Goji
by Joy Guo
Baba, I was eating goji berries today, and they reminded me of the little store that we used to own, off Route 9W up by Westchester.
It sat in the belly of a curve in the road. We’d hear the rasp of wheels going too fast around the bend and brace ourselves for a car to come plowing through the storefront window. None ever did but we’d still go outside and ponder the whorls scorched into the asphalt, messages in code from the universe. We put up a crude sign, “DRIVE SLOW,” but it was taken down or stolen or blown away and we never put up a second one.
The wind off the lake below us pounded fists against the windows and door, so hard that I’d be doing algebra and you’d be at the register and we’d look up, expecting a customer to amble in, pulling on our best Welcome! How may I help you? expressions, and, when we realized it was just the wind, we took off those plastic smiles, put them away in a drawer for next time, and bent our heads again.
We were initially in the business of selling herbal supplements and remedies: goji berries, jujube rinds, ground chrysanthemum, walnut husks, extracts and tinctures. But no one in Westchester bought these. They might pinch a bit and nibble, politely declining any offer to try more, or they might chuckle at a pickled animal groin (Bob would love that, wouldn’t he?), but their feet would eventually lead them back through the door and, just like that, they were gone.
So we refashioned ourselves into selling collectibles. Placed on display were the Dickens collection that Ah Po gave you when you graduated from university, Ma’s pearl necklace that she never wore because she was afraid to test the fragility of the clasp, shawls and jackets that exhaled perfume and pipe smoke. But no one wanted those either, and so the parts of who we were that might catch a casual, perusing gaze were left to grow furry with dust.
We were no good at running a business. We crawled on our stomachs along wire-thin profit margins, too scared to look down. Every night, we took our time tallying up the receipts, stretching out the process like sticky paste, holding at bay the moment when one of us would turn to the other and ask, That’s it? To make ourselves feel better, we’d go over to the glass jars, unscrew the lids, and sift our hands through the goji berries and roots and tea leaves, so much of whatever it was that we could reach in all the way to our elbows and still not touch the bottom. But even that wasn’t enough.
Er zi, I’ll sell the store if I have to, you’d declare.
Even went so far as trying on thirty suits from a Macy’s sales rack, each a wrinkled, ill-fitting ghost of the you that, tomorrow or next week or next month, would make a fresh start, close deals, shake hands, play golf, pronounce the names of French wines with aplomb. None of the suits passed muster but you didn’t want to offend the saleslady, so you ended up buying a clip for a tie you didn’t own. I think I still have it somewhere.
Even had me put together a résumé for the job applications you never filled out. I bulleted all of the achievements you hauled across the ocean to this new country, but not the two years, after you arrived, spent working as a line cook at Burger King. That won’t look good, I said.
Why not? Sweat’s yellow memory lining your shirt collars, the iced Coke that you downed in such quantities that cold beverages were never quite as enjoyable, fistfuls of Whoppers that you brought home in triumph, clutching the grease-stained bag by the scruff of its neck, even though I hated the ketchup-sodden bread, the way the meat crumbled apart in my mouth.
Why not, you repeated. I didn’t answer. To you, it was a good experience, a lesson that there was no shame in starting from the bottom so long as you pulled yourself up over the top. To me, it was just a reminder that we’d always fall a little short, even when I sat on your shoulders and you stood on your toes.
In the end, it didn’t matter. You would never sell our store, a dream that you had before you had me.
I’m sorry, Baba. I tried to keep the store open for as long as I could, after you died. I issued coupons, held year-long promotions, extended credit, begged the bank, caved to usury, sapped friendships dry, borrowed without even a false promise of repaying. I held on for four years and then I couldn’t do it anymore.
We always sold at a loss. The store itself was no different.
The new owners didn’t want any of our inventory – except the goji berries, which they emptied into a bag, before handing back the jar.
As I gave them the keys, I thought of our opening day. We stood at the threshold, watching the wind skim off the lake, your arm around my shoulder. You said something vaguely hopeful, but I can’t remember what it was.
Today, a woman at the supermarket was putting out samples in paper cups. One held goji berries. These superfoods can be sprinkled on top of avocado toast and yogurt bowls for a burst of antioxidants, she said. Buy two bags, get one free. Improve your mental performance immediately.
I took a cup and tipped the contents into my palm.
Small, wrinkled berries, not much taste on their own, but when I chewed, I thought of you and the look on your face when the wind knocked and we waited for the door to swing open.
Joy Guo currently lives in Manhattan with her husband. She is a white collar and regulatory defense attorney. Her work is published or forthcoming in failbetter, Passages North, Okay Donkey, and Pithead Chapel.
