*Official J-school site

The rasta raid:

NEW YORK- Aug. 15, 2002

The barrel of the gun looked like large pupil, staring at me. I was caught in its gaze so intently that I couldn't make out any of the faces behind it.

I found the store about two hours earlier while walking my beat in search of a good business to profile. I was walking around 114th and Pleasant Avenue in East Harlem, which is the last remaining block left with a heavy Italian influence. I heard that Rao's restaurant was one of the best and most exclusive eateries in all of Manhattan and I wanted to see if the owner was available for an interview. He didn't arrive until around 5 p.m., the woman behind the counter told me. It was 1 p.m., so I decided to walk around the neighborhood a bit to see what else I could find.

I rounded the corner of 116th and Pleasant and headed west. After I crossed First Avenue I noticed and old Italian man sitting outside Claudio's barber shop. A barbershop would be a good idea for a business story, especially an old one like this, I thought, so I scuffled over to the old man in the chair and introduced myself. With few words he nodded that I wanted to speak to the man inside. Before I could open the door, the man inside popped his head out and with a strong accent said, "I don't want none of that."

Fair enough, I thought and moved to walk on.

"Try the pet shop next door," the old man in the chair noted. So I did.

The pet shop next door was interesting. It was a typical small, non-franchise joint with fish, turtles, a few depressed puppies panting in kennels and a couple of kittens freaking out in the window while shredding newspaper. As soon as an opportunity opened at the register I introduced myself to the guy behind the counter, but before I could finish he said the owner would be in around 6 p.m.

I left and made a left. A couple feet down the block, I started smelling the sweetness of strawberry incense wafting through the air. It was a nice relief from the sweltering summer sewer smell, which usually envelopes New York in August, so I followed it.

Pretty odd, I thought when I found its source. A Rasta shop in the middle of the Italian section of Spanish Harlem. How does the business stay alive, doesn't seem like it would be a natural angle to make quick money. I stepped down the two stairs and entered the small, rectangular store.

Pictures of Haile Selassie hung, Rastafarian flags, incense, soaps, oils, and natural foods lined the walls. There was a hand made counter tacked together with nails and plywood at the far back right of the store and a refrigerator stocked with Vitamin Water and fresh fruits.

The sound of a juicer grinded loudly as a muscular black man with dreads and tank top smashed fruits and vegetables into its port.

"This one is special," the man said. "This one is special for you, you are going to love this one, it's my special recipe."

There were two women at the counter. One was a young, attractive, mid 20s African American. The other, an older, a Puerto Rican senior. As the Rasta man poured the drink for the young woman, she haggled the price.

"Five dollars for this little thing?" She said. "The other guy gives it to me for three."

"That's why he's not here no more," the man said smiling at her. "I'll give it to you for four."

She nodded, took the drink and left. As she was leaving someone came to the door, looked inside and left.

The old lady ordered a carrot and apple drink and left two dollars, claiming a senior discount. The man just shrugged.

"What can you do?" He said addressing me for the first time.

I asked him how he makes money if he's always giving discounts?

"That's what I say to my partner," he answered. "That's why the other guys are gone and I am here."

"What's your name, by the way?" I asked. "My name is Joseph Van Harken, I'm a student journalist looking for a local business to write a story about [pause] this looks like a perfect one."

"Max," he answered, not as welcoming with his words anymore. Until, "I'm a writer too, man. Yeah, check this, I write down everything in this little book."

He hurried down to the other end of the counter and pulled out a 1999 date book. In it was a list of items people who came in noted they wished he carried. In black ink he wrote down the names of patrons, in red ink he wrote down what they bought and how much it cost.

"In this section I also write my thoughts, y'know, just rambling thoughts throughout the day."

"Wow, you must have a lot in there," I said.

"Not too much, this is only my third Friday working."

"Really? How long has this place been open?"

"About two years," he said. "But I just started three weeks ago."

"But you're a partner?"

"I don't like to call myself a partner, but I work for free," he said.

"Really? How did you start that?"

"Well, I used to come by a lot. I checked out the place for about a year. Studied it, y'know. Then I started coming in, getting shakes and things, things to cook. Then he needed help, the owner, moving some stuff, needed a strong man. So I helped out. Then I just started helping out more and more and now I work here. I open the place early in the morning, 7 a.m. right now, maybe 5 a.m. in the future, it's better business early in the morning, the owner only works at night."

"Where are you from?" I asked referring to his accent, which wasn't exactly Jamaican sounding but it did have a Caribbean flair to it.

He didn't answer. He just looked at me for a second and we made eye contact. I zoomed straight into his pupil and felt him studying my soul as I got a glimpse of his. He seemed peaceful.

"I don't tell people that," he finally said. "Y'know, sometimes people pass judgment on where you are from. I don't want none of that."

"Okay, no problem. So then, what do you guys carry here? Do you make a lot of sales? How can you make money if everyone that come expects to get a discount?"

"I don't let them do that, see," he said. "Those were the other guys, I told you. I must profit enough in order to live within the demands of the neighborhood, for if I do not profit, I cannot live."

I can buy that, I thought as I scribbled notes.

"I keep the place real clean, that's why I'm good. I clean five times a day."

I did seem true. There were no bugs. The green linoleum looked worn but had no dirt. I noticed him clean the machine between the two drinks he made up earlier.

"We're working on opening a restaurant here. Right now we just do juices, good juices that are good for you. You can pick some fruits from the fridge, or you can bring in your own. But, as soon as the landlord stops messing with us and gets this place up to code, we want to get into some good food too, food that's good for you."

"So this place is kind of a health food store too?" I asked.

"Yeah, man. Health is good for you. It's the Rasta way. We're vegetarians, we must take care of our bodies. I don't even eat fish. Look follow me," he said and came around from the counter leading me to the back room.

Once in the back he started pointing out all the things the landlord had to fix. He said he was wearing a tank top because it was so hot in the store because the landlord put sheet rock over where the air conditioning comes in. He pointed out the AC unit sticking out of the wall in the back alley, but noted that when we look inside, we only see wall. Beside that, he pointed to a disjoined gutter, which, when it rains he said, creates a puddle of still water in the back alley.

"How can we have nice tables and seats out here if there's still water all the time? But look, I keep the bathroom very clean."

He took me out in the back courtyard to show where he wants to put a dining garden. As soon as I popped my head outside a pit bull charged right for me. Thankfully, the choke collar around its neck tightened and it jerked back before it could bite my head off. I thought I was going to have to test out the cleanliness of his bathroom. He told me the dog was fine and pointed out all the garbage stacked in the far back corner, noting that it took him two weeks to pile everything up back there.

"It used to be all up through this whole yard," he said. "But my muscles and me, we moved it all by ourselves, and now it's clean, ready for people to come and enjoy."

Not if that dog kept barking like a madman the way he was, I thought.

We made out way back out to the storefront and resumed our places, me on a stool, him behind the counter.

"Do you live around here?" I asked.

"Me? No. I'm homeless. I live at the Charles H. Gay shelter for men on Wards Island. I've been homeless since '99."

"When did you move here?"

"I moved here when I was 11, I'm 31 now. My family moved from Haiti right to Harlem. I started body building when I was 13 and '97 I got my license to be a professional personal trainer."

He showed me his laminated personal trainers license. His name read Maxo Gachette.

"So you're from Haiti?"

"Yes, but I don't like to tell people that because they think that in order to be Rasta you must be from Jamaica. This is not true. To be Rasta you can be from anywhere, you just need to practice the ways."

"What are the ways?"

"For example, I started learning about it in '99 when I became homeless. First I read the Bible. Whole thing from cover to cover and back again. I rewrote it, out by hand. I know the Bible. I know what it teaches and it helps keep me on the straight path so I can survive in the shelters. You can't have sex with another man, in the shelter that's everywhere, that's why they call it Gay shelter," he said laughing. "You can't smoke or sell the cocaine."

"What about weed? Doesn't Rasta advocate marijuana? Ganja?"

"No, no, you must be good to people but more important, you must be good to yourself. We are priests. That's why I eat the way I do. I cook outside. I was in the shelter once and in the line for food and I asked the man if there was any meat in the soup. He said no so I took some, but when I went to eat it there was fish. I saw all the guys looking at me and laughing so I thought, yeah, I'm the joke. I didn't eat the soup and from then on I cooked my own food, outsides. Camping style, y'know? That's how I found this place, I would come here for my soy and other foods."

"Are there any other stores like this in Harlem?" I asked.

"Yeah, there are three of us. Not the same owners. We don't do as good at them. We are number three right now. But when we get the restaurant, we'll do better."

"Where are the other stores located?"

"I don't do good anymore. No body remembers the good that you do. You should know that, you write for the papers, the papers only write about the bad. If you want good, you have to look to fiction, the Hollywood happy ending."

"What about September 11th? Do you think people have been better since then? People always talk about how after the attacks New Yorkers came together and have been good to each other?"

"It was okay, but not really. September was just another month up here."

Two men walked in and he diverted attention quickly. They were early 20s, Black males with braids in their hair. They were dressed in baggy pants and had on baseball uniform shirts.

"Ja love, Max, what up man? You got any of that Tiger root?" One asked.

"Yeah man, I got a shot for five."

"Is it good shit?"

"It's good man, this stuff is extra strong."

Max took a porcelain Chinese craft from a shelf behind the counter and poured a shot of thick black liquid into a small plastic cup.

The young male shot it back with force. He squinted, held back a yell, stomped his foot, inhaled with a hissing sound and said, "Shit, yeah… that's good. Nice, well, ayight Max, I'll be back later."

His friend never said a word and hovered around the door. He left after the one who took the shot.

Max swung back around to me.

"What was that stuff?" I asked.

"Oh, that's natural root. It's good for you, gets your energy up. It's not liquor though. It's made a similar way. The Chinese soak roots and let it sit for a while until it ferments, but it's not liquor."

"So, wow," I said, "who are your main customers? Do people like that come off the street randomly to get a root shot?"

"Naw, we just try to keep a little bit of a lot of stuff. But now that we're opening early, we can get the early working crowd on their way to the trains. They stop in for juices in the morning, then they get shakes when they come home in the afternoon. It's all good natural foods man, it's good for you. Like if you have a cold, drink ginger extracts, it'll clean your brain cells. Here, have a shot."

"No thanks, working… on duty, y'know."

"Naw, c'mon, it's not liquor, it will clean your senses," he said and poured a little cup in front of me. I couldn't pass on it anymore because he poured himself one too and was waiting for me to clink glasses.

Zip, pow, zowie. I saw cartoon stars as my sinuses felt like they were being tattooed. I got dizzy and felt a rush of adrenaline flow through my feet. Clearing my throat, I heard Max laugh, real low and look at me with a sinister smile.

"Yeah, man, good stuff huh. Makes you feel like you are here, no?"

I tried to gather my wits and steer myself back toward my mission-- getting information about his business.

"So, who decides what you carry and how much you charge for things?" I asked.

"That's Cox, the owner, my partner."

"Is Cox around?"

"He comes in later, around 7 p.m. But here, I'll call him for you right now if you want to talk to him."

When he was dialing another man came to the door. He stepped in, looked at some incense, glanced at Max and walked out.

"Here you go," Max said handing me the phone.

"Don't you want to talk to him first?" I asked a little nervous calling some out of the blue to ask him about his business.

"Naw, don't worry man, Cox is cool, just practice your reporting skills."

Fair enough, I thought as a man with a heavy Jamaican accent said hello.

"Hello, this is Joseph Van Harken, I'm here at your store with Max. I'm a student reporter and want to write a story on your business. Do you have time for a few quick questions?"

"Sure man," Cox said, "But Max can probably answer questions better for you."

"Well I've been talking to Max, he's given me some great information, but he said he just started working here and that you'd know more about when you started the place and stuff."

"Okay, okay, what's your questions?"

"Well, I was just wondering, it's kind of an odd place to open a Rasta health food store, you know, in the Italian section of Spanish Harlem, why did you pick here?"

"I used to have another store on the west side, 118th and Eighth Avenue but I had problems with the landlords so I moved. I picked here because most people in the area don't know much about health. I want to teach people to live with love and kindness, get the youths this message."

"Great," I said scribbling as fast as I could, trying to make words out of his thick accent. "You said you had another store? How long have you been in this business?"

"Since when I come here in '91."

"Where are you from?"

"I'm from Trinidad man."

"Do you like it here?"

"No," he said. "American different. It has no love. You have to work too hard to make money here."

"How has business been lately? I mean we've kinda been in a recession, has that affected your business?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's affected. People aren't buying everyday like they used to. We need to start carrying other products. Diversify."

"Max mentioned opening a restaurant, is that where you are going?"

"Yeah, yeah. Max will know more about that. The landlord and the bank are in court now so we can't do anything for a while. Talk to Max, he's knows everything, I have to go, I can't stay on the phone for long time."

I thanked him and hung up.

"He said you were the man to talk to."

"Yeah, that's funny, they always leave me alone. I like to work alone, y'know. They know I do a good job, they stay out of my business. I keep the place clean."

"Has the health inspector come by?"

"Health inspector?" He looked at me. "Yeah, yeah, health inspector. Look, I use this stuff too."

He held up a bottle of Lysol spray with bleach.

"Come around the counter, I'll show you what I do. This can be practice. I'll pretend you are the health inspector."

I went around the counter and the place was very clean. Max took apart the large metal juicer. It had fresh remnants of the carrot from senior lady's drink.

"Normally that would not be like that man. You are distracting me that's all. The place would be much cleaner if you were not here."

"That's cool man, I believe you."

"No, no, what this." The entire top of the juicer came off and the sharp metal blades glistened. "See, it's easy man."

I nodded and walked back around the counter. It was getting late, I had been there for a couple hours. I just wanted to noted some of the products they carried and then split.

Imitation bacon bits for $4, oat meal for $2, almond oil for $6, coconut oil for $7.

"These are great prices Max," I said.

"Yeah, yeah, too cheap huh? That's what I keep telling him."

"Do you do any advertising? Do you have a web site?"

"No, none of that. But we need to. I want to get a big black chalk board, y'know. Put it at the front of the store and write specials of the day. Then maybe some pamphlets to hand out that has descriptions of good food and reasons why you need them, for your health, y'know. And we need to carry more products, look the shelves are empty."

Much of the shelf space was empty, but what was there seemed to have a layer of dust on it, I couldn't see how they could carry a larger stock until what they had was moving.

"Cool Max, well, thanks for your time, I'm going to get going."

"No problem man, write in the paper that we have good shakes. Then people at your school will read it and come here to get a shake."

"No problem man, thanks again," I said and turned to walk out. "Oh, wait, what's the phone number here in case I need to reach you. And by the way, what's the name of this place?"

"Ah, the name is 'My Cup Runneth Over'," he said and studied my reaction. "You know where that's from?"

"To be honest I don't."

He reached under the counter and produced his worn copy of the Bible. He opened it to the front cover and asked me to read aloud the passage, which had been taped to it with scotch tape.

"The Lord is my Shepard," I began. "…Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil," I continued. "I recognize this now."

"Yeah, I thought you would man. Go on."

"…Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over." I paused, noting the phrase. Max urged me to finish. "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever."

"See man. Ja love. Do right man. Be good to yourself and to others and all will be divine."

I shook hands with him, thanked him again for his time.

I turned toward the door and was greeted by the barrel of the gun. It looked like large pupil, staring at me. I was caught in its gaze so intently that I couldn't make out any of the faces behind it.

One of them screamed, "Okay, stop where you are, don't move, get your hands the fuck up."

I dropped my notebook on the counter, my pen fell to the ground in what seemed to be slow motion. I surprisingly noticed how lucid and unafraid I was. I calmly raised my arms up and kept my hands above my head, until my midsection was rammed by a shoulder.

There were five white cops dressed in plain clothes donning flack jackets and bullet-proof vests. Two of them went around the counter and threw Max's head down and cuffed him. One other cop, the owner of the shoulder, pinned against the fridge and frisked me.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked.

"I'm a student of journalism at Columbia," I said my voice quivering. "Look, here's my I.D. and press pass."

"Don't move your hands," he screamed and grabbed the chain around my neck. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

There other two cops disappeared in the back room.

"I'm here doing a story on a local business. I just thought this place was a bit strange, being a Rasta store and all in the middle of the Italian section of Spanish Harlem. I've been speaking to Max here for a couple hours."

"Yeah, this sure is a strange business," he said. "They sell a lot more here than Rasta flags, that's for sure."

At this point he let me relax my arms, but not really move too much.

"How long is the program there?" he asked.

"One year."

"That's it? One year? That's for a Masters?"

"Yeah, only one sir," I replied in a military fashion.

"How much that cost?"

"About 32-K-- just for tuition."

"Shit, that much?" His partner nodded to him. "Okay, go over there and talk to him, he'll get your information.

I walked over to the counter and spoke to the other detective. He took out his pad and pen, he gave me mine back. He asked me my name and where I lived. His hands were shaking visibly as he wrote. He didn't writing down all my information, but didn't seem too concerned.

Max was handcuffed behind the counter. I caught eyes with him and he looked at me with confused eyes. I couldn't tell if he was upset because he thought I betrayed him, or if he was remembering a thought of a place he didn't want to be again. He didn't speak.

The detective and I walked outside and I asked if I could write down some information. He gave me his name, but then he said if I wanted any other details I would have to get specifics from DCPI. But then he said if I didn't quote him he could tell me this:

"This store sells weed, we have proof of that either by seeing transactions or by that man selling to undercovers. In response to an anonymous call, we obtained a warrant and have searched the place. We have recovered some quantities right now."

"Fair enough detective, thanks for sharing the information," I said. "I should be going now."

"Were you about to leave?" another detective asked.

"Yeah, I've been here four a couple hours and was just wrapping up my last question."

One detective hit the other.

"You bastard," he said and I couldn't tell if he aimed the insult to me or his partner. "We've been waiting out here in a friggin van sweating our balls off with no AC for about two hours waiting for you to leave. We didn't know who you were. If we had just waiting a few minutes longer…"

"Oh, sorry about that, I had no idea."

"C'mon, you didn't see people coming to the door, looking in then leaving? What the hell did you think was going on?

"You're right, I guess I did see that."

"Yeah, I bet you did."

"Again, sorry."

"Ah, that's all right. Makes for a good story anyway. No big deal. Hey I was askin' about the cost of the school because I'm thinkin' of a second career. You think they accept me over there?"

"Sure," I said. "I'm sure they would." What else was I going to say?

He nodded, rolled up on the balls of his feet proud of my answer and left. The other detective, the one who gave me his name stayed behind. He was the one in front during the raid with the gun pointed to me. He face was much clearer now and he hands weren't shaking anymore.

"Sorry about the gun thing," he said.

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