By Jesse Marx
By Chris Parker
By Jake Rossen
By Jesse Marx
By Michelle LeBow
By Alleen Brown
By Maggie LaMaack
By CP Staff
But nobody's luck is changing. If it were, they would be somewhere else.
On the northeast corner of the intersection sits the nexus of this boozy little universe, the Jug liquor store. From the outside, it is unremarkable--a tiny, squat cinderblock building with just enough neon to attract customers. The merchandise is typical of any 'hood liquor store. Its prime display racks are loaded with beverages designed to get you drunk fast and cheap: MD 20/20 in an assortment of eye-popping candy colors, Camo High Gravity Lager, Night Train, Thunderbird. In other words, everything this side of store-brand mouthwash and Sterno.
For an inner-city establishment, however, the interior decor is incongruously Up North. Fishing lures, animal pelts, and an impressive collection of vintage beer cans adorn wood-paneled walls. The Jug is unusual in one other regard: For a seven-dollar charge, customers can enjoy the convenience of having whatever beer, liquor, or wine they choose delivered directly to their doorstep.
In recent years, most Minneapolis liquor stores have gotten out of the delivery business. In some of the city's rougher north side precincts--neighborhoods such as Hawthorne and Jordan--the Jug is the only remaining store that will deliver to residential customers. "We used to have 50 runs a day," says Paul Robinson, the Jug's owner for the past seven years. "It's dropped off pretty bad in the last year. It should get better soon with winter coming. Should get better." He is at a loss to explain the decline in delivery orders, though he seems to accept it as one might accept a sudden change in weather. What are you going to do?
Robinson is middle-aged, white, and rural (a former farmer, he still makes his home in Cannon Falls), yet he enjoys an easy rapport with most of his customers. The homeless alcoholics who constitute a significant percentage of his clientele all seem to greet him by name. He knows their names, too. Often, customers stick around for a chat after making their purchases. Robinson speaks in quick, hushed tones, like he's letting you in on a big secret. As a result, it's sometimes difficult to make out what he's saying. His quirks and obsessions are legendary. He constantly washes his hands. Some days, he says, he goes through three rolls of paper towels in the endless cycle of washing and drying. His forearms are chafed and red.
There is no telling how many delivery drivers Robinson has gone through since buying the Jug. Turnover is high. The reasons are hardly mysterious. His drivers routinely venture into some of the city's most crime-ridden neighborhoods. While robbery is hardly a daily occurrence, fear of robbery is. Customers are often already loaded by the time their orders arrive--that's why they call for delivery. Yet it is against the law to serve an obviously intoxicated person, which puts drivers in a tough spot. Serve a drunk, you break the law. Adhere to the law, you lose your earnings: seven dollars per delivery plus tips and minus gas.
Sometimes, it's the prospect of viewing up-close somebody's beat-up life that seems daunting. "I only did it for a few months, and I saw lots of things I wish hadn't," recalls Matt Hadden, a new-age musician who is one of Jug's more recently retired delivery guys. "People not taking care of their kids. People going through two bottles of vodka in a day. Garbage houses. Clutter houses. I just choose not to do that anymore." These days, Hadden restricts his work at the Jug to an occasional shift at the counter.
For the past half-year, deliveries have been handled by a neighborhood couple, Bob and Laura (who preferred that City Pages not use their last names). Bob, a north side native who rents an apartment above a nearby bar, also works as a shade tree mechanic. Laura is originally from Sioux City, Iowa, and last worked as a roofer. Before that, she operated her own house cleaning business, and for about five years in her early 20s, worked as an exotic dancer. "That's where I got my people skills," she says. "It taught me how to talk my way out of situations."
In the delivery business, a sharp radar and quick tongue are helpful. When Bob and Laura took the job, both knew it could be dangerous work. But they figured that if they delivered in tandem, the risk would be reduced. Bob, who is 42, says he has something else going for him. "Most people can't last out here more than a couple of nights," he says, "but we know half the people on the north side. That's why we're good at this."
Still, they've had scares. While making a delivery a few months back, Bob got into a scrape with five guys on the street. ("And he was the one who got arrested!" complains Laura.) Another time, Bob was accosted by neighborhood toughs on Lyndale Avenue as he returned from a store where he'd gone to break a large bill. Robbery was only averted, Laura explains, when she grabbed a claw hammer from her car and took a run at the thieves. Afterward, she and Bob theorized that a customer offered up the big bill as part of a trap, the goal of which was to get Bob into the street where he'd be vulnerable to ambush.