corner store

In 1957, when I grew up, there was a corner grocery store in almost every other block in our neighborhood, and it was quite common for a family to send their eight-year-old son or daughter to get a loaf of bread or half gallon of milk or even a pack of cigarettes—with a note from mom or dad of course.

The corner store where I grew up, Wiess’ Grocery, was only a half block from our house. There were nine kids in our family and I was third from the top which meant my chances of going to the store alone were slim. I could go with my brother or sister but what fun was that. They would get to carry the money; they would get to pick up the item and put it on the counter; they would get to pay for it and bring home the change but best of all, Don the grocer would always talk to them, nor me. He would ask them how they were doing or how was school or—if it was my brother—have you got a girlfriend yet but all he ever said to me was “Hi, Jerry.”

When I got a little older and got to know Don better I would stop in after school just to talk with him as long as he wasn’t busy. He would tell me stories about how the milk delivery man dropped a whole case of milk off the end of his truck and broke three bottles. And how there were cats licking up the milk for the next three days. Or the time Mrs. Peters caught her high heel in the heat vent at the back of the store and couldn’t reach down to pull it out because her arms were full of groceries so she just stood there yelling. I never was sure if the stories were true or if he just made them up. Once in a while, if no one else was in the store, he would give me a piece of the penny candy that lined one whole shelf. Kids would come in and stare at all that candy, wishing they had money to buy some. He would say, “This piece fell on the floor so I can’t sell it?” I started to think of Don as one of my best friends even if he was about a hundred years older than me.

When I got older and my brother and sister didn’t think it was such a great privilege to go to the store anymore, my mom or dad would have me go. Along with our new found friendship came trust and Don started trusting me more and more. Sometimes when I would come in after school Don would ask me to keep an eye on the store so he could do something in the back room. Of course, if a customer came in, I would go back and get him since he couldn’t let me run the register. But I felt pretty big being left in charge while he was in back.

On the one wall, next to the register, they kept several cheap toys hanging at eye level so kids could gaze at them in hopes of somehow getting enough money to purchase one. They weren’t expensive toys, they were the next step up from the penny candy; a yoyo, a mirror and brush for your doll, coloring books, a water color paint set, tiny football, even a comb that looked like a switch blade. They were all wrapped in cheap plastic, a small piece of cardboard on top with a hole in the center for hanging and the words ‘made in China’ written somewhere on the cardboard. I think he kept them there, next to the register, for two reasons. It made it much harder for someone to steal and when mothers with kids were paying for their groceries the kids could whine, cry and beg for a toy.

I knew every toy by heart and my favorite was the  PEZ candy dispenser. I wanted one of those so bad but knew that even if I was able to get the money for one, my mother would never let me. With nine kids in a family you didn’t just get to have a toy because you wanted it. Even so, my desire to own that cute  PEZ dispenser continued to grow each time I visited the store. I found myself gravitating away from the penny candy shelf to the rack of toys where I would constantly find myself staring at the dispenser—occasionally taking it off the rack and holding it in my hands like I owned it; then replacing it, hoping nobody would buy it in case somehow I was able to get it for myself.

One cold winter day my mother asked me to go to the store for a loaf of bread. I put on my thick winter coat, reached into the deep pockets for my mittens and hat, pulled up my collar and headed out the door. It should be noted at this time that I never did actually plan to commit the unthinkable crime. It was completely spontaneous. I walked in the store and went right to the bread counter, picked up the loaf of Wonder bread and brought it to the register to pay. When Don saw that it was me he seemed relieved.

“Oh, Jerry, am I glad it’s you. I need to go in the back for a couple minutes. Keep an eye on things ‘til I get back.”

I knew what that meant. He needed to use the bathroom so I stood behind the counter as I had done many other times for Don. As it had many times before, my eyes locked onto the  PEZ dispenser. The sky blue cardboard with the white print and hole in the center drew me in. And the bright orange plastic dispenser pulled me toward it with a force like never before. All of a sudden, in one quick move my hand reached up, grabbed the precious toy and stuffed it in my pocket while my heart pounded with excitement—not with the excitement of owning the new toy but with the fear of getting caught.

The adrenaline rush was interrupted by a voice, “Everything okay up there.”

I couldn’t see him yet but I knew it was Don, coming out of the back room and walking up the aisle. He would be here in about ten seconds and my mind raced as I tried to decide what, if anything, I should do. My hand immediately went into my pocket, touching the illegal toy sending shivers through my arm as if I had put my finger in a light socket. I could hear his footsteps now and if I was going to put the contraband back, I needed to act fast. I tried to pull it out but the cardboard got caught in the lining of my pocket. If he rounded the corner and saw me pulling it out of my pocket… well, he would know what I was trying to do.

“You ready to pay for that?” He said, and my heart sunk into my stomach. What did he mean? How did he know the toy was in my pocket?

“Wha…what?” I stammered

“Pay for the bread. You weren’t going to steal it were you?” he said, then laughed.

My face must have turned ten different shades of red; at least that’s how it felt anyway and Don looked at me with real concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just a little hot,” I lied, “I better get going.”

Nothing more was said between Don and I except, “Thanks for watching the store for me.” But I had the feeling he knew something was wrong. And there was something wrong—real wrong. That something was a trust that two friends had shared and now was broken. Broken for a stupid  PEZ dispenser. I wondered if I would ever be able to look Don in the eye anymore without wondering if he knew; knew that his best friend had betrayed him, all for a cheap plastic toy.

All the way home I tried to dismiss the entire episode, justifying it by saying it was just a cheap toy anyway and I did help him by watching the store so he probably would have given it to me if I asked. But I didn’t ask, I stole it and now I would have to live with that. Before I climbed the steps to our front porch, I turned around and looked back at the corner store trying to decide if I should go back and return the stupid thing but dismissed the thought knowing I could never go through with it.

With everyone in the front room watching TV, I went to the our community bedroom and stretched out on my half of our bed. I had stuffed the toy in my underwear just in case someone saw the bulge in my coat pocket and asked about it. No sooner had I taken the toy out of its wrapper and loaded it with the sleeve of candy when my sister walked into the room. It only took her seconds to figure out what I had done

“Where did you get that?” she snapped. Not, “What is that?” Just where did you get that. She couldn’t care less what I had, she just knew I wasn’t supposed to have it. “I’m telling mom!” She yelled, hurrying out of the room.

That was the one thing about having a whole house full of siblings. If there was an opportunity to get someone in trouble without being a tattle-tale; well, that was the cat’s meow. Mom wouldn’t put up with being a tattle-tale and there were so many things that fell in the tattle-tale category but this wasn’t one. I was busted for sure. The next three words I heard echoing throughout the house, gave me the chills.

“Gerald Eugene, get in HERE!”

Here! Was in the kitchen, away from my siblings. Mom seldom gave us a tongue lashing in front of the others. But that didn’t really matter because they all snuck up to the kitchen door and listened.

“…I am so disappointed in you. After the way he has treated you lately, you do this.” She sat there staring at me with those pain stricken eyes, waiting for me to cry and I tried really, really hard not to but soon I was bawling like a baby. When I finally stopped crying and thought the worst was over, I found out how wrong I was. “Do you know what you are going to do?” I shook my head. “You need to get your coat and the two of us are going to go tell him what you did.”

The walk to the grocery store was usually a very enjoyable one but not this time. This one seemed like a walk down the corridor to a prisoner’s execution. The half block to the corner seemed more like a mile. When we got there Don was sweeping the floor, getting ready to close. He saw us come in and when I looked up from the floor into his eyes I could tell he knew… he knew something anyway because this wasn’t the face of a friend; it was the face of a very hurt man who may have just lost a friend. I pulled the  PEZ dispenser out of my pocket and set it on the counter and my mom took money out of her purse to pay for it. I turned and started for the door when a powerful hand caught my shoulder and stopped me. She never said a word but I knew what she wanted.

Never taking my eyes off the floor I said, “Sorry, I really am.” I couldn’t bare to look at him again, see how hurt he really was.

It’s been over sixty years since the  PEZ incident happened. That corner now has a six story high rise for seniors on it and I’m quite sure Don Wiess is long gone. Oddly enough, I was walking through a Target store with my grandson the other day when he picked something off of a rack of cheap toys and asked, “Grandpa, can I get this?” When I looked in his hand I realized that sixty some odd years later the corner grocery store can still haunt me.