Part 11 (2/2)

Each layer of a Jawbreaker was slightly and subtly a different shade of coloration from the one that preceded it, after the initial black or red coating had been sucked off, had disappeared, the Breaker would emerge dead white and then a few moments later it changed imperceptibly to a dull, mottled brown with overtones of green, followed by a rich brick-red vein. Next, perhaps, a mocking, impudent onion-yellow. White again! And then a somber, morose purplish-gray, and on down, layer after layer, color after color, until finally, at about the size of a tiny French pea, it would crumble and reward the aficionado aficionado with a minute seed which crunched and then disappeared. The Jawbreaker, a fitting parable of life itself, infinitely varied, sweet, and always receding until finally only the seed. with a minute seed which crunched and then disappeared. The Jawbreaker, a fitting parable of life itself, infinitely varied, sweet, and always receding until finally only the seed.

The Black Jawbreaker unquestionably was one of the major influences in the formative years, the Silly Putty years, the cellophane-transparent malleable days of my budding youth. It was a Black Jawbreaker that taught me a major lesson of Man's Inhumanity to Man.

There were other, lesser Penny Candies; the strips of white paper dotted with geometric rows of yellow, white, blue, and red pellets of sugar, fit only for cretins and two-year-olds, the banana-oil flavored, peanut-shaped obscenities beloved of elderly ladies, and girls, the jelly orange slices, and others.

There were a few minor works that bear mention. The Spearmint leaves, for instance, too subtle for ten-year-olds, which must be grown into. The flat, coconut-flavored watermelon slices; blood red, green-rinded, black seeded, sprinkled with sugar and fly spots. Oh yes, and the candy ice cream cones with pink and white marshmallow ”ice cream” covered with sugar and a marshmallow cone that briefly caught me before I knew better. The tiny red peppermint hearts that old Pulaski sold by the scooping of a minute wooden barrel; hotter than h.e.l.l and arrogantly unpleasant.

But it is the Jawbreaker, when all is said and done, that represents the absolute pinnacle of the world of Penny Candy, lost and gone, but festering on in countless root ca.n.a.ls wherever Dental appointments are made and broken on long American afternoons.

Sudden likes and dislikes, inexplicable fads, swept the Penny Candy buying world at Pulaski's like crosscurrents in a riptide. Suddenly and without warning everyone bought nothing but Mary Janes. Then there would be a total s.h.i.+ft to Tootsie Rolls or Root Beer Barrels, and the trays of pie-tins and spoons, marshmallow ice cream cones, and Juju Babies would be untouched. This bugged Pulaski.

But one summer I discovered the only completely satisfying and genuine experience that I really wanted. The Black Jawbreaker. They got ahold of me the way Has.h.i.+sh gets a stranglehold on a Lebanese rug merchant in a Middle Eastern den of vice and degradation. Day after day, with every last cent I could sc.r.a.pe up, it was nothing but Black Jawbreakers. I became an evangelist, convincing others-Schwartz, Flick, Kissel-until one day the inevitable finally happened.

The store was full of steelworkers and kids. Pulaski's screen door was banging continually. The flies were flying in great formations around the light bulbs and clinging like tiny cl.u.s.ters of dead grapes to the spirals of flypaper that hung from the ceiling.

Pulaski was back of the hand-operated lunch-meat slicer and a short, angry lady was leaning over the Toledo scale, fixing him with a beady eye. Pulaski was alone in the store that day, and the tide was coming in. For at least forty-five minutes he battled the salami buyers and the guys who wanted the work gloves. The flies hummed; the heat came in puffs through the screen door.

At least eight of us milled around the gla.s.s case, the Jawbreaker Fever hot on our brows. Pulaski ignored us as long as he could, until finally he dashed over behind the case and opened negotiations.

”All right, what do you want? Quick!”

Flick led off: ”Gimme some Root Beer Barrels.”

”How many do you want!”

Flick: ”Gimme four and one Mary Jane.”

Pulaski rushed back to the meat-market counter, filled a container with a mess of sauerkraut, weighed it up, shoved it across the counter to Mrs. Rutkowski, said: ”I'll be right back,” and rushed back into battle.

”They're six for a penny. Mary Janes are two for a penny. D'y want Mary Janes or Root Beer Barrels?”

”Gimme four barrels and one Mary Jane.”

”Fer Chrissake!!”

Nine Tin-Mill workers came in in a covey, hollering for beer. Mrs. Rutkowski, in broken English, said something about pickled pigs' feet. Pulaski retreated and started handing out bottles of beer and Polish pickles. Flick hollered out: ”I only want four barrels.”

Pulaski, for the sixty-third time that day, weighed his left thumb, the heaviest in Northern Indiana, along with a couple of pork chops. Everything was on credit anyway, so it really didn't make much difference. The Depression was like that.

The place was getting crowded. The flies hummed on and the screen door banged. Mrs. Rutkowski angrily yelled something that could have been Lithuanian, and Pulaski rushed back to the candy counter. Looking right at me and completely ignoring Flick, he said: ”Awright, what do you you want?” want?”

He knew what I wanted very well, and before I could even open my mouth he belted me with this thunderclap: ”No more Black Jawbreakers unless ya take one Red one for every Black.”

They were two for a penny. I hated hated Red Jawbreakers! Red Jawbreakers!

”I am getting stuck with too many Red Jawbreakers.”

This was the first time that the laws of Economics and Human Chicanery had impinged on our tumbleweed, windblown lives. For a second we said nothing, stunned.

”What?”

”I said no Jawbreakers unless you buy Red and and Black.” Black.”

There wasn't a Red Jawbreaker man in the crowd.

”Make up your mind. D'ya want 'em or not?”

We looked in through the curving gla.s.s case and saw that beautiful tray of magnificent Jawbreakers, almost all Red, the few remaining Blacks spotted here and there like diamonds in a bank of blue South African clay. Flick said: ”Red Jawbreakers!” Jawbreakers!”

Schwartz said: ”I'd rather have some rotten Tootsie Rolls!”

I thought it over. For as long as I had remembered, Jawbreakers were two for a penny. Black Black Jawbreakers. Two for a penny, and now, in effect, the price had doubled. I thought about it. Finally Pulaski's face loomed over the counter, looking down at all of us. I don't think he ever saw an individual kid. They were always just that jostling little mob in front of the case, with the hot, sweaty pennies. Jawbreakers. Two for a penny, and now, in effect, the price had doubled. I thought about it. Finally Pulaski's face loomed over the counter, looking down at all of us. I don't think he ever saw an individual kid. They were always just that jostling little mob in front of the case, with the hot, sweaty pennies.

”Awright, you guys. I don't have any more time to mess around. You want Black Jawbreakers or not?”

The only other Jawbreaker salesman in town was a good twelve blocks away, and still I couldn't say it.

”Gimme a penny's worth of Jawbreakers.”

Pulaski reached into the case, carefully taking one Red Jawbreaker and one Black Jawbreaker, and handed them over to me, picking up my penny from the gla.s.s top of the case. One after the other we gave in, until finally there was only Flick.

”Awright, what do you you want?” want?”

”Four Root Beer Barrels and a Mary Jane.”

”Fer Chrissake, all right!”

Pulaski grabbed a handful of Root Beer Barrels and a Mary Jane and shoved them in Flick's fist. Mrs. Rutkowski seemed to be asking for spareribs, or something, in broken Croatian. More steelworkers surged through the door. The screen door slammed. Pulaski clanked the sliding panels of his candy counter shut, turned his back on us, and hurried back behind the meat counter.

It was the first Jawbreaker Tie-in Sale. To get the gold you must also take the dross. The Jawbreaker remained true to its spirit, a pure distillation of Life itself; give and take.

Out on the street I stuck my black beauty far back on the right side, right where my wisdom teeth would be eventually impacted. I shoved the red monster into the pocket of my Levis. I'll give it to my kid brother, I figured. The great Jawbreaker pushed my cheek walls out until the proper tension was reached and the first soul-satisfying taste of that dark, rich, ebony masterpiece began to sink into my veins. It was worth the exorbitant price.

I stood at the window, looking out over the vast, crowded metropolitan traffic-jammed street, the burning coals of my aching tooth subsiding somewhat in the tepid bath of recollection and nostalgia. Only a steady, dull, thumping, subterranean pulse remained. I was still paying Pulaski.

A high thin whine of the steel burr as it bit into the marrow of another victim's left upper canine wound its way into my consciousness. It stopped. There was a moment of silence and then that white Archangel of Pain, the blonde, crisp, s.h.i.+rley Temple-ish dentist's a.s.sistant, touched me on the elbow.

”The doctor's ready.”

I turned.

”So am I, Miss.”

Together we moved forward toward the Rack.

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