The Simplicity

Once upon a time (and I do love that phrase) there were tiny shops tucked in between the rows of tenements in Hells Kitchen.

There was always one, quietly sitting without obvious identification, on each parallel block.

All, however, shared the same name, The Candy Store, and were independently owned and operated,

Ours was at the end of 58th Street, mere steps before the intersection of Tenth Avenue. As a youngster it was one of the few places where I was permitted to travel alone.

The store was never well lit. However the glass enclosed unit that embraced the rows of penny candy, all unwrapped, always intrigued me. That utopia of sugar was also a distinct “No, no,” for both me and my younger sister.

Mom, a woman before her time, was adamant that we use our coins only for the less appealing treats wrapped professionally. I craved the more exotic pieces lurking unadorned in paper on the shelves and inviting a trial taste. But I never succumbed, perhaps because Ellen was watching.

However, The Candy Store was also the destination of the only errand I was given.

Dad occasionally sent me to buy him a pack of cigarettes. A chain smoker, this wonderful wise man, like millions of others, had not been alerted to the dangers of nicotine. The grim reaper claimed him at the age of 59.

There was never any camaraderie in the candy store. The quiet proprietor seldom indulged in small talk, and purchases were all cash and carry.

Obviously, there was no need for a shopping wagon. The Candy stores’ inventory was never too large to fit into a purse or pocket.

Occasionally when I shop online and see the websites displaying endless shopping opportunities, I tend to remember the small candy stores sprinkled across the streets of a large city.

They operated quietly and somehow added to the complexity of survival. And the simplicity of choices.