The Candy Store

"Pete’s," as we children called it, was an old-fashioned Candy Store in a three-story building in Queens, New York. It was sandwiched between a deli and a fruit store on a heavily traveled street in the neighborhood I grew up in. 

Even then, as a schoolkid, the building seemed old. It was probably built at the turn of the 19th into the 20th century. It was constructed of decorative red brick and had beautiful detail with stone cornices and ornately trimmed windows. 

The storefront itself had large glass windows and an old wooden door. "Confectionary" had long before been hand-painted in fancy white script on the front windows as many shops of the day likely were. The paint was chipped, though; the flourishes peeling away. It had seen its better days inside. At one time, it had carried all the popular handmade candies of the day, truffles, petit fours, along with other freshly made baked goods. 

By the 1970s, Pete's had become a slowly dying soda shop, an afternoon pit stop for local children including myself, sparsely stocked with packaged candy bars, penny candy, newspapers, and comic books. It was a frequent stop for my brother and me, or whatever friend I may have walked with that day on our way home from school.

As we'd push open the heavy door, the bells hanging from the old bakery string on the back of it would jingle like Christmas, alerting old Pete to his young customers. The weight of the squeaking door gave way to the sweet scent of candy combined with newsprint and ink of the daily papers. 

Pete would be sitting on the second step of the small landing. Behind him was his apartment; you could see right through to the kitchen if you looked past him. 

He'd manage a small smile and a weak wave hello. Then he would limp over to the soda fountain to make egg creams or malteds for the few kids that sat on the swivel chairs at the counter. 

Often he'd be chatting with John, an elderly neighborhood man with a shock of snow-white hair and blue eyes. John would be doing most of the chatting. Pete was a quiet man. Sometimes, other older gentlemen were there, smoking cigars and waiting for the evening paper.

"Hello Damon," Pete would say to me when he saw me. For some reason, this always made me smile even more. As one of four small children, I guess it simply felt nice to be noticed by a grownup. 

Pete always addressed me this way when I saw him. Of course, he acknowledged my brother too. My brother and I would choose our treats and head home to our block just around the corner.                

 There were other days we'd go into Pete's, but there'd be no greetings by Pete. There'd be no older neighborhood men smoking cigars while waiting for the night owl edition of the paper. 

It would be quiet at the soda counter. No one was sitting on the step. The swivel stools were empty. We'd hear some shuffling from the back, then a weary voice would call out from the kitchen - "take what you want-put the change in the box!". 

If we looked toward the back on days like this, we would see Pete sitting in his chair hunched over the Formica kitchen table. He might have had a cereal bowl and the newspaper in front of him. He'd be wearing a white undershirt, his salt and pepper hair uncombed. He seemed sad.

The White Owl cigar box sat atop the glass counter above the stacks of newspapers. Behind it, the cabinets reached the ceiling and had tall glass doors with thick ornate trim. 

My grandmother's apartment nearby had the same kind of built-in cabinets that loomed to the ceiling. A lost art of former days. She would tuck pictures and other important things, like the church bulletin, into the corners between the glass and the trim.

My brother and I would drop our change in the cigar box. It would rattle against the rest of the coins that had accumulated during the day. Then we'd head home or back to the block to play with our friends.

We'd long since left the area when a Facebook post about the neighborhood prompted a conversation with my aging mother. A busy young mom and housewife in the 70s, she had no reason or inclination to talk about Pete or John to me back then. 

I was curious about Pete, his limp, and why he seemed sad. Why did he stay in the back some days, leaving the store unattended? I wanted to know who Pete had been in his younger days as well, what was he like before he was an elderly man hanging around with the guys at the candy store?

Between the trim of the glass and wood of the cabinets in the candy store, my mother recalled seeing pictures of Pete and his buddies and their airplanes...Pete was a decorated WWII Fighter Pilot.

 His medals were proudly displayed on the glass as well, along with a picture of him in his uniform. He was a handsome young man. He'd been injured in the war and was in chronic pain, hence the limp. 

Perhaps what made him the saddest, though, may have been that his wife had passed away suddenly after he returned from the war. After her death, he rarely emerged from the apartment in the back.  

John was a retired mailman that had served in WWI. He lived around the corner from the candy store and was married to a jolly woman with a Southern Drawl. I didn't find out much else about but I do know that I felt happy when they acknowledged me as a kid. Even then, I noticed the twinkle in his eyes and knew he was special. I like to think perhaps it was that same twinkle that occasionally drew Pete out from behind the kitchen table into the candy store to greet the neighborhood kids and the passersby of the day.