Kailash Srinivasan's "Not Valid"

Asif wants beer. He’s thirsty. An unquenchable thirst that only a good, hoppy IPA can quench. Okay, a good, cheap, on-sale IPA. He indulges once in two weeks, always buys from the same store. Never goes to a bar, never. Spending seven dollars on a glass seems criminal to him on minimum wage. A homeless man in a drenched, red Santa Suit is sitting outside the liquor store listening to the news on his radio. He ignores Asif, doesn’t beg him for a dollar. Three years on, it still baffles him, seeing drug-addled, jobless, moneyless, hopeless men, women in a city like Vancouver. How they walk around carrying their cardboard cries for help: “Spare change, Sir? Spare some change?”

Beers are kept way at the back, tall cans and bottles with bright, colourful designs. Five percent, six point five, nine percent. He keeps looking; he likes to look; it makes him feel he can buy anything he wants. Truth is, he can’t. There are other customers. That annoys him, the way they keep cutting across, interrupting his meditation. Some excuse themselves, some don’t.

A blond sales assistant in her fifties, her face like leather, is talking to a customer, a tall, wide-shouldered redhead. The blond props open a display window with her foot, two six-packs in her hands. The last of her hair clings to her pink scalp.

She gets into right away. “Been training that new guy over there to not be a robot.” She cocks her eyebrows to a thin Indian man stacking wine bottles in an aisle. Two-day stubble on his chin, a gray toque on his head.

The ‘training’ isn’t of much help. The man continues to respond to customers with, “Hi, how are you today? Can I help you?” “Hi, how are you today? Can I help you?”

The blond notices Asif. “Can I help you, Sir? You look like you need help.”

“No, I am alright actually. Thanks.”

“Okay, hon.” She returns to the redhead who’s holding an Australian red wine in one hand, a Jack Daniels bottle in the other, contemplating a cider. The blond moves past Asif wheeling a cart with more alcohol, bottles clink against one another. She directs another question toward the redhead. “Got any children?”

The redhead shakes her head no.

“Not yet? My sister doesn’t have any and is the happiest person I know.” She looks at Asif again. “Still lingering?”

Asif laughs.

“We open every day of the week, you know. Even on Sundays.”

The redhead says, “Better than going to the church, yeah?” Then laughs guiltily.

“This ain’t Disneyland, but whatever, knock yourself out,” the blond says. She glances at the redhead, raising her eyebrows significantly. She walks around with her labelling gun, circles back to the customer.

“My sister, she’s happy she has no children. Makes sense. What with social media being what it is today, all the creeps online, it’s for the better I believe. The world’s not what it used to be.”

The redhead nods understandingly.

“The other day my daughter sent me a selfie in her new nightgown. She’s twenty-one, lives on her own, whatever.” The blond rolls her eyes. “My sister said, ‘Hopefully her nipples weren’t showing,’ and you know what I said? I said, No, but her nipple rings were!” She puts a hand on her hip, sticks her neck out and makes her eyes big. She is imitating her sister’s horrified reaction.

The redhead smirks, still undecided, moves toward the section with the premixed drinks.

“Oh, my god! You’re still here?” she says to Asif. “Leave before I call the cops.”

Asif finds it hilarious. Such a sweet person, he thinks. He likes when white people joke with him; proves they see him as a person, not just as a colour. He finally locates the beer he wants, three dollars cheaper than usual. He grabs it and gets in line to pay. There’s a woman ahead of him; young, dark-haired, pale with tiny red dots on her skin. She looks scattered. She’s holding a bottle each of vodka, whiskey, gin, tequila, and a twelve-pack of beer. Asif wants to be invited to that party. She’s dressed in an oversized beige jacket, blue jeans folded to expose her sockless ankles, white shoes. The line grows behind him. The woman empties all her pockets, looking for her wallet.

“I had it, I swear. I swear.” The clerk, a white man, waits patiently for her, never rolling back his smile. When she can’t find it, she kicks the counter and storms out of the shop, leaving the bottles at the counter. The clerk pushes the bottles aside and nods at Asif. “Is that all for you today, Sir?”

Asif says, "Yes."

“Like a bag, Sir?”

“No, that’s okay, thanks.”

Asif holds the door for an old man as he enters the store. He doesn’t thank him. Asif shrugs. At the crossing signal, he waits for the flashing white walking man to allow him to cross the street. He wonders whether it will be possible to track the blond woman’s daughter on Snapchat or TikTok. He’s curious about those nipple rings. He should have noted down the woman’s name.

What was it? Karen? No. Holly? Ugh. Obviously he will still need her last name, but at least he could’ve started the groundwork. Who knows if the daughter is even friends with her mother on social media? He can hope that perhaps the mother tagged her daughter in a photograph with a sappy status message, feigning to the world how close they were.

As he crosses a pretty white couple with their pretty white children and their dog, it lands on him as things often do in retrospect. Did the blond just...was she being...could it be? Nah. He convinces himself that she didn’t mean it, that she was only joking, trying to be friendly. But the incident haunts him. By the time he’s on this third drink, he knows what the blond did is wrong. This is how the conversation should have played out:

“Excuse me? Are you asking me to leave? Why? Does my presence make you uncomfortable?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“Can I speak with the manager, please!”

“I am sorry if I offended you. I was joking. Swear to god, I have many Indian friends. I love them so much. I love samosas. Honest. Curry, yum. Listen, I promise you, I’m not racist.”

The manager would arrive. “Sir, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Holly is one of our best employees.” He’d smile, ask him to step to a not so busy part of the store. “As I understand, she was kidding. I apologize though if her comments upset you, Sir. To say sorry, we would like to offer you any beer of your choice for free. Enjoy.”

He picks up his fourth drink, starting to enjoy this position of power in this hypothetical scenario.

He accepts the beer. Why won’t he? Fifteen bucks. But he maintains a pissed-off face as he exits the shop. Some customers who remained silent before, catch up to him as he walks away, saying things like:

“I saw what happened in there. What a horrible woman.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. When will these people get over their white privilege?”

——

This cooked-up scenario fires him to do something, take action. He decides he will not let this slip by so easily this time. He pulls out his phone to tweet about his experience. Once he sends the tweet out, he relaxes, like a hot poori that’s been poked to let all the smoke out. The mad pinging on his phone wakes him from his sleep. His tweet has become a whole thread, with people talking about their own experiences. They offer support: hearts, crying emojis, angry emojis. He replies to every tweet with hearts of his own, thanking them for being there, for their kindness. Someone tags the store, and the customer care team gets involved. They are very sorry this happened to him.

Could you please explain the chronology of events?

Asif does that, gives them a thorough play-by-play. I just wanted some beer...

They will investigate this, they promise, get to the bottom.

We will get back to you at the earliest. Meanwhile, here’s a fifty dollar gift card you can use the next time you shop with us.

Few days go by. Nothing happens. Then Asif gets this message:

Hi, we’d love to get your feedback on your recent experience with us on social media! Please take a moment to share your thoughts with us in this quick survey. They send a link.

Well, he begins, research shows us that many white people proclaim to have unbiased values, however their cognitions and behaviour are influenced by subconscious prejudices, which are buried deep within their psyche. Asif writes paragraphs after paragraphs. What happened to me can be classified as ‘covert racism’. What you need is sensitivity training for all your employees, such that behaviour of this kind is not repeated. Not that it will abolish years of ingrained racism, still it’s a step. Also, a gift card will not undo the hurt I have endured. He finishes his scathing tirade with, This is not a case of a few bad apples, the entire orchard is diseased.

This is very unfortunate, they respond, and completely against the values we stand for. We assure you we’ll take the strictest action and hope to continue to receive your patronage.

For the next few weeks, Asif doesn’t go to their establishment as a matter of principle. Instead, he walks up all the way to Upper Lonsdale to buy his beer. Not only is the store far, it is also expensive. This is childish, too much work, he thinks. Plus, he has the gift card. Better to use it before it expires. He ends his boycott.

The blond woman is still working at the store. She’s telling the Indian salesman to watch English movies, read English books to improve his communication. Asif avoids her by seizing the first six-pack he finds and heads to the billing section. He presents the gift card to the clerk, jokes that it’s the best gift he’s ever received. After trying twice to put the card through, the clerk says, “Sorry, Sir, this is not valid. Do you have another mode of payment? A debit or a credit card?”

Asif pays. He doesn’t want the clerk and the others in the store to see him as another poor Third World brown man.

He’s furious. He needs to do something. He read somewhere that white people never move out of the way on the street. On his way back home, he holds his space on the pavement, does not move out of the way.