Some are sullen, withdrawn, gruff. They look at me, my outstretched hand with a business card and simply say, “No.” One does not and his name is Kabir Howlander, a 44 year old man standing around 5’6” from Bangladesh who dons a blue apron, a stark black hat, and a license around his neck from the NYC Department of Health that all food vendors are required to carry.
In 2001, Kabir came to New York City with his wife and three daughters and a few years ago, had a son on American soil. They all now live in Astoria , Queens . Soon after arriving, through friend’s connections, Kabir began working for a man based out of the Bronx (a man Kabir left unnamed but did mention quite a few people work for him), selling the man’s fruit on the streets of the city from a fruit stand on the corner of 6th Avenue and 14th Street in Manhattan, rain or shine. “Sometimes it gets very cold,” Kabir says and I listen as he tells me how his days start at 5:00 a.m. by pushing the loaded cart from 24 Park Avenue to the intersection of 6th and 14th (1.4 miles away) and ends at 9:00 p.m. most nights by pushing it back. He talks about how while he appreciates the job for the income and the fact that he meets quite a few people, the job can be hard, wearing after a while. His face turns cold for an instant and seems lost somewhere but soon gathers composure and talks about how he likes the city of New York, saying, “Nobody can bother me here,” but knows firsthand that if he makes a mistake or something is wrong with the fruit, trouble might arise with some customers or the police. Yesterday he received 2 tickets unexpectedly and explained to me how he will soon need to go to court to challenge them. Both, he says, were because the police wanted him to move his cart further down the street than it already was. He says he guesses he didn’t move it down far enough the first time and shrugs his shoulders as if to say, “That’s life,” and smiles.
I finish talking to him, buy a few plums, and wonder what experiences he has had moving to the city in the troubled year of 2001 or back in Bangladesh, wonder of the sedimented histories that he, like most of us, carry within ourselves, our kin, our family, our daily movements. I wonder who the man is that he works for in the Bronx and what the stories of the other people working for him are. These are stories that come with time, stories you don’t simply share with strangers. I ask to take his picture with his cart but he gently refuses, points to the cart, and moves aside. The trust we build with other people comes with time, patience, and a give and take and I know that this will not be the last time I speak to Kabir, the man who works with fruit day in and day out on the corner of 6th and 14th in the West Village of Manhattan.
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