In God we trust_ all others pay cash - Jean Shepherd [67]
“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 glass top of the case. One after the other we gave in, until finally there was only Flick.
“Awright, what do you 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, Shirley Temple-ish dentist’s assistant, touched me on the elbow.
“The doctor’s ready.”
I turned.
“So am I, Miss.”
Together we moved forward toward the Rack.
XXI ENTER FRIENDLY FRED
Flick sucked noisily at a hollow tooth as I stood up stiffly to get the kinks out of my legs. Bar stools are not good for the knees. Not only that, but my conscience was beginning to bother me. Here I was, frittering away an afternoon chewing the fat with Flick, when I should have been out filling up my blue-lined notebook with acute observations on the evolving life of the Industrial Midwest, not to mention the impact of Automation on the day-to-day life of the solitary citizen. Also, I was on an expense account, and there wasn’t much to squander it on in Flick’s. I enjoy living to the full.
I stalked to the end of the bar, flexing my shoulder muscles and jiggling my feet. This is known in Indiana tavern circles as “Shaking Down The Suds.” Flick moodily changed his apron. It was getting late in the afternoon now, and the big rush of steelworkers was due shortly after four when the shift at the mill changed.
Again the entranceway swung open with a puff of frigid air. This time a tall, thin, natty customer displaying a formidable set of store teeth and a dour piercing gaze strode resolutely to the bar. Flick glanced up and, without a word passing between the two, took a bottle of bourbon down off the mirrored shelf behind the bar and poured a double. Neat. The man quickly tossed it off, threw a dollar down on the bar, said: “Be seein’ you,” and was gone. Flick rang up the buck as I returned to my stool.
“Well?” I asked.
“Oh, him? That’s Fted. Friendly Fred. He runs the Used-Car lot across the street.”
I looked over at the lot. A touch of twilight gloom was beginning