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I’m sitting here, a bit worn out from today’s running around — trying to make sales. Now I sit typing away, listening to Rocío Dúrcal’s Amor Eterno. Sometimes I stop and think, what am I doing?
This morning, at 8 a.m., I was loading my van to head out — another day after another, after another. The endless days of routine. While loading, I caught myself reminiscing about last night. I didn’t write yesterday evening. I was parked on the side of Washington Blvd., eating an ice cream cone. I decided to call one of my liquor store clients because I was too lazy to drive there and check in person. I’ve been feeling tired lately — years of trying to get my shit together, you could say, catching up.
They picked up and asked if I could show up in fifteen minutes; otherwise, they’d be gone. I said, “No, but I can be there in thirty.” My assessment was right — and well, things can change sometimes.
Later, my mom called to ask if I was home. My sister had forgotten her keys and couldn’t get into the house. She’s been working with our cousin for the past two days on a political campaign — she’s trying to get motivated. It worked out for me to head home and open the door for her, since I’d just checked my van and realized I was low on bag cases for the next delivery.
On the way home, I hit traffic. When I finally pulled up to the house, there they were — my sister and our cousin Nena, sitting out front in Nena’s car. Nena’s been picking her up and dropping her off these past two days. I hadn’t seen her in over a decade. I tend not to stay close the way I should. Her younger brother passed away in 2020 from COVID. My family and I didn’t attend the funeral because of everything that was happening at the time.
I got out of the van and embraced her — and I just kept hugging her. The emotion came automatically: sadness for her brother, and happiness to see her again after all these years.
After catching up, I hurried to finish loading the van. By then, the sky had darkened. I pulled up to the liquor store, feeling a quiet ache in my chest — that familiar dread of seeing the owner. It always seems to end badly for me whenever I deal with store owners; I always prefer talking to the employees. I got this store through a referral from another client, but I usually deal with the workers, not the man himself.
Not today.
The voice I’d heard on the phone was indeed the owner. I froze for a second — then walked in with the best spirit I could manage.
The store owner stood there. He looked at me and said, “You’re late. I thought you said you’d be here in thirty minutes.”
The dread hit me. I smiled and replied, “I hit traffic and had to go to my warehouse to load a few cases I was short on.”
He smiled but didn’t say anything. I showed him the cases from the order. He checked them off, and I handed the receipt to his employee.
After dropping off the cases in the back warehouse, I walked over to get paid. The dread grew again.
He looked at me and said, “I thought you were my other bag man — the one I used to have. His name was Ivan. I don’t know you. What’s your name?”
I said, “Roberto. Robert — with an ‘o’ at the end.”
He smiled. “How did you get my store as your client?”
I told him it was a referral from another liquor store. “The guy over there, Tony, told me about this place,” I said.
“Huh?” he replied, then asked for the receipt. His employee handed it to him. He smiled and said, “Tony’s my nephew — he’s like my son. That other store is mine, too.”
He paused, then said, “I’m gonna FaceTime him. I want you to do something for me. When I put him on, I want you to tell him — with a serious face — that you got this store after you handed him a hundred dollars under the table.”
Tony picked up. His uncle said, “I have a guy here named Roberto, and he says you gave him this store.”
Then he flipped the phone, and in my best serious face I said, “Yeah — don’t you remember? I gave you a hundred dollars under the table.”
Tony looked at me, confused, and said, “No.”
Then his uncle burst out laughing — and so did I. I’d been holding it in already. Still, I felt like a damn clown.
In the same swoop, the uncle said to his nephew, “I see his prices are kind of high. Are his prices high for you too?”
Tony said, “It’s okay. I mean, an Asian guy showed up with lower prices.”
His uncle frowned. “Then why didn’t you switch him or tell him?”
Tony said, “Because he’s a good man.”
Then the uncle turned to me — still on FaceTime — and said, “Will you lower your price?”
And right there, with Tony still on the phone, I felt the pressure build.
This, I thought, is exactly why I don’t like running into the owners of these damn places.
He then walked out, still talking to Tony. The liquor store’s front door was being repaired, so I stood inside with my dolly, thinking, What the fuck just happened?
Tariffs have been going up, and now he wants me to go down? What the fuck, I thought again.
After two or three minutes, I walked outside and told him, “I can’t — but if you’re okay with me lowering the price, then I’ll do it.”
He said, “Oh, if you can’t, I don’t want you to do it.”
I replied, “Well, if you feel good with me lowering it, then I will.”
He said, “Look, either way, you won’t lose us as clients. My nephew said you’re a good man — and that’s good enough for me. Saving fourteen dollars isn’t worth it for me to have a disagreement with you.”
I nodded and said, “Okay, fine. With one condition — if prices rise again because of the tariffs, I’ll have to raise them back, and I’ll let you know.”
We closed the night shaking hands. He asked for my number, and I got his as well. His name is Sam.
Fuck, I hate talking to the owners.
I guess, in a weird way, I got a lesson — not one about numbers, but about character.
And even though I lost a dollar per case, maybe I gained something better — a working relationship.
This is new shit for me.
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