Theeby's

Sixty years have passed. No one knew how to spell its name. No one knew when it first opened. It was forever, like the infernal summer heat. It stands indelible at the end of my street, at the end of my episodic hippocampus. Everyone congregated at this cozy corner store, this neighborhood fount for stories, jokes, convenient food and cheap toys. There were only a few shoplifters, usually snarky boys slightly older than me. They were never caught. The guy behind the counter never caught anything he didn’t want to see. Perhaps the store’s namesake, he worked slavishly, anxiously alone. One frantic day, he spotted vomit on the floor. Bolting into the backroom, He returned with mop and pail only to find the mess entirely missing. Snickering, snarky boys hid their latex toy. A harmless prank, some would say. But somehow, in my tenth year I felt sorrow for the overworked man. Nothing ever changed. It all lingered like the infernal summer heat, the gripping stillness of eternal summer. This neurotransmitter of neighborly connections, This hub of gab and gossip, Home to my first financial transactions, Home to penny candy, bubblegum cards, and Mars bars. Home to grape soda, Twinkies, and Wonder Bread. No one knew how to spell its name. No one knew when it permanently closed. But the potent sugar-coated flashbacks have lengthened my life.