{"id":16112,"date":"2018-03-15T12:24:24","date_gmt":"2018-03-15T16:24:24","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/outthere\/?p=16112"},"modified":"2018-05-31T01:30:04","modified_gmt":"2018-05-31T05:30:04","slug":"the-big-crack","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/outthere\/2018\/03\/the-big-crack.html","title":{"rendered":"The Big Crack"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Oh oh no, it’s Bonomo. Not the wrapper I remember.<\/p><\/div>\n

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The polite ones <\/strong>pretend to remember, because they don’t want to show they aren’t down with your age.<\/p>\n

“Down with” is their age.<\/p>\n

And the smart ones know what you’re talking about, though their eyes twitch as they grin.<\/p>\n

Old candy is what we liked when we were young candy. No one warned me not to take candy from strangers because I was a boy. Anyone who passed a piece of fudge into my small, sweaty hand was a friend, whether or not I paid with a Buffalo nickel or Mercury dime. Sweet boys like candy — though no one could ever, ever know about my chewy center.<\/p>\n

The vintage-candy vault is a Brooklyn cliche, like stoop ball, stickball, new chalk-pink Spaldings (Spawl-DEENS) down the grate. I’ve written before that Ruth Bader Ginsburg and I went to the same school, P.S. 238, and she too must know how childhood glows and shrivels, seen and smelled through chalk dust and sudden tulips.<\/p>\n

All I have to do, Sugar Daddy in my hand, is look at my present body, the one Dr. Reinstein almost threw away.<\/p>\n

The family quack couldn’t figure why a 7-year-old was pissing every hour and fell asleep before\u00a0Superman<\/em>\u00a0or Ernie Kovacs.<\/p>\n

Insulin saved me, but after I began injecting, I was told I could, and must, eat something sweet in the afternoon, my “4 o’clock snack.” Half a Good Humor from the truck was allowed, which explains a lot about me now.<\/p>\n

So I’d walk to a weekend matinee at the Kingsway on Kings Highway, never as grand as all that. Let’s try Gidget<\/em>, 1959. As usual, I had bought a Bonomo Turkish Taffy at Seal’s Candy Store on Friday and put it in the freezer.<\/p>\n

The aural fantasy I allow myself is one of random lightning claps coming from all parts of the loge and balcony. We’d take the flat treat in our palms and with whatever kiddie muscle we could muster, slam it on the varnished arm of a dirty velveteen seat. No actual friend had to tell me how to do it:<\/p>\n