There was a kiosk in the center of town that sold magazines and chocolate. On one side of the kiosk stood an art history museum and on the other a Madame Tussuad’s wax museum. The candy bars faced the art history museum and the magazines faced the wax museum, which was ironic because the patrons of the art museum bought the magazines and the patrons of the wax museum bought the candy bars, which lead to a considerable number of shrieks and apologies in the 10-foot perimeter around the kiosk.
I liked the noise. The shrieks. The apologies.
The candy bars were cheaper than the magazines. Plus candy bars are economical, or so our mom said. You can do what you will with the candy, play with the wrapper and increase your vocabulary, all for 99 cents. Our mom would read us the ingredients – Riboflavin – Niacin – Stearoyl Lactylate. She was sure to enunciate clearly. She paused before uttering the divine names, rolling her Rs and exaggerating the first vowel in the words. She was a good American. She named dropped the ingredients at dinner parties and even once at Temple. She fancied herself a role model.
I watched her at Tupperware parties, selling cheap plastic and relishing the names of cheap sugars. I watched my grandmother cocooned inside a blanket she crochet herself into, oblivious and impervious towards the world around her. I played with the candy wrappers.
I was making a collage. I tore the pictures of Sour Patch Kids from the wrappers and glued them to a Milky Way’s torn cloak. I wrote, “gee, you’re as swell Diglyceride Isolate” on the back with magic marker. I gave it to a girl on Valentine’s Day. She laughed. She wasn’t impressed by my vocabulary – or maybe she was too impressed. I like to think the latter.
I sat beside my Grandmother that night. She shared her blanket with me. It smelled of boiled cabbage and garlic. Repulsive. Uncultured.
But, she held my hand.