By Kelly Keene

Sweet On You Candy store used to be on the corner of Bancroft way and Telegraph avenue in Berkeley, California. When I worked there, I watched hundreds of students, professors, tourists and shoppers scurry past the windows on their way up the historic street. The smell of chocolate, tutti frutti, and bread from the Subway sandwich place next door, melt together in the air. From the outside, the store looked quaint, sentimental and very sweet. Giftboxes packed the window displays, and colorful ribbons hung from the ceiling. It was a small shop, but bursting with potential. 

From the inside, I had a slightly different perspective. This candy store was a tax write off for the owner. Sure, it was cute, and we did prefer to charge people for the candy they took, but the owner, Vivi, was a property manager in a college town with very stable co-signers. She did not need this store. She also liked to employ her tenets to ensure they had some income besides mom and dad. We did not always dust the shelves. 

I applied for the job to make some spending money and because the store looked quiet enough to get some homework done on the job. I had no cashier experience, but lied in the interview and got the job anyway.

At first, the store had it’s charms. I got to see some of my classmates walk by at the same time each day. The Subway staff and I laughed in the back when we collided in the narrow hall that led to the shared employee bathroom. My friends would even stop by for free samples mid shift to chat. 

But the truth was, I was a terrible employee. Sure, I was nice to customers, and never miscounted the cash drawer, but I did not have the sales instinct. I ate way more candy than I sold, and I preferred the days when nobody really came in at all. That way, I could get some reading done in peace. I thought the candy store would be a cute place to work, but I wanted something more. I was eighteen, optimistic, and I wanted to find some purpose even in a part time job. While I found my sociology and legal studies classes engaging, my enthusiasm would dwindle when I got to work, and had to lie about the “organic” chocolates I sold to well-intentioned parents visiting from out of town. 

One day, a customer came in through the narrow door, and walked slowly past the Jelly Belly flavor drawers, the stuffed animals. and gift wrapped goodie bags. He stared past me, behind the counter and up at the large towering wall of candy displayed in giant glass jars. Each labeled with prices by the pound. Cherry sours and gummy bears took center stage, popular, accessible, and profitable. Novelties like giant jawbreakers were on the highest shelf (meant to be seen, but rarely purchased). 

This older man rested his cane near the register and balanced himself to get a better look. In the lower left hand corner, four jars rested strategically side by side: Redvines, licorice wheels, black licorice, and double salted licorice. He lit up. 

“You have double salted licorice?” I follow his gaze to see the dusty jar and lellowing label. 

“I guess we do. Can I wrap some up for you?” I had never tried double salted licorice before. It looked like little back gummy drops that were tough and smelled like chemicals. I had tried almost all of the other candy in the store. The sour hearts that came out in February had been my favorites, and I was surprised when I developed an affinity for the white chocolate covered gummy bears. I only started eating them because they were less popular than the milk or dark chocolate ones. I thought evening out the jars  when I was alone in the store was more helpful than folding boxes or restocking ribbon. 

The old man seemed lost in thought. I wasn’t sure if he’d even heard me. His pale blue eyes started to scan the other jars on the wall. We stood in silence for a painful few minutes while he appeared to memorize his surroundings. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. 

“I’d be happy to give you a sample too if you’d like. All the chocolates in the display are hand dipped here.”

This was a flat out lie. We did have a chocolate dipping machine in the back, but I’d only seen Vivi use it once to make chocolate bells and Santas around the holidays. It seemed like way too much trouble for what it was worth. And besides, most of the chocolate turtles and caramel squares arrived in big boxes from Peter’s. There were huge, professionally sealed, bags of chocolate covered orange peels in the back that we just passed off as our own. 

“Oh ok. Mind as well,” he said, shuffling closer to the display. He pressed his nose so close to the glass that it reminded me of the children that stare at the fish at the aquarium; trying to take it all in, while also finding that perfect fish to focus on. “Can I try the giant peanut butter cup?”

Strictly speaking, the giant peanut butter cups were the one item we did NOT give samples of. They were a best seller and we only ever seemed to have three or four on hand at a time. If I got lucky, and one made it to the end of the week without being sold, I could take it home. I would use my dorm room microwave to heat it up in a coffee mug and eat it, melted and warm with a spoon. 

I looked at the giant peanut butter cups and back up at the clock. My four hour shift was ending soon, and I’d only sold about $12 worth of candy that day anyway. 

“Sure,” I grinned. I took the candy out of the display, ran the knife under some warm water, then slided it down the middle. I wanted to put one half aside for myself, but thought about the jelly beans I’d already had, and handed him both halves insead. 

“Oh I didn’t mean the whole thing,” he looked a bit overwhelmed. 

“It’s on me,” I said with the sweetest smile I could muster. 

“Wow! Well, thank you!” He took his time eating. Walked around a bit more. I made myself busy re-arranging the window display, and gave him some privacy to leave if he wanted to. But he didn’t. 

After ten or one million minutes, I realized that the man hadn’t left. He stood exactly where he first rested his cane. 

“I’d like some double salted licorice to take home please.” 

“Okay!” I was excited to make a sale, and maybe move him a long a bit too. I rushed over past the register, and grabbed a scoop and bag. When I reached for the jar, it took an extra tug to come free from its spot on the shelf. 

“Have you ever tried it?” he asked, while I removed the lid and went in for the first scoop. 

“No actually, I haven’t. Is it any good?”

The scoop landed into the jar but bounced off the surface of the little blobs stuck together. Stale I thought. Who would want to eat THIS?  

I smiled up at him then. His eyes sparkled, and cheeks flushed. There was an eager child-like expectation mounting in his face that made me want to take his hands and twirl him around the store. 

“Only old people ever want that stuff,” Vivi had said when she first trained me. “It’s gross,” she had said, so I never gave it a chance. 

But this day, I tried some. 

It was gross. 

I pried a piece off from the solid clump. Then, popped it into my mouth right there. I knew the stakes were high. I was not about to disappoint this customer. I chewed. And while I chewed, I took in the man standing on the other side of the counter. I realized he wasn’t just an old man, or a greedy customer. I realized he had been on a quest. He came into the store specifically looking for double salted licorice. He may have even been to several candy stores before. Only to be disappointed when his favorite wasn’t on the shelves. 

I chewed. Harder and harder, until finally, the licorice got softer in my mouth. It still tasted like Windex to me, but I smiled. 

“Mmmm,” I said. “Definitely different.” I held out a piece in the scoop for him to try too. There was a high chance that this batch was bad, and I couldn’t live with myself if he got all the way home only to discover the truth. 

He raised it to his lips, and popped it in his mouth. I studied him closely. Looking for some sign of dissatisfaction, regret, or dencial displacement. But he just nodded, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips even tighter together. 

When he opened his eyes, he said, “Just like I remember. My grandmother used to give it to me when I walked over to her house as a kid.” He paused, savoring the flavor. I waited patiently for him to go on.  “She died years ago, but the best way to remember her is to eat double salted licorice. My wife used to buy it for me at a shop by her work, but they closed down maybe two years ago-” He trailed off.

“Well, I’m glad we have it for you today then.” I grabbed a bigger bag and got at least two pounds of the stuff in it. By the time he left clutching his receipt, I felt proud despite only charging him for a quarter pound. 

It turns out that Vivi was right. Older customers were the only ones who bought double salted licorice. But they bought it because they were the ones most familiar with it. Anyone could buy Snickers or Skittles next door at Walgreens, but in the two years I worked at Sweet on You, customers came in for more specific reasons. Some people came in to be adventurous and bold; buying the extreme sours or ridiculously large bunnies. Others were just bored, wandering through to pass time between classes. But the best customers, the happiest ones, came in looking for a memory. They journeyed in, scavenged the shelves, and left with an unearthed treasure from their past. Tamarind candy they had only ever had on a spring break trip. Zotz that cracked and fizzled the same as they had twenty years before. Pecans, baked and dipped just like their aunt used to make for Thanksgiving. 

Sweet On You Candy is closed now. I’ve graduated and moved away to work somewhere else. But it was not just a dusty store front, or an overpriced tourist trap. It did end up giving many people a piece of their past. That customer left with his grandmother, and taught me that, sometimes, the sweetest moments can happen in a candy store.