The merchants of Roseland are begging for business. There are 27 hip-hop clothing boutiques on South Michigan between 111th and 113th, and their window displays of Fat Albert T-shirts, puffy K-Swiss sneakers, orange calf-length shorts with matching tops, and Daisy Duke cutoffs with pink satin roller-disco jackets just aren’t bringing in the customers, especially since every other store on the block is selling the same outfits.
Samir, who’s 24, has been working at the sportswear shop for a month. He’s posted outside because, unlike most of the immigrant shopkeepers in Roseland, he speaks the neighborhood dialect. He came to Chicago when he was eight, and after his parents died he was raised in group homes with blacks and Puerto Ricans. Samir also sports a street look: his “wife-beater” T-shirt is cut to expose a gold chain and a biceps tattooed with a six-pointed star.
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Ali points at placards in the windows of two stores on the sunny side of the street. “Look at the competition,” he laments. “Four pair pants $49.99. Next door four pair pants $44.99. Pants cost ten dollar. They make five dollar on four pair pants.”
A few days later Blue, who’s 36, is squatting in front of the store wearing a white kerchief and a black velvet tracksuit he bought with his 15 percent employee discount. He too used to work the other side of the street, but Sana offered him $40 a day, so he moved over.
Blue finally makes a score when a family led by a big woman in red pants peers through the shop’s window. They straggle around the corner, where there’s nothing to see but a hill and a long brick wall. “She just goin’ around the corner,” he says confidently. “She’ll be back.” A minute later she is, and he goes to work.
The clothes go into a plastic bag, and Blue lifts his arms in celebration. Once again he’s shut the rest of Roseland down. No one can top him. Everyone wants him outside their store. “I told you it’s me, man,” he cries. “They ain’t never gonna let me go.”
