Hamid Sabouri
It started with a flat tire. I had just loaded the pomegranates and boxes of sabzi into the back of the van when I noticed the sag on the rear wheel. No time to fix it properly—just enough air to get me from Shahr-e-Rey to Tajrish before the morning rush. But the whole way, I felt the van dragging like it was tired too.
By the time I got there, the good spots were taken. I ended up squeezed between a man selling plastic toys and a woman who never stops complaining—about prices, the weather, the government. Setting up took longer than usual, and by the time I laid out the pomegranates, two had split open, juice running like blood down the crate.
I’m 43 now, and some mornings, my back reminds me of every single year. I crouched to lift a watermelon and something popped near my spine. I straightened slowly, like an old man, and caught a customer watching me. She smiled politely, but I could tell she saw the wince.
Sales were slow. Ramadan ended two weeks ago, and people are still recovering from the expenses. A kid tried to steal a bunch of mint. I caught him—not to yell, just to hand it over and say, “Next time, ask.”
At noon, it started raining. Just enough to make everything slick and annoying. The old awning above my stall has holes. I watched drops land on my tomatoes like slow insults. I tried to cover them, but a gust of wind tore the plastic right off.
A man haggled with me over a bunch of coriander for fifteen minutes. Finally walked away, muttering, “Daylight robbery.” I wanted to shout after him, “You think I’m getting rich here?” But I didn’t. Just stood there, wet and tired.
By sunset, I’d made just enough to cover gas, a bit of food, and half the electricity bill. On the way home—south, toward my small apartment in Tehran—the tire gave out completely. I left the van and walked the last four blocks in the dark.
When I got home, my daughter ran to me with a drawing she made at school—me, under a red sun, smiling beside a mountain of fruit. “You look like a superhero,” she said.
I sat down and cried, just a little. Then I laughed. “Next time,” I told her, “draw the van too.”