Daddy’s Little Meatball
Why you should never buy anything at a tourist trap on Canal Street
By stepping into the tourist trap on Canal Street, I knew that I had already lost and sealed my wallet’s fate.
Like all New Yorkers, I understand that one is never meant to step into one of the stores that sell I ❤️ NY shirts along with “deeply discounted” digital cameras to celebrate a store’s concurrent Grand Opening!/50th Anniversary!/Closing After 90 Years! sales. Such places have no prices marked, and the value of any item is how much a sucker is willing to pay for an Empire State Building snow globe.
However, some items can only be procured in such places. Whether it’s the subtle “Fuck You You Fucking Fuck” t-shirt or, in my case, a “Daddy’s Little Meatball” onesie. My friend Michael, who goes by Meatballs for a reason that predates our friendship, had just welcomed a son, perfectly made for such an adorable getup.
As I entered the hornet's nest of this theft bazaar, I identified one of the 56 Indian men working there to inquire about their extensive line of “Daddy’s Little Meatball” merchandise. My pushy salesman ushered me over to the belly-covering butcher counter, where sizes were available from a 3-month onesie to 3XL moo moo. The store, an inclusive and body positive celebration of hyper-capitalism, celebrated all ages and bodies, and, most importantly, a parent’s passion for their cherubic child.
As I reached for the onesie, the salesman said, “Very good choice, my friend!”
“How much?” I replied, preparing my body for the exhausting negotiation to come.
“For you, my friend,” he paused to give me a one-over - noticing my worn Birkenstocks and polo shirt made of seemingly nice material, “that’ll be only $25!”
“25?!” I said. “For a onesie!”
“My friend, it is made of the highest quality material,” he replied, as he stroked the 100% polyester, made-in-China-for-27-cents garment between his fingers.
“Look, I’m not a tourist. I live here. Seriously, how much?” I demanded, shifting my composure to show off my perfectly tuned RBF - resting borough face.
“Yes, of course,” he said with a smile. “That’s why I didn’t charge you $35!”
“I’m not paying $25 for a onesie,” I replied. “I’ll give you $7.”
“No, no, no, my friend. My kids will go hungry tonight,” he said as his eyes started to fill with crocodile tears.
Our cliched negotiation, sharing of personal stories, and spurious anecdotes about both of us being on the brink of bankruptcy, and how this one purchase would be the clincher for either of us losing it all, ensued. When he refused to move below $15, I used the classic “I’m leaving!” line and headed for the door, at which point he called our for me desperately, “My friend, my friend, wait! You’re like a cousin to me now. I give you friends and family price of $10.”
Our fifteen minutes of arguing had invited me into his blood line, saved me $15, and still earned him a healthy profit.
“Fine!” I replied.
Neither of us smiled or seemed satisfied with the outcome - usually a good sign in any negotiation.
The man shouted in Hindi to a woman behind the counter who beckoned me over. While she sat in front of a cash register, she was conducting business out of her pockets - putting my $20 into the left pocket and pulling out $10 from the right.
“This is a great shirt,” she said, throwing it unfolded into a cheap black plastic bag. “Can I also interest you in a very fine Rolex? It would go nicely with your wrist. For you, only $700.”
“No, thanks,” I replied, as I stuffed the shirt into my back pocket and headed towards the door.
As I left, the salesman put his hand around my shoulder and said, “You see, my friend, we take care of our own here in New York City!”
I smiled and gave him a fist bump, as I stepped outside to head to the train. He walked over to welcome another group of suckers, clearly tourists as they all wore clothing celebrating the varied college and professional sports teams in Kansas.
“Welcome, my friends!” he said to them with a smile.
While they were mere friends, I was now leaving as family. I knew I likely overpaid, but still felt a basic camaraderie — a belief that we’re all hustling here, but New York City game will forever recognize New York City game. Thus, I left with a smile, having picked up what would clearly be the star gift of the baby shower. And, for a respectable price.
All thanks to leaning on good ol’ New York.
As I walked towards the subway, I glanced over to see another vendor selling the same onesies at three for $10. Made from the same high quality, and likely printed in the back of the same van around the corner. Livid, I marched back to the store to demand a refund, storming over to the cashier to ask for my money back.
Before I could say a word, she put up her finger and said “No refunds!” I walked over to my newfound cousin, who was ushering the family from Kansas to the register for their fleecing.
“Hey, you ripped me off and I want my money back!” I demanded.
“Sorry, you must have me confused with someone else. I’ve never met you before,” he replied.
“But I just bought this from you five minutes ago … Friends and family, remember!” I said.
“Maybe it was another shop," he offered.
“What about taking care of our own?! What about being New Yorkers?!” I said mostly for dramatic effect, having grown up watching too many Hollywood courtroom dramas.
“Look, mister, go find that somewhere else!” he said, ending our exchange by turning his back to me to joke in Hindi with his colleagues.
Within moments, I had gone from friend to family to countryman to, simply, mister.
Baby Meatballs got his onesie and his father was more than pleased. May he wear it with love and pride until his meaty little limbs no longer squeeze inside the highest quality of polyester.
And, may he grow to truly know and understand what it means to take care of our own here, starting by never buying anything at a tourist trap on Canal Street.
If I Can Make It There is a collection of stories about the things and people, including me, that move through New York City. A celebration of the characters who crawl through endless traffic, slog through the subways, and stroll under the shade of scaffolding.
Like our fragmented and broken transportation system, some stories race with enthusiasm to a red light and others remain hopelessly stuck behind a double-parked Mercedes with New Jersey plates and blinkers on as the driver screams over the honking, “Just hold on for a minute! I’m only stopping in for a quick dinner at Sardis.”
And, all of these stories could occur nowhere else but the greatest city on Earth - New York Fucking City.