David Messina, another transplant to Nashville, had also lived in the suburbs for a short time, then had moved into the city on the south side of town. He lived in the generally international section along Nolensville Road, heavily populated with Asians, Latinos, Indians, Pakistanis, Arabs, blacks and whites. Messina had grown up in New Jersey, about thirty miles outside of New York City, and while he was used to dealing with ethnic groups of all types, he was used to each ethnic group having more or less its own neighborhood. Therefore, it was surprising for him to see a thorough mixture of individuals from all over the world packed together in small neighborhoods, seemingly without too much trouble.
It was late afternoon on Wednesday, a balmy, slightly breezy day, with temperatures in the high eighties, and the humidity fairly high. He pulled into the parking lot of a small Shell convenience store, and sat in his car for a few moments, thinking about what he wanted to do that evening. He had some work he had brought home with him, and he knew he should get to that if possible, but it could wait until the next evening. He wanted to sit and relax with a beer, then grab some dinner, maybe watch a movie, then sit out late in his driveway watching the sun set behind the trees.
He stopped at this particular Shell station almost every day, either in the morning for coffee, or in the afternoon for beer, sometimes both. The store had changed hands since he had lived in Nashville. Originally it had been owned by a white man, then an Asian family had taken it over for less than a year, and now for several years it had been owned by Egyptian immigrants who owned a number of convenience stores throughout Nashville. The store was positioned at a very busy intersection in that part of town, and had constant traffic through it at all hours of the day and night.
As Messina entered the very small store, he saw a crowd of Mexicans checking out at the front. The clerk was in an enclosed plastic booth behind a counter; the hard plastic was bulletproof. The area wasn’t a particularly high crime area, but after dark it had had a problem with holdups. Every convenience store up and down that stretch of road was similarly equipped; it was just part of the landscape.
All the Mexicans were buying beer, although some had a few other things as well. The store attracted mostly Mexicans, among the immigrants. Most of the store sales were for beer, although cigarettes and soft drinks were strong contenders as well. The store was known to be a little pricy for most products, even compared to other convenience stores, but its beer prices were relatively reasonable.
Messina stopped at the beer cooler at the back of the store and made his way down the back aisle. The store carried a decent selection of beer, although he had tried, unsuccessfully, to get the manager to order some other types. The manager had told him that space was limited, and he had to stick with the major bestsellers. Therefore, a large portion of the beer was standard American brands and major Mexican brands.
Messina pulled a six-pack of Negra Modelo out of the cooler and walked down the aisle toward the counter. He stopped about halfway and grabbed a couple of small packs of peanuts just as the front of the store cleared out. He watched the crowd of Mexicans exiting the side door, the little bell on the door jingling constantly as approximately ten men exited.
Bertrand, the short, stocky man behind the counter, looked out at Messina from the bulletproof booth. He had gentle inquisitive eyes, a chubby face, and dark thinning hair; he was going bald toward the back. He had told Messina earlier that he had gotten the name Bertrand because there had been a strong British presence in Egypt many decades before, and his father had worked for a British company and had been influenced by British customs, names, and tastes. Bertrand spoke with a thick accent, although he had been in the United States for almost twenty years.
“How are you, Mr. Messina?” Bertrand asked, emphasizing every syllable carefully. He made it a practice, once he knew someone, to always learn the last name and address them by that.
“Fine, Bertrand. How are you? It’s been a long day, and I’m ready to kick my feet up.”
Messina placed the beer and peanuts on the counter, and started to take out his wallet. Bertrand picked up one of the bottles of beer and looked at the label. He had a practice of asking Messina about products that he bought, and engaging in small talk about any subject that came to his mind. Messina usually responded by asking him how things had been in Egypt, and that was the extent of their knowledge of each other.
“This is good beer?” Bertrand asked, holding up one of the short, very dark bottles. He looked at the label as if he was reading it, then looked back to Messina.
“Yes, it’s one of the best Mexican beers.”
“This is Mexican beer?”
“Yes,” Messina said casually, taking some money from his wallet. “There’s a large beer manufacturing industry in Mexico, and there has been for several hundred years.”
Bertrand looked at him with wide open eyes and that ever-curious expression on his face. He nodded slowly.
“It started with German immigrants,” Messina continued. “They began making beer in northern Mexico, and that led to a whole set of industries growing out of that, like bottle cap manufacturing, glass manufacturing, and so onHave you ever tried one of those?”
Bertrand shook his head. “No, I don’t drink beer.”
“Do you drink anything with alcohol?”
Bertrand thought about that for a second and shook his head slowly. “No.”
Messina smiled back at him. “I drink too much of it.”
“This is good for you?”
“Depends on how much you drink,” Messina said. “Maybe a bottle or so is good for you, or at least it’s possible that it is, but more than that is probably not good for you. I try to watch it, but I probably drink too much.”
Bertrand nodded thoughtfully, like he was considering all the implications of that remark, but without coming to any conclusion in his own mind. He handed Messina change back, and shut the register drawer. Messina put his wallet back in his pocket, and glanced around the store, which was still empty of other customers. It was an unusually quiet moment.
“See you later.” Messina turned to walk toward the side door.
“Hey, wait, Boss!” Bertrand was leaning forward against the glass of the booth, gesturing for Messina to return. Slightly puzzled, Messina turned around and walked back over.
Bertrand looked both ways, as if checking for anyone listening, even though he must have known there was no one else in the store. “Mexicans drink beer all day long!”
Bertrand said it totally neutrally, as if he wasn’t criticizing or making a judgment, but just stating something factually. There was a long pause between the two of them, then Messina broke out laughing. The comment sounded so straightforward that it blunted the outrageousness of the words and came across as very innocent, almost as if Bertrand had commented that Mexicans speak a different language.
Messina shook his head and waved goodbye.