A story for you, of two things very dear to my heart, orange soda and Hershey bars…
The young boy climbed onto the bar stool, slid forward, and rested his folded arms on the rounded edges of the bar. Behind him, a neon light glowed red in the window. To him, and the road beyond the gravel parking lot, it proudly proclaimed to all who passed by, or turned in, that this was and always had been “Mickey’s” – and the sign did so in cursive – which the young boy considered impressive.
The boy, as he always did when allowed to sit on the short side of the “L” shaped bar, surveyed the abundance of interesting items behind it. Row upon row of bottles lit up from behind. Stacks of glasses. A snack display and a cash register. An old refrigerator with a curved top. Large coolers that held bottles of beer that made a pleasing and often musical clinking sound when pulled out two, three, or even four at a time by a skilled bar practitioner. And there were cups of sorted plastic mixing sticks, that came in different colors and lengths, each with a different shape at the top. Stacks of cardboard coasters. And two signs attached above the archway that led to the kitchen… “No Tipping” and “No Credit”.
The boy is tall for his age, but still young, and his upward gaze at the man behind the bar originates from a place not very far above his folded arms. He watches as the man places a cardboard coaster onto the bar and carefully centers a glass upon it. There are three ice cubes in the glass. Then, as if by magic, a large bottle of sparkling orange soda is produced. The man undoes the stopper and with a skill that amazes the boy, pours the soda into the glass with uncanny speed and spot-on accuracy. The boy, with his chin now resting on his arms, watches as the bubbles rise until they pop and fizz on the soda’s foamy orange surface.
The man pulls the bottle back, replaces its stopper, and makes it disappear as fast as he made it appear; all from somewhere beneath the bar, a place the boy imagines to be almost magical.
After sliding the glass and coaster forward toward the boy, the man looks the boy in the eye. With a short-to-the-point voice, almost gruff in nature (but not really, the boy knows this is just the way the man speaks), the man says, “What will it be?”
The boy knows his choices… for this is a ritual of sorts.
He ponders his options… a small bag of Wise potato chips, a Hershey bar (with or without almonds, a wonderful choice within a wonderful choice), or a Slim Jim.
“Hershey bar, no nuts,” the boy says.
This is the boy’s choice about four out of every five times. The man, unsurprised, walks over to the cash register and takes a Hershey bar, no nuts, from the rack. He returns and slides it across the bar to the boy, who quietly says, “Thank you.”
For a sliver of a second, the boy notices something, and thinks to himself, “He smiled. I saw it. I know I did.”
The man walks away, towards the other end of the bar, to tend to real customers and perhaps talk about the day’s races at Saratoga or the latest news in our quiet little town.
As the boy slides the brown paper sleeve off of the candy bar, the first step in getting to the chocolate still wrapped in silver foil (that is how Hershey bars were wrapped back then), he quietly and smugly reassures himself, “Yes. I saw him smile. I’m sure of it.”
That was the man’s way. He never showed a lot of emotion. In all the years I knew him, I only saw real emotion one time. But it was always there. I could feel it. I just knew.
My Uncle Mickey built Mickey’s Tavern in Perth, NY in 1949 and ran it with my Aunt Tessie until his passing in 2001. The tavern closed after that and unfortunately passed out of family hands a few years later after my aunt passed away. It is a restaurant now. I have never been. I never will. I choose to remember the tavern.
For the record, it was not just a tavern. It was also a home and a hub. A place to meet when we lived in Perth, and a place to stay when we visited after our move to Virginia. Upstairs was the coziest and most beautiful home I have ever been in. It was home to my aunt and uncle. It was home to my cousins. It was home to my grandmother after the passing of my grandfather. And it was a wonderful home to me, for a short while, in 1976.
And also for the record… I still drink orange soda. It remains my favorite. And I still enjoy the combo when the opportunity presents itself – orange soda and a Hershey bar… no nuts.
