I to judge, on disability and facing discrimination of my own each and every day in small ways?

Then there was the one hooker who thanked me for letting her pet Sam. Nothing could have been more effective at letting me know, once and for all, that we are all created equal but only on paper.

Poetry for People Who Hate Poetry

For Quick Sale

this
mer-
chan-
dise
has
been
re-
duced
to
tears.






Regrade

The constructive crane-neck
Of brontosaurus
Came before us
To nuzzle a weighty head
Into a lake bottom.
The slam-walk and ram-top
Of triceratops
Leveled levees of the past.
The final thrash
Of tyrannosaurus rex
Wrecked an acreage
Not in defiance of nature
But in compliance with stature.
We who lack such strength
Make up for it in steel.





The Unfriendly Takeover

...almost forgetting
the sting for the prickling
of tiny steps

tripping over hairs
and dodging moles

insipid trolls
of the animal kingdom

striving up the food
chain link by swarming
crawling link

beasts without
burden being
light as air

the burdened ones to
be their daily giant-fare

as they grow
with poverty
and breed in filth

in a world shrinking
from its insect wealth