By Edmund DeMarche
Braulio Morales slides open the train car door, places a large plastic bag on the ground and announces a blockbuster sale on Rubik’s Cubes.
“We have the classic Rubik’s Cube you remember when you were a kid,” he says, in a rich Puerto Rican accent. “Today, one dollar. Remember all the memories when you were a kid.”
He calls himself “we,” to create the illusion that he is more than a one-man operation, as if behind him stands the entire Rubik’s Cube Company. He speaks loudly and forcefully, with a twinge of humor. He’s one part standup comedian and one part pitchman, the kind you’d see selling lettuce choppers on TV at three in the morning.
His initial pitch inspires no response from the 15 passengers used to seeing panhandlers and Sunday morning preachers. But unfailingly he continues, “One at a time please—please don’t push.” Some passengers crack a smile. “We have one for everybody.”
He had no takers and sits down and begins to fiddle with a cube.
Anyone who takes the Q-train from Sheepshead Bay into the city with any kind of regularity is familiar with two people. There’s the battery guy, who sells “top of the line” Duracell batteries for $1 and lugs them around in a black backpack. And there’s the Rubik’s Cube guy.
Morales, 40 the Rubik’s Cube guy, has a slight stubble. He is wearing a small black knit hat and a small black vest stretched by his heft. He complains that the slow economy has hurt business. The Rubik’s Cube manufacturers, due to the increase in plastic prices, are skimping with cube quality. People riding trains are also not as likely to buy from him.
“You can see the change,” he says, with the large bag by his feet. He’s out here this morning because, he says, people are prone to spend money on the weekend since most commuters get paid at the end of the week.
“It’s a challenge for me because I don’t have a memorized line,” he says. “Whenever I enter a train, I just say what feels right.”
Morales has been a subway salesman, an activity which has been prohibited by the MTA, for the past 10 years. Born in Manhattan, he was raised in Puerto Rico until he moved to an apartment in Sunset Park he shares with his wife Alba. The two do not have children.
He began his career selling small bikes and scooters in busy train stations throughout the city. But he found Rubik’s Cubes appealing because they are light, hence easier to move from point A to point B.
Once a week, he buys a bulk set of Rubik’s Cubes from a retailer in the city and in turn sells them for $1. He works six days a week, about four hours a day.The hours vary, but he makes sure he sells his entire bag—100 pieces.
So far, he’s never been assaulted by a passenger but says he’s laughed at and mocked at times.
“I really don’t let the stuff like that get to me,” he says. “I’m a professional and I’ve been doing it for a long time. If someone wants to make fun of me, I’m fine with that.”
He enjoys his vocation and considers himself a true salesman. “I know who my customers are,” he says. “I understand that if you appeal to kids, their parents usually buy it.”
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