The fruit vendor of the real

He stood across the street from Saint John the Divine’s Cathedral on Amsterdam Avenue at West 112^th, not far from Columbia University. I was returning from lunch, two blocks away, with the June heat beating my head like a drum. He was standing like so many others who form a fleet of fruit and vegetable vendors spread across the city with their aluminum faced wagons, with an umbrella to shade the produce, small wheels so that an SUV could pull the cart to and from locations that sell their produce at prices lower by far than the supermarkets and tony stores nearby. They have produced a pushcart culture that I hadn’t seen since I was a boy in the 1940s. It signifies to me how desperate people have become for work.

There must be one company supplying all these fruit wagons, depositing them along the streets of the West Side and perhaps the whole city, a company buying huge quantities of produce so that it could be sold at rock bottom price or below. The vendors all wore license tags on strings around their necks. Two boxes of blueberries, my favorite breakfast topping for cereal, sold for $3 on a particular day; one box sold for $3 across the street in the West Side Market, favorite of students and teachers.

But I could never resist a bargain. And so, as I walked by the stand on W. 112th, the vendor stopped me. “You need some strawberries, price good, bananas, anything, my friend?” Without stopping, he said “I can’t do business in this weather, too hot, my god,” revealing some broken teeth patched into a moving bridge. “No,” I said, “Thank you; I have enough fruit at home.” “I give you free sample anything,” he said, as I sensed his desperation and he picked up a half-dozen cherries and thrust them in my hand. “Here, for you, taste, see how you like.” “Thanks but . . .” “No, no, take, my name Esni, your name?” “Jerry,” I said, holding my hand out to shake. He grasped it, questioned, “Mr. Jerry?” “No,” I said, “Just Jerry.” “Jerry, good,” he answered.

“I cannot sell here. The people, you don’t know, they crazy here.” His corner was a bit remote though the cathedral across the street must have brought some traffic; huge double-decker tour buses always parked there, a definite tourist attraction. I said, “Yes, very hard in New York to sell fruit, many vendors.” “Yes, many sell. I don’t know what to do,” he said. His face was almost wrinkling in tears.” I said, “You must be strong, Esni. Don’t give up. Sooner or later, you’ll get customers.” “Customers,” he said. “Yes, people to buy your fruit.” Taking a dollar from my pocket, I handed it to him for the six cherries. “No, no, that gift, you like?” “Yes, very good.” In truth, they were a bit overripe from the heat. “I tell you, what I do?” “Be strong, you will sell your produce and be well.” There were tears in his eyes. I was looking at history.

My mind flashed on Tarek al-Tayeb Mohamed Bouazizi, 27 years old, the Tunisian street vendor who set himself on fire on December 17, 2010, in protest of the confiscation of his wares and the harassment and humiliation that he reported was inflicted on him by a municipal official and her aides. His act became a spark for the Tunisian Revolution and the wider Arab Spring, inciting demonstrations and riots throughout Tunisia in protests of social and political issues in the country. The public’s anger and violence intensified following Bouazizi’s death, leading then-President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali to step down on 14 January 2011, after 23 years in power. Could this young man bring down Mayor Bloomberg let alone the administration in D.C.? I doubt it.

I thought there must be millions of Esni and Tareks around the world, trying to find a future, to support families, to educate themselves, to remove obstructionist governments barring their way, frustrating their desire for a better life.

This was not Tunisia but the rawboned police state of New York City, USA, which demanded some vendors become neighborhood snitches. Our revolution had come and gone and needed refreshing. This poor soul, Esni, had been so harassed by police for his license, by his fruit suppliers for money, and to work harder, he was halfway over the fence.

“Be strong,” I said again, “Be strong, Esni don’t let this bring you down.” “Yes, yes,” he said, “not down. Strong, I am all right.” Give me a pound of cherries,” I said, “four bananas here, a box of strawberries, okay?” “Yes, yes, special price.” “No, no special price; whatever they cost.” “Yes, yes, Mr. Jerry.” “No mister, just Jerry.” “Jerry yes,” his hands scooping a fat pound of cherries in a bag, a plump four or five bananas in another, a box of red sweet strawberries in another bag,”

“How much,” I said. “Five dollars,” he said. “No, that’s not enough. It is three dollars for the cherries, three for the bananas, four dollars for the strawberries, ten dollars,” taking a ten spot from my pocket, handing it to him, his smile revealing his broken teeth, his eyes damp.

“You be cus.” “Customer,” I said. “I’ll try. There are many sellers, one right near my house.” “You come, see Esni.” “Yes, I said. “Thank you.” “Thank you,” he echoed. And I thought was this all it took to save a man’s life, a few words, to make a few purchases, to restore his dignity. Apparently it was. I turned and shook his hand again. “Be strong, Esni.” And suddenly realized he was strong. He had gotten me to buy ten dollars worth of his fruit, putting his plight on the line.

“Good, I am happy for you,” I said, thinking have I aborted the “American Spring.” No, I thought, you did the right thing. Had you walked away, who knows what would have happened. “Goodbye Esni, good luck.” “Luck, yes, thank you,” he said. And down the street I walked to Book Culture with my cache, perhaps to buy a discounted book of poems.

Not unlike the fruit, I’d gotten so many tasty bargains there on major and minor poets. They nourished and sweetened my spirit and mood. The bookcase, next to my wife’s and my bed, below the windows had four stacks of poetry books. I devoured them. Poetry was always with me, made me see. There was even a copy of my book, State Of Shock—Poems from 9//1 on, in the stacks upstairs. The manager had taken four books for free which I had given him to see if they would sell. I gave him a taste, just as Esni had done.

Unfortunately, he didn’t place them on the display tables downstairs, or with the discount books, but buried them up in the stacks on the second floor. Still, three were gone, so they must have sold, bought perhaps by people who read my articles on the Internet. Life was good, it seemed. Esni was happy. I paid $5 for a once $14 copy of Sonia Sanchez’s like the slinging coming off the drums, a beaten copy of an upbeat, lovely book of neglected but brilliant work. The poem that got me was . . .

This is how I lay down my love:

We are not Robert Oppenheimer quoting
Indian literature: I have become death.
We are. Must be. Must quote,
i have become life
and oppose all killings, murderings,
rapings, invasions, executions,
imperialist actions.
i have become life
and I burn silver, red,
black with life for our children
for the universe for the sake
of being human.

What we know today is that this
earth cannot support murderers,
imperialists, rapists, racists, sexists
homophobes. This earth cannot
support those who would invent
just for the sake of inventing
and become death.

We must all say I have
become life, look at me
i have become life.

And there it was. The fruit of Sonia’s ripened thought. Could it be more apt? What true price should it bear for that wisdom gathered in a lifetime of pain and joy and liberation as a feminist, Latino and poetess?

After getting my credit card receipt, I walked out of the bookstore and reached in the bag for a strawberry, rich, red and bleeding flavor. What, where, how had I found all these jewels in the fast-paced streets below Columbia University? Perhaps it was just some inner GPS that led me to them. I hope Esni had it. This could be his “American Spring” without the immolation. Could there be such a thing. I hope. May we all become life! Sometime soon, before the forces of reaction destroy the world.

Jerry Mazza is a freelance writer, life-long resident of New York City. An EBook version of his book of poems “State Of Shock,” on 9/11 and its after effects is now available at Amazon.com and Barnesandnoble.com. He has also written hundreds of articles on politics and government as Associate Editor of Intrepid Report (formerly Online Journal). Reach him at gvmaz@verizon.net.