The bell on the door jangled, and the smell of incense from the rack near the entrance spoke louder than the scent of cigarette smoke on the clothing of the two customers ahead of us. Like any convenience store, this corner store in our North Minneapolis neighborhood offered lots of sugary temptations, turning itself into one of our little girls' favorite spots.
The young Colin Farrell look-alike behind the counter was cute—in spite of his unibrow—and he seemed to know it. Two men worked alongside him, and the three of them flipped from Arabic to English when they saw us coming. The girls—around five, seven, and nine years old at the time—scooted down their favorite aisle where they had already worn a path.
While the girls touched all the treats during their decision-making, I recalled the corner store of my youth, Berg's Drugstore, downtown Middle River. A bell on the door signaled our entry there too, but creaky wood floors greeted us and not the smell of smoke, even though Vick Berg, the elderly owner, sold candy cigarettes—something I was never allowed to buy. Glass jars of old-fashioned sweets lined up Little House on the Prairie style on the wooden counter, and my five-year-old mind wondered if Mr. Berg, with his liver-spotted hands, was the same vintage as Ma and Pa.
Our girls made quick work of their selections now, bickering amongst themselves about fairness and nickels. They had scrounged change from around the house but needed an extra boost from me. My thoughts again darted back forty-five years to Vick Berg’s small-town business.
“And a penny for the governor,” the elderly shop owner always said while tallying our candy bill, our items (like Candy Buttons and Boston Baked Beans) more Prohibition era than 1970s.
As the girls and I exited our city convenience store, a man with a ball python twisted around his neck entered. A woman trailed him, cupping a coiled rosy boa in her hands. The girls turned to me and whispered their wishes to hold the strangers’ pets—or have one like them.
“Why don't we go home and eat what you just bought?” I said, hoping to distract. Better sweets than snakes, I wanted to say.
The next day, Waffle Saturday, arrived, but we were out of whipped cream. I plucked some cash from my purse, handed it to the girls, and they walked the singular block to the convenience store. They returned home with whipped cream and syrup.
“When we went to pay, we didn’t have enough money, so the man asked how much we had,” Dicka said. “He said it was enough for both.”
“That was nice, but we didn’t need syrup,” I said. “Just the whipped cream.”
Later that July day, the ice cream truck played “Silent Night” as it passed. The girls grabbed their almost depleted change jar.
“One treat,” I called out.
“That’s all we have money for anyway,” Ricka hollered over her shoulder as she ran off.
I kept a wary eye on the beat-up white van with its cheery but faded decals of frozen confections. Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka chased it for a block before the driver applied the brakes near the corner store.
The girls returned home with disappointed faces.
“All we could get was one snow cone,” Ricka said, wrinkling her nose, “and it’s bland.”
“Maybe the ice cream truck man knows the guys at the store and heard you had extra syrup at home.”
“That’s not funny, Mom.”
On our next trip to the convenience store, the four men—all with the name Muhammad—were working.
“Is this to have a Super Bowl party at your house?” one of them said, eyeballing my stash of snacks before he rang it up.
“Sure. It’s better than admitting I’m going to eat all the chips and dip myself.” And I wondered what Vick Berg would've said to that.
The same crew had been employed at the store for years and witnessed much. Cars smashed through the place’s front windows three times before the security barriers—the posts protecting the business from its own parking lot—went up. A homicide went down inside the store soon after. Police cars dotted the parking lot for a while, their presence marking the spot as troubled. We gave the store our business anyway; they needed it now more than ever. And the girls continued to visit with their found change from the couch cushions and dryer. (Or with coins Husband and I tossed into their jar when they weren’t looking.)
“We didn’t have enough money,” Dicka said on another occasion when they returned from the store, “but the man said we could have the candy anyway.”
“Girls,” I said, “next time, just get what you can afford. You’ve been cut too many deals.”
I was grateful the girls’ change jar was empty again when later that summer day the ice cream truck rolled by, this time playing “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Now I had the song stuck in my head—five months before Christmas. But I thought of our tasty life in the neighborhood in general and the goodwill of the employees working in the store on the corner. And I again recalled Vick Berg, doling out treats during my own childhood.
Oh, those purveyors of goodies! Hopefully life had been sweet for all of them too.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.