The Merchant of Venice Beach

The first time I saw Tony Sinclair, he was chasing off a group of teenagers waxing their surfboards on the sidewalk outside his shop.

“Do it somewhere else! This isn’t your damn workshop!” he hollered, waving a broom like it was a weapon.

The kids laughed and skated off, leaving him muttering under his breath. The man seriously looked like a shipwreck survivor.

I sipped my oat milk latte from my table at the Salty Kelp Café, trying to ignore the texts buzzing on my phone from my assistant back in LA but jotted down a note on my clipboard: lowers property value.

The shop was as much a wreck as Tony, though it looked like a bit of a post card of a 1960’s surf and head shop—peeling paint, crooked signage, and a cracked window patched with duct tape. It sat like a thorn in the middle of a block that had real potential. In my mind’s eye I saw trendy coffee spots, boutique stores, and murals begging to go viral on Instagram.