The candy store was not a candy store. The candy store was the living room of the block. You walked in and the bell rang and the man behind the counter looked up and nodded and you could stay as long as you wanted. Newspapers on the rack. Comic books on the spinner. Egg creams at the counter. Cigarettes behind the glass. The candy store sold everything a person needed to get through a day on the Lower East Side and nothing a person did not need.

You went to the candy store before school and you went after school and you went on Saturday and you went on Sunday and the candy store was open every day because the man who owned it lived above it and the store was not a business it was his life. He opened at six and closed at ten and in between he sold penny candy and newspapers and hope. A kid could walk in with a nickel and walk out with five pieces of candy and the feeling that the world was a fair place. Five pieces of candy for a nickel. That is a fair deal. That is the only fair deal the Lower East Side ever offered.

The phone booth in the back. You remember the phone booth. Before everybody had a phone in their pocket the candy store had a phone booth in the back and you put a dime in and you called whoever you needed to call and the man behind the counter pretended he was not listening but he was listening and he knew everything about everybody on the block because everybody made their phone calls from his store. The candy store was the intelligence agency of the neighborhood.

The comic books. You stood at the spinner rack and you read the comic books and the man let you read them as long as you did not bend the covers. Spider-Man. Batman. The Fantastic Four. You could stand there for an hour reading comics and the man never said anything because he understood that a kid reading a comic book in a candy store is a kid who is not on the street getting into trouble. The candy store was a library with a soda fountain.

They are all gone now. The candy stores on Avenue B. The candy stores on Rivington. The candy stores on Delancey. Gone. Replaced by boutiques selling candles that cost more than the candy store made in a week. The bell does not ring anymore. The comic books are gone. The egg creams are gone. The man behind the counter who knew your name is gone. But if you stand on the corner long enough and close your eyes you can still hear the bell. You can still hear it.