Chapter 1: Stroberi’s Intro

(As written in The Last Bodega in Jersey, Vol. I)

STROBERI

La Bodega. The last corner of the block that is still ours. El barrio relegated to seven-hundred square-feet. All of which will be gutted and turned into a gourmet bagel shop after today. We fought hard to keep the store alive, but like grandma says, “The Devil only offers what you can’t refuse.” Like a quarter-million dollars for a grocery store that has bled red since the Walmart opened.

When I lock up tonight, it will be the last time. The end of an era. No more quarter-juicies, which are now fifty-cents. No more arguments with the customers over the price of plátanos. Now the verdes turn into maduros; and the maduros into fly traps. It’s just not the same anymore. But the remaining vecinos still come in for their EBT and WIC needs. And of course, for their loosies, lottery tickets, and deli sandwiches.

I fling the storefront gate upwards. It rattles like a train on tracks until hitting the top. I take one look left and right. The block is calm. Occupied by the tumble and crinkle of litter and the buzz of the streetlights. Nobody in sight. More importantly, no stick-up boy catching the early worm (me). This really is the last day. I take a deep breath. The last bodega in Jersey City. Wow. Just thinking it sounds wild. Like the start of a dystopian world.

I sigh.

Maaaaaan, what am I talkin' ’bout? Fuck this bodega! Never wanted to be here in the first place. I inherited it from my Pops last year. His dying wish was that I continue serving the community. Well, the community never served me. They’ve only given me a jail sentence. Because that’s what owning a bodega is, a jail sentence. Clock in at 6AM; clock out at 10PM. Listening to the same bachata, salsa, and balada mixtapes over and over. Dealing with the same clowns every day.

You know how many tecatos I’ve kicked out of this store? Too many. Every day at least one. And if I was unlucky enough, I’d kick out the same one five times in one day. Do you know how hard it is to reason with someone whose eyes are looking one way, lips babeando the other way, while their mind is orbiting the planets? Yo, like I mean, what the fuck!? I rather play La Gallina Ciega with a used diaper as my blindfold.

I’m too young for this. I should be in college. Studying some smart shit. Whispering Romeo Santos lyrics into the ears of educated women. Not these raised by wolves, Cardi B wannabe’s that come in here saying, “what up, son?” or, “good looks, my nigga.” I cringe every time.

That’s why tonight, at 7PM, when the Jew comes with the papers, I’m signing the deal. Sorry, Pops. The community ain’t worth more than a quarter mill’.

I flick on the lights. I close my eyes waiting for G-Hombre, the bodega cat. Yep, that’s his name. G like the letter G, and Hombre like the Spanish word for man. His real name is Giambi, named after Jason Giambi from the A’s and Yankees. But the way my dad would say it, the cat responds to nothing but G-Hombre. “G-Hombre, what you got for me today?” I call out.

It’s our morning ritual. I walk in, and he gifts me the trophies from his night’s hunt. Tom and Jerry shit. A mouse or two that crawled its way down from the apartments upstairs. Only caveat is I gotta keep my eyes closed until he’s done. And from the sound of it, he put in work last night. I hear him bouncing wall to wall, brushing past the chips.

He goes silent. Must be everything. I open my eyes.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

This the shit I’m talkin’ ’bout. Fuck this place! Like, really? I cross my arms. I should have never let those teenagers use the bathroom. Kids can’t smash at home, so they think they can smash here. A used condom next to a baby mouse.

“Last day,” I mutter to myself.

I stretch on latex gloves, scoop the trophies and dump it in the trash outside because one thing about customers, they nosey. Before they even step a toe in here, they appraise the place. Ready to complain about anything and everything that has nothing to do with them.

Second thing about customers, they could all be fiction writers if they turned their exaggerations and mouths into pens. See a mouse in the trash and they’ll assume Fievel and his whole American Tail live here. See the used condom and they’ll think I’m smashing the whole vecindario. I heard it was Juanita. Nah, I heard it was Juanita’s mom. Nah, it was Juanita’s cousin that came from New York last week. The one with the fatty. The rumor when I took over the bodega was, He is going to turn it into a hookah lounge. All because I put on un dembow: music my dad never allowed. But you also have to laugh at the nonsense and admire it at the same time. These customers can turn one fleeting glance from a stranger into a tale about a stalker. Probably the only thing I’ll miss about this place. The stories.

The door chimes open.

“Scooby-doo PA-PA! Y el Caco Pelao suena RA!” a man with way too much energy, pushing a baby stroller, says. His baby half-asleep. “Stroberi? Naaaa, that can’t be you?” He smiles wholeheartedly.

Damn, he said my birth name (My dad’s attempt at naming me after Darryl Strawberry).

“Look at how you’ve grown. I know it’s been a hot minute, but I dreamt about your Pops yesterday so I had to come visit.”

At the crack of dawn? I look at him and his baby.

The man catches the judgement in my eyes. “Don’t worry about the baby. She’s nocturnal. My baby-moms hit the clubs during her pregnancy, so she only falls asleep if she out en la calle.” He adjusts the baby’s blanket, then looks around in nostalgia… or in judgement, tit for tat. Although today, I wouldn’t be offended. It’s the last day, and I took the liberty of being extra lazy with restocking.

“Wow, even though it’s been a minute, this place doesn’t change. Where’s the old Caco Pelao? He in the back?”

“Dead.”

“Oh. What? When?”

“About a year ago. The doctors said it was kidney failure. I think it was the sixteen-hour-a-day bachata-balada diet he was on. All that amargue.”

He rubs the nape of his neck in embarrassment, then chuckles. “I guess that’s a way to go out. But my bad. Didn’t know.” He purses his lips, wrestling with what to say next. “By the way, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Yoskar. Your Pops did me a huge favor back in the day. ’Bout ten years ago, when you was what? Ten? Nine?” He lets out a hearty exhale. Pushes the stroller directly across from me at the register.

I can tell my Pops meant something to him. Especially with how chill he’s leaning on the ice cream fridge. Like he owns the place. Like he spent many hours talking to my Pops in this same exact position.

“Damn, I missed his funeral.” He shakes his head.

“Don’t worry, you can still pay your respects. His body is buried at Bay View, but his spirit remains here. Your pick.” It’s not a lie. Sometimes I sense my Pops in here. His devotion sprinkled all over the fridges, shelves, and crates like ashes. Especially behind the counter. I call it the viewpoint of his life. “If you don’t mind me asking, what my Pops do for you?”

“What do you mean?” He quickly takes out his phone and starts texting away. Once he notices my pause, he says, “My bad. Just needed to send an urgent text.”

“You said he did you a favor.”

“Pshh,” he swipes the air with his phone, “saved my life.”

My dad saved this man’s life? Yeah aight. I can sense exaggeration from a mile away, but that doesn’t make me any less intrigued. “Well, as you can see, the bodega is empty and the crackheads haven’t resurrected yet,” I say, inviting him to tell the story.

He chuckles. “I see you a funny guy, just like your dad.”

“Ehh. I’m just more of an asshole.” We exchange nods of amusement.

“Where do I start? I was eighteen and thought I could finesse anything. It had always been that way. Always managed to get out of situations. But this situation, let’s just say it went downhill once I showed up at my ex’s baby shower.”

“You showed up to your ex’s baby shower?” I laugh.

“Peep it.” His hands move in a rhythmic manner: the sign of a good storyteller. “I showed up, right. Pshh. Pa qué fue eso.”

END OF CHAPTER ONE

The Last Bodega in Jersey, Vol. I

Coming May 2023