In God we trust_ all others pay cash - Jean Shepherd [64]
The wax itself was invariably chewed after the bottle had been drained or the teeth had lost their charm, and had a distinctive, vaguely fragrant taste which even now I detect from time to time in coffee containers at ball games. An old Wax Eater never forgets.
I should say at the outset that the wax teeth were larger than life, true pink gum color—gums suffering from a rare case of advanced pyorrhea. The teeth proper were large, horsy, and obscene, and a nine-year-old kid coming out of the gloom of half twilight grinning from ear to ear with a set of Pulaski’s teeth gleaming like nightmare fangs undoubtedly sent many a Friday-night Blast-Furnace worker directly to the Salvation Army to take the pledge. We did not, however, frighten Miss Shields.
Just before suppertime Pulaski’s would be packed with a jostling throng of customers. Guys from the Open Hearth wearing tin hats, buying next week’s supply of Beech Nut “as sweet as a nut,” Old Virginia Licorice Twist, Honest Plug Tobacco, Dago cigars known as Guinea Stinkers, and Peach Blossom Chewing Snuff. Short fat ladies haggling over soup meat, and kids making the Big Choice.
At this point perhaps I should describe the variety of Penny Candy that has become a classic substrata of Americana. No other country I know of has anything remotely like it.
Juju Babies were exactly what they sound like; small, rubbery, symbolic figures of different colors—black, red, yellow—molded in the form of a Prehistoric ritual baby. Sexless, the Juju Baby sort of represented all Mankind, to be devoured by Man himself. The Juju Baby had a habit of getting stuck in the back teeth, and I remember a transparent yellow one that remained jammed between two molars for the better part of a Summer. It was perhaps there that my first step in the direction of Advanced Dentistry took place.
There was the Root Beer Barrel, beloved of kids of slightly more advanced and subtle taste. A small, compact item molded in the form of a tiny barrel, sprinkled over with sugar grains and tasting roughly like a fine blend of stale rootbeer and cake icing. The Root Beer Barrel had the extra advantage of being cheap. Since few kids bought them, they were roughly five to seven for a cent. Demand always controls price; never quality.
For more frivolous eating, or particularly Girl-types, there was a tin pie plate about the size of a half dollar filled with a semisolid paste usually pink, yellow, or chocolate in color that was to be spooned up with a tiny tin spoon. Many a tongue was split from end to end with the razor-like edge of this lethal instrument. The taste of the “pie” is not easy to define, since it had none other than a kind of electric, incisor-tingling sweetness. There was no other flavor.
Occasionally Pulaski would import a rarer item for his regular customers, exactly like the pie-tin and spoon combination except that the paste was in the shape of a tiny, tasteless but somehow interesting and subtle fried egg. I frankly admit I was a sucker for these fried eggs and even had developed a full technique for eating them that I still follow today with the real article. Using my spoon to scoop out the brilliant orange “yolk,” I then would attack by quadrant the white and finally, licking the pan, would throw it at the back of Kissel’s head.
Licorice came in many forms and several distinct textures. There were, of course, the traditional smooth, shiny whips, red and black, and the only time I ever was cursed with these was when Aunt Min, who to this day believes I am a nut on licorice, would bring a bag of them home. The licorice pipe, made of a crumbly, bitter licorice, was more my style. A curving stem and upswept bowl of the classical calabash shape of the Old