His black, black neck glistens with sweat, shining against the blackness of the night. He’s the only vendor still on the street. The law firms, banks are all closed. Inside the steakhouse gentlemen make contracts with the clink of a glass and rub their steak-full bellies. He digs his fists into his hips. Time to pack it up. Time to go home. He wipes the sweat on the back of his neck.
His face is illuminated by the soft glow of the low watt light bulb shining a dim spotlight on his wares. Earrings, oversized and ethnic—thin, cheap, overpriced; multi-colored cloth bags that give the woman who pulls $12 out of her wallet the illusion of having been to Ecuador instead of just haggling with this African immigrant, this man, who every day arrives at dawn to secure his spot here to catch women like her when they rush out for a big salad, a second latte, or to just stretch their legs in 4-inch heels. He sits; hoping they will look, and notice the brightly colored pashminas––folded carefully to hide the missing sparkles, the snagged fabric––and the assorted, majestic, beautiful dashikis.
–Willona M. Sloan
