Sweet Tooth George

We had a great meal at Pyro’s Greek Landing and my tummy was full. No matter, I would find some room for popcorn at the movies. George wanted to make a quick stop at a strip mall between the restaurant and the theatre. We had an hour until the show started and I was happy to observe and discover more about George. What kind of stuff was he interested in? Was Greek food his favorite, or was he just comfortable at Pyro’s? Maybe Pyro’s was his safe zone for first dates. I lightly teased him about that over dinner, but George only admitted to liking their version of Greek salad with extra feta cheese and Kalamata olives on the side. Of course, I wanted to know how often he was dating and how long had it been since his last date. Was the Greek restaurant his choice for dates he saw as long-term, or dates he was just looking to hook-up with and dump? I was looking for signals or cues from the waitress, the hostess, or that weird looking guy behind the bar. As if they were George’s buddies with a thorough memory of all the girls he’s wheeled into this place over the years. I was attracted to George. I was still impressed with the way he contacted me and proposed our first date.

The strip mall was a ten minute car ride from the restaurant. Was he looking to stop by a drug store and pick up a prescription? George said he didn’t smoke, so I didn’t think he was in the market for cigarettes. When we pulled into a parking spot facing the stores, we were directly in front of a very colorful window display. A large neon rainbow was at the center of the display. At the end of the rainbow was a red bucket with a single word describing what was in the bucket — Candy!

We were about to enter Dandy Dan’s Candy Land. George leapt from the driver’s seat and waved at me to join him. I was never the type to be lured by fudge or toffee at local fairs or coastal tourist towns. I certainly would never find myself in the candy aisle of my local grocery store. I didn’t live in a house, nor did I have children, so I was never in need of filling a bowl for Halloween hand-outs. I was a little skeptical and actually held my hand to my chest and silently mimed one word with a question mark from the passenger seat. “Me?” Of course it was me. I know it was idiotic to think that George was waving at anyone else with his childish excitement, but I needed a mental pause to imagine myself shopping for candy after such a big meal.

Upon entering Dandy Dan’s Candy Land, I was first struck by the loud circus music. The door triggered an automatic pre-recorded welcome that played over the circus music, “Welcome to Dandy Dan’s.” It was a very happy voice punctuated with canned laughter, which made it very creepy. It left me with the impression of a subtle threat to purchase something upon entering the store, or face-off against an insanely happy Dandy Dan at the check-out. We passed through a small turnstile that seemed to be borrowed from an ancient children’s amusement park. Immediately before us were two sizes of plastic bags and thick twist ties. The room smelled sweet with a mixed aroma of butterscotch, citrus, and maple. Small bits of candy peppered the red and white checkered linoleum floor along with splattered dark stains of fallen candy from years gone by. Against all walls there were super tall plastic dispensers with every variety of hard, soft, and gooey candy known to modern day civilization. The dispensers were side by side to optimize the small retail space. It was a deep narrow room with only two isles. The candy store was divided by a long bank of waste high bins that extended all the way back to the full depth of the store. These bins opened from the top and each bin had a large plastic scooper connected to the bin by a colorful lanyard. The audible experience was an endless cacophony of clinking confectionaries departing the dispensers, crunching candy beneath the feet of store patrons, squealing taste testers, high pitched circus music, and every ten seconds, “Welcome to Dandy Dan’s!”

I reassured George that I was fascinated by the store and found the sensory overload experience very interesting. I wanted to scream and jump through the storefront double pane windows. I was twitching every time someone entered the store and set-off that recorded greeting. My words of reassurance were more for my own mental state and well being, but I don’t think any words were getting through to George at this point. His eyes were flashing and darting in every direction. George was giddy and happy. George explained to me why he had planned for an hour between dinner and the movie, and why we were here at Dandy Dan’s Candy Land. George loved to eat candy throughout the screening of picture shows. From the movie trailers that played prior to the feature film, to the rolling of credits afterward — George loved to munch. From his childhood days sitting before a television after school, to his pre-teen Saturday cinema matinees, and then onward into adulthood — George found that an entertainment experience went hand-in-hand with gorging and chomping on large quantities of sweets.

There was an economic upside to the strip mall visit. As George slowly moved along the first isle of tall candy dispensers, he explained how his large intake of confectioneries really only took place during periods of idle viewing of entertainment. He kept no candy at home. He didn’t make any visits to the vending machine at work, and he didn’t have a secret stash of sweets hidden away for emergencies. It was really only the movie theatre setting or a live sporting event, which brought out his insatiable appetite for candy. George had determined many years ago that he would have very little money left over for rent, car payments, food, or clothing, if he were to pay the fully inflated price for candy sold at movie theatres or live sporting event venues. The pre-event purchase of sweets at a local candy dispensary, along with the smuggling of the discount-by-volume candy into the venue was the only solution.

Our mission, as described by George, was to load one large bag with delectable treats, which we would then hide within the deepest recesses of my purse. No junior ticket checker at the theatre would dare inspect for discount food entering their theatre by way of a lady’s purse. In case the particular theatre we were attending had a weapons-check policy, the candy spoils would be buried beneath wadded tissues. No one would want to risk infection by way of fishing around snotty cotton wads in search of what — a discount candy smuggler?

I was no longer George’s date — I was his candy mule. At the candy store check-out, a young man looked at me suspiciously, as we were only purchasing a single large bag of candy. In an instant, his pudgy and pimply young face did not accuse me of stealing away with candy in my pockets, but he did communicate in a flash that I was not a part of the candy loving cult he was accustomed to. This young clerk knew I was just along for the ride. Still, we received the customary, “will that be all?” The word “all” seemed to zero-in on me. The statement was definitely a guilt ploy meant to send us back into the depths of the store for a second large plastic bag of candy. We accepted our shame. We only purchased the single large bag of candy and withdrew to the parking lot. Before we pulled away in George’s car and headed for the theatre, George explained the strategic details for where I would hide the candy stash on my person.

My purse straps were beginning to dig into my shoulder with the weight of George’s sugar vice secret hidden away. When we entered the theatre, George picked up the pace of our steps, and we bypassed the snack area to get in line for electronic ticket scanning. There would be no offer for a liquid refreshment or popcorn, and I wouldn’t have the opportunity to politely pass on the popcorn, but accept the liquid refreshment. George provided encouraging words as I began to study the face of a theatre employee checking people through her station. We moved along the crowd control stanchions and I adjusted my torso, which was off kilter due to the intruder in my purse.

Seated in the theatre, George leaned over to give me the signal. Everyone was looking down at their phones, and the lone usher assigned to this screening hall was deep in conversation with an elderly couple. My faux soiled cotton tissues fell to the ground as I handed the bag of candy booty over to George’s shaking and impatient hands. He hunched over his precious bag of sweets and rapidly consumed two handfuls of random candy. He straightened up in his seat while still smacking his lips together. He gestured for me to join him and breathed a “go ahead and get some” grunt. He held back from any small talk extension of our “getting to know you” dialogue, which we barely started at the Greek restaurant. George was working through some thick caramel gunk stuck to his upper palette, which was inhibiting speech and any possibility for further conversation.

I had no interest in George’s candy and settled into watching the movie. During the opening credits, he insisted that I at least try one piece of candy and become an accomplice to his tooth decay debauchery. By now, I had envisioned George someday losing a leg to diabetes and bidding online for a new kidney to save his life. I felt like some kind of pretentious sugar snob. Nonetheless, the answer had to be no. I noticed George was eating directly over the bag and slobbering chewy artifacts from his mouth back into the trenches of his candy stash.

I was now on a date with the movie itself and I was quite happy with what I was looking at. George had long disappeared in my mind. My new date was kind enough to override George’s munching, grunting, and heavy breathing with a rich and dynamic soundtrack. Occasionally I did look away a bit from my new date and allow my former date to enter my peripheral vision. George had slipped the handles of the bag over his ears and transformed his plastic candy sack into a portable feeding trough.

The end credits began to roll and the lights of the theatre came up. My date was over. In the seat next to mine, a snorting hog occasionally looked up as he picked at the last of his candy trough. I left the overgrown pig behind to consume the trash and litter of my fellow moviegoers. Occasionally I visit that same theatre and spot the candy loving piggy napping in a dark corner during previews. He comes alive at the end of the show when it’s clean up time once again.