The Lemon Drop Man

I was way too young to have heard the words stranger danger when I first saw him. He was sitting on the curb in front of the old bookstore at the end of the block, sunshine streaming through his scruffy white hair, mischief dancing in his crystal blue eyes. He was eating candy while reading. Those little sugary lemon drops that kids love but adults think are repulsive. I was on my way to the park. Eight years old. The age when you begin to think that you have things figured out, yet everything is still new and different. The age when you have no filter, not because you choose not to, but because you are simply too young to understand what it means to pick and choose what you say. I was alone. My parents often sent me to the park alone when I was a child, with a dollar to buy an ice cream from the cart, and a warning to be back before dark. I was used to the freedom. Used to the whispering nannies, the constant stream of adults asking where my parents were, the surprise from vendors when I bought food for myself. At the age of eight I was more independent than most kids were as teenagers. Yet I had never heard of stranger danger. So I walked up to the strange man and asked, “What are you doing?” He looked up, a smile growing across his face as he watched me approach.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m eating lemon drops with Sherlock Holmes.” I had never heard of this Sherlock Holmes person. I craned my head around the corner, expecting to see another strange man enjoying his candy with him. But, of course, no one was there. “But you’re alone!” I exclaimed, suddenly very interested in this peculiar stranger and his even more peculiar imaginary company. “Ah, but I’m not, you see.” he said then, gesturing to the book in his lap. “But that’s only a book!” I exclaimed, still utterly confused. Though I acted like an adult, I was still nothing more than an eight year old girl who wore ribbons in her hair and had a fondness for strawberry ice cream. “It’s not company!” He popped another lemon drop in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then replied, “Ah, but I find books to be the best sort of company. Lemon drop?” And not yet having heard the stories of dark strangers coaxing children into their vans with candy that would become recurring tales of my later years, I accepted, popping the sugary treat into my mouth and puckering at its sour taste. The man on the curb laughed. “It is sour, isn’t it? Now how’d you like to have a good old conversation with Holmes?” He patted the curb beside him, and I sat as he began to tell me all about Holmes and his adventures, and then told me that I ought to experience it for myself. Being bright for my age, I loved books, and would go to the library frequently to get lost. The librarians called me Matilda. But I had never heard of Sherlock Holmes. And I figured that it was time I start reading more mature things, after all, in my eyes, I was practically an adult. So I read. I read aloud to the man on the curb until the sun dipped below the horizon and my sight began to grow fuzzy from focusing for so long. So I said I had to be going, and the man looked up at me, a funny expression on his face that I would not have the words for until much later. And he said, “Alright then, but you better finish. Take it with you.” 

“No, that’s okay.” I said. Though I was eight, I had manners. And for some reason, in my eight year old brain, eating a stranger’s candy was much different than taking a stranger’s book. “I insist,” he replied, dropping the old paperback into my hands. “I’ve read this one too many times anyways.” Not sure how to accept the gift, my eyes fell to the crisp dollar in my pocket. The one for buying ice cream in the park. “Fine. But here.” I said, handing him the dollar, and then walking off before he could try to give it back to me. I was surprised he didn’t protest immediately like all the adults I knew would. But then again, he didn’t seem like a normal adult, and I certainly wasn’t a normal kid. It was only when I was halfway to my old brownstone at the other end of the street, that I realized I had never thanked him. So I turned and yelled “Thank you!” to him from far down the block. He smiled and waved as I found my way home. 

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After that, the man was always on the curb. Day in and day out. No matter the weather. So I would go to see him. Day in and day out. No matter the weather. The time glided by like leaves in the brisk fall breeze. My park days were long gone, ribbons no longer tied neatly in my hair. But I was still young and curious, fascinated at the prospect of anything new. And he taught me things that no one else ever had. Narnia let me glimpse into another world. Fahrenheit 451 taught me what it was like to be trapped in one. Frankenstein showed me what it meant to be truly afraid. Pride and Prejudice taught me what it meant to be in love. And the strange man was there through all of it. Lemon drops on his breath and that same wildness in his eyes. I grew to call him the Lemon Drop Man. It didn’t occur to me much later how odd it was that I never asked his name, and he never asked mine. But it was part of childhood. And childhood was a fantastical time coated in sugar, like a candy apple. The sweetness of the caramel soaked through, making everything syrupy and beautiful. It wasn’t until much, much later that I began to question the pillars of my upbringing. The never-present parents who sent me to fend for myself. Who didn’t notice the ever increasing pile of battered paperbacks on my bookshelf. Or that my hands were never sticky with ice cream when I came home anymore. Perhaps it is for the best that childhood is held in such a light. If it wasn’t I might not have survived. 

But, of course, I did. Because of him. Because of late afternoon smiles, lemon drop candies, and the way he helped me pronounce unfamiliar words. Because of new adventures, new ideas, and new company. The idea that fictional people could be considered companions never occurred to me until the day that I met the Lemon Drop Man. But I soon learned to hold it dear. I frequently conversed with Elizabeth Bennet, and occasionally made small talk with Alice who I quickly realized preferred to be lost in Wonderland than to discuss the weather. 

And as the years melted away once more, like the ice cream that was synonymous with the everlasting summer of my childhood, gone were the days of free time at all, replaced instead with late night study sessions and boys to distract me from them. Raging parties where I’d have too much to drink and the lost days that followed after. I forgot about the Lemon Drop Man and the wonderful worlds he’d open for me altogether. I hardly found time to read. I never walked past the bookstore at the end of the block. No one ever bought me any lemon drops. But the past always has an eerie way of finding its way back to you. 

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It was early afternoon when I found myself in front of the old bookshop. I had a free day, and felt the need to go for a walk, like I used to. It’s funny how old habits find us and sweep us back into routine as if we never even left it. Funny how routines form in the first place. Patterns. Repetitions. Themes. Light shown out into the dusk from the tiny bookstore. The Lemon Drop Man was not sitting on the curb. So I opened the door and went in, the rusty little bell ringing upon my entrance. “Can I help you?” a woman with graying brown hair and a patient smile called from the counter. “No, just browsing.” I replied, turning to peruse the shelves. I ambled through fantasy, having had my fill of worlds too large and magical to really be a part of this one. I looked at a few new releases in romance, but nothing caught my eye. It’s different, I thought, to read about love, than to be in it. And suddenly, I found myself standing in mystery, a familiar title turned out, as if on display. I pulled it out, marveling at the beautiful cover art, different from the design on the front of my old copy. I went to return the book to the shelf, but I stopped and gaped at what was behind it. A bag of lemon drops. Brach’s, like he always got. With a sticky note on the front. “I never did pay you back for that dollar.” in a messy scrawl that fit his personality in that odd way that a person’s handwriting always seems to. “Excuse me?” I called up to the counter, staring at the candy in my hands like it would disappear if I took my eyes from it. “Do you know who that man was that always used to sit in front of your shop?” The woman glanced up, her patient face filled with lines of confusion. “I can’t say I do, I wonder where he went off to.” 

“Yeah,” I said, pocketing the candies and making for the door, “I wonder.”