Candy and Me (17 page)

Economy, on the other hand, had actually been there forever, or at least since 1937. It was the faded denim version of Dylan’s ready-to-wear. The corners were musty, and even the bright candy wrappings seemed tempered by sunlight or wisdom. Surrounded by the relics of the Jewish Lower East Side, buying candy there was like traveling back in time. We circled excitedly, murmuring with respect.

I didn’t want to buy just to buy. I wanted to find something new or something that I couldn’t get elsewhere. Finally, when the guy behind the counter informed us not unkindly that they would close promptly at six, I made my selection. Swiss petite fruit (I confess to some gratitude that a half pound was the minimum quantity allowed), and a strange-looking “Old-Fashioned Taffy” that was appealing because it was large and very flat, like a business envelope. Shauna went for an assorted mix, just because she couldn’t believe how very economical Economy Candy was.

Out on the street, we walked north. I still felt tender—it was as if my wound had been bandaged, but I was fragile and needed to be handled with care. When the wound healed, the new skin would be like a baby’s, soft and new, but sensitive. Shauna had convinced me to come back out into the world. Economy Candy was just the beginning. I peeled the waxy paper off the taffy and tore off a piece. Shauna was curious. “What is it like?” she asked. I paused while I savored the plastic texture.

“If everything in the world were made of candy, this is what your desk would taste like.” Then we both started imagining the rest of that world—the chairs, clocks, towels, light bulbs—and we chewed in silent reverie for several blocks.

Bottle Caps Regained

C
hris and I had been on three partial dates, three evenings that began with us socializing as part of a group and ended with us on my couch, using my restrictions on clothing removal to set the pace of our groping. Chris was already bitter about the couch. It was a smart bachelorette’s love seat. Green velvet, alluring, but short enough to prevent eager boys from moving too fast. Tonight, he had insisted, he wanted to take me on a “date date.” He also wanted to end the evening at his pad. I was curious to see it. A man’s apartment is Cliffs Notes to his life.

He was early. Not on time. Early.

“Couldn’t you have walked around the block once or twice?” I asked as I opened the door. He had no head, only flowers. “Chris? Are you back there?”

“These are for you,” he said. I was already putting them in water. His hair was dark and curly, and he was wearing a severely out-of-style shirt. A man would have to work hard to make me notice a fashion mistake. It wasn’t part of my Date Evaluation Procedure, but what can you do when a man is standing in front of you wearing a button-down shirt with no collar? And yet, it was immediately apparent to me that this relic of the ‘80s was his favorite shirt. It had an ink stain on the pocket, but he had chosen it in hope that it was still wearable. Because it was his very favorite. I smiled at him.

It was, indeed, a date date. There was a fancy dinner with a bottle of wine. Then there was a rooftop party across the river in Williamsburg. Chris excused himself to talk to a friend, if I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind. I spoke with a fellow who told me all sorts of interesting facts about acoustic warfare until Chris returned. He joined our conversation, then eventually steered me to the side of the roof. We looked out at Manhattan. It was a windy spring night. He offered me his jacket. He was well trained and his effort was A-plus. Noted.

“I know I have no right to say this,” he said, “but I’m actually surprised at how jealous I was when I saw you talking to that guy.”

“Really?” I said. “How jealous were you?”

“I felt sick to my stomach,” he said. “I can’t remember ever feeling like that.”

“Are you a creepy stalker type?”

“Not that I know of,” he said, “but you might want to be careful.”

His apartment was clean, generic, and functional. The matching wooden furniture appeared to have been purchased in one fell swoop. Some things, like the burgundy and forest green plaid couch, may have been selected by his mother as “masculine.” In fact, forest green was getting more than its fair color share. No art. No girlfriend or girl friends exerting influence. He is a man of simple tastes. He works hard. He reads, but doesn’t have time to bounce against his own walls. I saw my business card on the entrance table. My little mark, staking its territory.

“I have champagne to celebrate our date date,” he said.

I shook my head. It was too late for champagne.

“And I have a little dessert. Don’t ask me why it’s in the freezer.” He pulled out a pack of Bottle Caps.

“Why is it in the freezer?” I asked.

“I thought it would be a good hiding place?” Chris wasn’t the first boy to give me Bottle Caps. Even Luke had gone that route. A fellow didn’t need to be a rocket scientist. Nor did the candy have a magical effect on me. I wasn’t Edmund, seduced by the White Witch’s Turkish delight on my first trip to Narnia. I was cautious, but open. What mattered most to me was the spirit in which the gift was given. Chris watched and smiled as I dug in. His eagerness was sweeter than candy. I was impressed.

“Where did you find Bottle Caps?”

“I have my sources,” he said.

Twizzlers

M
y friend Shauna was in a grocery store with a guy. “If you could only eat one kind of food for the rest of your life, what kind of food would it be?” she asked him.

“Easy. Twizzlers,” he responded without pausing to think.

“I think that’s when I started liking him,” Shauna told me. “You understand.”

Yes, I understood. Twizzlers have the same twist as a barber’s pole, and likewise seem as if they could go on spiraling forever. What better candy to stock one’s office candy jar? The jar people—that strange breed of workers who are able to keep jars of candy in their offices at all times without going to town on them—the jar people know that the best jars are always full, magically refilling fairy tale candy jars. And the substantive Twizzler, with its endless twizzle, is the candy of choice.

Steve was our jar person, no holds barred. His office was stocked with a jellybean machine (with a tin of pennies provided by Steve), a bowl of Hershey’s Kisses, and a five-pound canister of Twizzlers. Steve had an instinctive understanding of the need for candy balance. His candy had none of the customary, though unspoken, restrictions on time, frequency, or quantity. I didn’t have to have a meeting with him to go into his office. I could go as many times as I wanted every day. I could take huge handfuls. Steve’s response to any admission of greed or binging was always, “That’s what it’s there for!” And no matter how much I ate, the candy was never depleted.

If anyone could have dented Steve’s supply, it would have been me. Some days I would get on a Kisses run. I only took four at a time, but I discovered a new way of eating them. Sucking chocolate is usually satisfying, and makes sense because, unlike with hard candies, the flavor emerges at a steady rate. What I discovered was that chewing Hershey’s Kisses offers a whole new sensation. There was basically only one major chew per Kiss, which broke the candy’s integrity immediately. The Kiss, with greater surface area now, dissolved more quickly, so my mouth was instantly full of liquid chocolate. A great new sensation, but the speed of execution triggered a few complications.

First, I started eating them fast, like popcorn. Then sometimes, just after the bite, the phone would ring. I would take the call, and only then would I realize that I had missed out on the whole Kiss experience. That’s when I would have to go back to Steve’s office. “Serving” became a misnomer for my four Kisses. It was more like there were four “reps” to a “set.”

But Steve offered more than Kisses. I had hardly ignored Twizzlers previous to Steve’s office, but he really gave them a chance to shine. Once relegated to dark movie theaters, I knew and loved Twizzlers for their unique waxiness. It took a relatively long time for me to finish a Twizzler, which slightly increased their chances of lasting through the previews. Junior Mints were hard to resist. They had more flavor and melted with gentle charm. But Twizzlers had the staying power that is critical for movie candy.