Its name is Sugar Land or Sugar Rush, and I never go in candy stores. Yet here I am, startled. This place is bigger in square footage than the pharmacy I worked in during high school and whiter and with more gleaming surfaces than a gym shower room.
There are bins and bins of candy. On the walls are candies hung in packages. The noise on the sound system is Usher or someone else as ridiculous. I swivel my head, hoping my eyes will magically land on what I walked in for. Instead, I see this girl, with a silver tinsel wig on, in a bob style with bangs. Mumble mumble, she says. It’s deafening in the candy store, so I hold my cupped hand up to my ear, the universal signal for “What?” She says, “CAN I HELP YOU?”
“Uh, yes,” I reply. “Do you have any chocolate Santas?”
She looks back at me quizzically, pauses, and then sweeps her glance across the walls and all the bins. “No,” she says, seeming surprised by her own word.
“No?” Perplexed, I need to be sure. Isn’t this a candy store? Isn’t this Christmas?
“No.” This time she is more certain.
I walk out. She does not try to interest me in anything else, and there is nothing else that I want.