might have guarded a cigar store, stood an iron-and-glass gumball machine. A little boy took a penny from his fat, friendly mother and dropped it in, clearly hoping for a “ringer” that would set off a bell and win him a full-size candy bar. “Dang it,” he murmured as another ordinary ball clinked down, bumblebee-striped. The mother’s arms were crossed; they had been at this for some time.
The elderly shop owner was a relic: ruddy and mustachioed, chewing his dentures, pants suspendered above a round belly. He asked if he could help us and I smiled and said we were getting something for my son; the man frowned at me over his glasses. I leaned down to Sonny and asked, “Which do you want?” I caught the mother’s prying eye as Sonny took in the store and its expanse of wonders.
Luminous jars along the counter offered a seemingly endless supply of delight: long ropes of Bub’s Daddy gum in nuclear-age reds, greens, and purples; wax lips, fangs, and mustaches that could be worn only for a hilarious minute or two before puncturing and leaking an odious liquor into your mouth; flying saucers made of crisp tasteless wafers; Saf-T-Pops with the handle made into a ring (so kids might trip, but not choke) nestled among the real McCoys of bright handmade lollipops suffocating in their loose cellophane hoods; bubble-gum cigars and pistols for young hoodlums; lipstick candies that no boy would dare purchase; and, looped in their clean glass jar like nooses, my father’s favorite and his grandson’s horror, coils of blackjack licorice.
Sonny studied the jars carefully, like a Chinese physician examining his potions. He stared for a long time at the sugared fruits before choosing some cherries, the bland saucers, a pyramid of caramels, and others. They were delicately pulled from their jars (rare fish from a tank) until at last they lay glowing on the wax paper before him. Sonny, hands clasped, regarded them with awe.
The owner did not move at all but just said, “Those are fancy ones, you realize.”
“I can pay.”
“I hope you can.”
A long stare that neither of us broke. I slammed a five-dollar bill onto the counter, making the candy canes shake.
My son paused then whispered: “Which one can I keep?”
I wish I had a photograph of his face. The stunned look, within which one could easily see, like the developing details on a photographic plate, the image of his father. Which one? All of them, I meant to tell him, all of them from now until forever. There will be enough of everything. But my child had not yet comprehended his mistake, nor had the horrible man, so I looked up at that white mother, stuffed into her blue cloth coat, and caught her staring, entranced, at my cautious son, while her ungrateful lout dropped one accursed penny after another into his slot machine.
I brought myself down to the level of my son’s eyes, so serious, full of his prudent question, and I waited, savoring the moment, imagining those eyes brightening at what I was about to say.
If you went to a soda fountain today and said “I’ll have a Suicide,” the owner would probably call the police. But in an earlier day the soda jerk, his Adam’s apple working hard with every swallow, would have pistol-pointed his finger and said, “Sure thing, pardner.” A fluted glass under the fountain, the release of carbonated Coca-Cola, and then, going down the row, a trickle of poison from every flavor—chocolate, cherry, vanilla—until you had an ink-black beverage set before you, ruffled with foam and smelling like a potion. For this, a nickel.
That is what William the Seltzer Boy made for Annabel DeLawn at Hussey’s Colonial Creamery, a black flap of hair falling over his left eye, big hands resting on the pulls as he watched her drop a dime on the counter and make her way to a booth where her friend was waiting. Carbonation sparkled in the soda-shop air. Tacked to the wall, an auto-supply calendar left open to a month in
The elderly shop owner was a relic: ruddy and mustachioed, chewing his dentures, pants suspendered above a round belly. He asked if he could help us and I smiled and said we were getting something for my son; the man frowned at me over his glasses. I leaned down to Sonny and asked, “Which do you want?” I caught the mother’s prying eye as Sonny took in the store and its expanse of wonders.
Luminous jars along the counter offered a seemingly endless supply of delight: long ropes of Bub’s Daddy gum in nuclear-age reds, greens, and purples; wax lips, fangs, and mustaches that could be worn only for a hilarious minute or two before puncturing and leaking an odious liquor into your mouth; flying saucers made of crisp tasteless wafers; Saf-T-Pops with the handle made into a ring (so kids might trip, but not choke) nestled among the real McCoys of bright handmade lollipops suffocating in their loose cellophane hoods; bubble-gum cigars and pistols for young hoodlums; lipstick candies that no boy would dare purchase; and, looped in their clean glass jar like nooses, my father’s favorite and his grandson’s horror, coils of blackjack licorice.
Sonny studied the jars carefully, like a Chinese physician examining his potions. He stared for a long time at the sugared fruits before choosing some cherries, the bland saucers, a pyramid of caramels, and others. They were delicately pulled from their jars (rare fish from a tank) until at last they lay glowing on the wax paper before him. Sonny, hands clasped, regarded them with awe.
The owner did not move at all but just said, “Those are fancy ones, you realize.”
“I can pay.”
“I hope you can.”
A long stare that neither of us broke. I slammed a five-dollar bill onto the counter, making the candy canes shake.
My son paused then whispered: “Which one can I keep?”
I wish I had a photograph of his face. The stunned look, within which one could easily see, like the developing details on a photographic plate, the image of his father. Which one? All of them, I meant to tell him, all of them from now until forever. There will be enough of everything. But my child had not yet comprehended his mistake, nor had the horrible man, so I looked up at that white mother, stuffed into her blue cloth coat, and caught her staring, entranced, at my cautious son, while her ungrateful lout dropped one accursed penny after another into his slot machine.
I brought myself down to the level of my son’s eyes, so serious, full of his prudent question, and I waited, savoring the moment, imagining those eyes brightening at what I was about to say.
If you went to a soda fountain today and said “I’ll have a Suicide,” the owner would probably call the police. But in an earlier day the soda jerk, his Adam’s apple working hard with every swallow, would have pistol-pointed his finger and said, “Sure thing, pardner.” A fluted glass under the fountain, the release of carbonated Coca-Cola, and then, going down the row, a trickle of poison from every flavor—chocolate, cherry, vanilla—until you had an ink-black beverage set before you, ruffled with foam and smelling like a potion. For this, a nickel.
That is what William the Seltzer Boy made for Annabel DeLawn at Hussey’s Colonial Creamery, a black flap of hair falling over his left eye, big hands resting on the pulls as he watched her drop a dime on the counter and make her way to a booth where her friend was waiting. Carbonation sparkled in the soda-shop air. Tacked to the wall, an auto-supply calendar left open to a month in
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