There was Angel’s auto repair, Angel’s grocery and Angel’s tire shop, one after another, grocery in the middle on the corner, Angel wrapping around the corner, controlling one end of the block.
The grocery had two coolers stocked with grape soda cans and such, but they weren’t plugged in. Large aluminum spaghetti colanders were stacked on top of the coolers next to cowboy hats.
A white shelf ran down the center of the store, on the far side a weight bench was set up, and some clothes, not looking for sale, were draped across it. The shelves were stocked with religious icons of the catholic persuasion, and napkins, and odd flea market scraps.
It’s a place like this that makes me realize how precious space is in San Francisco, where every inch has to produce income, retail square footage is so costly turn over must be constant.
That leaves no room for the seldom used, the misunderstood, the lost. A dusty corner is left for an elderly man in a rent controlled unit on the edge of town by the transfer station, but that’s about it.
