Steinbeckian Intro

Along Clark Street the bars—Frank’s—Tin Lizzie—Club Neo—Raven’s—Clark Bar. Miska’s Liquors, an alcoholic convenience store, sits like a stigmatic step-brother in the middle of them, same collection of neon signs gathered in the windows, same brands and bottles and beer, less noise.

During the day, Clark Street serves as pedway to young and old, where errands are run, purchases made, lists crossed off at each storefront. During the day, the good people of Lincoln Park hardly bother anymore to notice the darkened bars, seeping of staleness and filth, mothers turn the wheels of their strollers away, women glance away at their reflection, men avoid looking altogether. The bars are closed until at least lunch, but most until three, and Miska’s does not ask questions. It pretends not to care.

Miska’s Liquors opens every day at ten in the morning, except Sunday. On Sunday, traditionally a day of worship for many, a day of rest for most, Miska’s opens its doors at nine a.m. Sunday is a day of recovery for most of their customers, who mouth the myths of hangovers as they purchase more of what they drank last night.

It is daytime. In the daytime, Miska’s masquerades as a convenience store. Most of the regulars come in the daylight to purchase cigarettes, lottery tickets, and soft drinks like soda or Gatorade. Truth is, Miska’s is exactly one block between two better convenience stores, but no one seems to want to walk past it to get the same thing cheaper. Truth is, Miska’s makes most of its money from this steady influx of retirees, homeless and housewives. They are bored and they want to be entertained by the lotto or pinching enough change together for a pack of cigarettes, or selecting the perfect bottle of wine. Truth is, nothing’s perfect.

The only liquor sold in the daytime is usually wine, selected by a thoughtful dinner guest, a housewife who wants to serve wine with her carefully crafted dinner, or the procrastinating co-worker who needs a nice gift for a departing employee. They ask a lot of questions, usually birthed by boredom. Their questions get answered swift and certain, to cut off their patron.

The copy machine is always turned on during the day, running off bleary copies of God knows what, people come from the neighborhood, people come from the Currency Exchange next door, people who need to keep copies of things come and make shitty copies of receipts and warranties and try to explain it, to stave off the boredom.

Sometimes, Miska’s pretends to care. Like a bartender trapped behind the stools, the employees at Miska’s Liquors laugh and cajole their customers; accepted their fate. Sometimes, it is easy to care, seeing the same old guy get the same numbers every day for the lotto, figuring he’ll hit ‘em one day, and he small talks while the machine punches and prints and spits out the strip of paper that he’ll carry all day in his pocket, stare at when the boredom kicks in, and watch the news for, or maybe check the paper the following day.

Sometimes, it even feels friendly, until Sayed comes in, fat blistered cigar hanging from his bottom lip, eyes droopy, but darting everywhere, like he can take stock of the entire store with just one sweep across, what’s short, what’s slow, what’s selling. He hustles through the store, without a greeting, all business, maybe a grunt at Cy, a glance at the register, and then he’s gone, into the back room, into his office, where piles of paper threaten to tumble to the floor in cascades, papers overlapped and lying on top of others, and yet, he never loses a thing in all that mess.

He reminds you that it’s all business at Miska’s, even if it’s not exactly professional. His presence is a stifling constraint on everyone who is working, like the raging alcoholic father they hated growing up, he tramples through the store with no encouragement or joy. It’s all business, no matter how it looks on the outside.