The Sour Candyman and The Coffin

Our Town & The West Side Spirit ran my Stoops to Nuts column today, “The Sour Candyman and the Coffin.”

My first coffin was metal. It measured six feet long, three feet wide and three feet deep. It rested on a wooden base that lifted it up a foot. It sat in near darkness at the rear of the parlor. Everyone paid their respects. Upon close examination, you saw it bleed sweat and you heard it release a soft, steady, communal hum. It held something we cherished and missed all the time; it chilled soda bottles in Joe’s Candy Store.

The cooler was battered and red, with a raised Coca-Cola bottle cap appearing on all four sides. A similar model had followed Ike across Europe throughout World War II. I loved the coffin. I kissed it when no one was looking.

Joe’s Candy Store was my home base in Yorkville in 1962. Till I knew better, I thought a couple of kids lived there. Joe was a 50-year-old, moody Italian bachelor. Every day, Joe arrived at the store in gray work pants, a gray T-shirt and a puss on his face. Joe was a man of few words. Here’s a day’s worth:

“What do you want?”

“Put the comic book back.”

“In the right place.”

“Get out.”

Joe made Silas Marner look philanthropic. There were no fans in the store and minimal electricity. Con Edison had Joe on their “watch list.” To save money, he used refrigerator light bulbs in the store, giving the space a glow of gloom.

Coming from the bright sunshine into the wartime blackout, you became disoriented. With enough kids in there, you could get a good game of blind man’s bluff going—without the blindfold. Despite his record-breaking cheapness, Joe was no fool. If you had a candy store, you must have ice cold soda. Kids boycotted candy stores that ignored this rule. The water temperature in Joe’s cooler always flirted with the freezing mark.

Sometimes I needed to submarine my hand through a thin crust of ice forming on the surface. 200 bottles of soda were buried deep beneath the sea, in a light so dim the eels bumped into each other. More than 20 different brands slept on the ocean’s floor. Unfortunately, I usually craved a bottle of Mission Cream.

Mission soda was a local favorite with 10 different flavors, and Mission’s bottles had zero variation in style, texture or height. All Missions being equal led to a courage speech I’d give myself before each attempt. “You can do it. I’ve seen you do it. Do it.”

Shorter than the top of the coffin, I’d hop up and swing my arm over its front wall. My armpit was now responsible for keeping me airborne. I’d sink my other arm into the icy water with a numbing splash. My hand and forearm would tighten up before I achieved bottle depth. When I reached the wreck, my numb digits embraced the familiar Mission shape and pulled one up. Orange.

“Ooooh,” I moaned.

Back down the bottle would go. I’d do my best to remember where I replanted it; the bottles were snug as sardines. I had limited time before my arm below the elbow lost all sensation. Rotating my arm in a corkscrew motion increased blood circulation, allowing for a brief search extension, but the water was too cold. Pride swallowed, I raised the last bottle I touched before my hand passed out. It was a root beer. “Grrrrr.”

I moved the second-place soda gently from my puffy blue hand to my landlubber hand. I tucked my arm under my noncombatant armpit, rocking back and forth till warmth returned. With phony bravado, I grinned at my friends.

A wicked pleasure swept through the crowd when someone chose a soda you knew wasn’t their first choice. Everyone knew each other’s favorite soda, right behind knowing their favorite sports team or movie star. When I was in the hot seat, I sat there drinking the soda, faking enjoyment, saying “hmmm” or “aaahhh,” followed by a satisfying swipe of my mouth. I knew, and they knew I was lying. It didn’t matter, I went down swinging. Addressing the mob, I’d say, “I do like it. I really do like it. I just didn’t tell anybody.”

Below: See the Mission Soda ads inside the 1582 York Avenue candy store doorway (1942).