For some time Dwight had told me that when the time came, when I'd reached eighteen, and if I was still interested, he'd take me to the Candy Shop for the first time. I tried to tell him that he would be candy enough for me, but Dwight was an honorable man. That's the only reason why we ever needed to discuss the Candy Shop at all.
The Candy Shop was out on Route 96, beyond the edge of town, and just inside the next county—a much poorer county than ours that needed the revenue and was willing to turn a blind eye. The building it occupied originally had been one of those full-service trucker stops. A gas station out front, whose pumps now had plastic bags permanently over the handles and their gauges zeroed out and just sat there under sagging awnings, rusting away. Inside the storefront had been a combined convenience store and short-order cook counter with a dining area off to the side with a widescreen TV where the truckers could stop to watch and bet on televised sporting events to break up the monotony of their long hauls and to catch up on the gossip of where the cop speed traps were along Route 96. In the back were a communal shower room truckers could use on long, time-sensitive hauls for a minimal fee and eight small rooms where, for less then they would have to fork out for a motel, they could rent rooms with clean sheets and towels by the hour. This served their schedule well. They rarely were able to pull over for a whole night; they had to sleep in three- and four-hour snatches in order to get their loads to their destinations on time.
It didn't take too long before the girls behind the food counter and at the convenience store register were augmenting their incomes by adding a fringe benefit of a fuck to go with the by-the-hour rooms. And there were few truckers who didn't appreciate this release of tension in addition to a couple of hours of sleep in a real bed. But this led to the whole operation being shut down, as the local residents put their own sense of morality over the smooth operation of trucking operations.
The place remained dormant for a couple of years and then the Candy Shop moved in, and the commissioners of the poorer county, seeing the folly of letting a revenue-paying business go bust like the trucker stop had done, turned a blind eye on the Candy Shop as long as it was bringing in revenue.
And bring in revenue it did.
When Dwight drove me out there, there must have been more than two dozen cars parked there, although we didn't see them until we'd swung around to the high-fenced area at the back of the building, where just about everyone going to the Candy Shop parked his car—out of sight of those driving down the highway.
As we came around the side of the building, though, I saw that there were maybe half a dozen guys milling around the old gas pumps and eyeing everyone coming into the Candy Shop. When we showed up, most of them broke off their discussions and ogled Dwight and me up and down. Three of them came up to Dwight and started talking to him, and four of them surrounded me. They asked me if I'd come for candy and said I didn't have to go into the store—that any of them would be happy to give me a ride in their car and some candy as well.
"Haven't seen you around here, son," said one guy, who looked like a trucker left over from the building's last life. "First time to the Candy Shop?" he asked.
"Umm, yes," I said. I looked over at Dwight, who seemed to be having a little difficulty with those three guys trying to get up close. I wasn't really worried about him being able to take care of himself, though. Dwight had been football player and had kept in tip-top shape. I was sort of worried, though, because there were three of them and they were all white. Dwight was what you'd call a mulatto—his father had been black and his mother white, which had left him with the facial features of a Caucasian but with a rich coffee-and-cream brown skin color. One of the guys around him was pretty drunk, and was talking about dipping in the chocolate in a fairly loud voice. The other two seemed to be less belligerent—one had his wallet out and was fanning a wad of bills out where Dwight could see it.
From the looks Dwight was giving me, I think he was more concerned about those four guys trying to make small talk with me, though.
Another of the guys had put on a big smile when I said it was my first visit to the Candy Shop. He was a surfer type with dirty blond stringy hair and shorts and flip flops. No shirt; he had a good tan and a good build, so I didn't think I was far off on the surfer supposition. "First time for the candy?" he asked. His voice had a hopeful edge to it.
"Yeah," I said. "Just turned eighteen last week and Dwight here wouldn't let me have the candy until now."
The surfer dude sucked in air and then turned and waved to the other guys over at the gas tanks. "First time for the candy over here guys. Anyone who's interested, let's pool our resources and see what kinda deal we can make."
Dwight stepped in at that point, however. "Let's go on in to the store, Jason," he said. He had moved away from the group of guys he was talking with and put his hand on my arm and guided me toward the store interest.
"Hey, man. We've got money," one of the gas pump guys called out. "More than enough for both of you."
"Sorry, guys," Dwight called out over his shoulder. "Gotta do this right. This here's my boy."
"I was doing fine, Dwight," I hissed at him was we walked away from the group. "They weren't bothering me."
"I swear I have no idea how I've gotten you to eighteen untouched," Jason muttered back. "Do you want to do this right or not? The first time is all important."
"I know it is," I shot back. "So, what are we doing here at all? You know what I want."
"It's just too important," Dwight answered. "You have to be sure. It only happens once. You need to see the choices before you make one."
That was always the problem with Dwight and me. Dwight had always been more of a father to me than my own dad had been—but that's not what I'd ever wanted from Dwight. I'd had what you could called a really screwed up home life, but Dwight—who my mother had seen as the cause of it all—was actually the only steadying force in my life for the past three years. And I had known from the beginning what I wanted from Dwight.
Dwight and my dad had been on the same semipro football team, one that had spent more time on the road in small cities far from home than they'd spent at home. Mom blamed what had happened between her and Dad on those separations—and on Dwight. That's not the way I had seen it. Dad did what Dad wanted to do because he wanted to do it. And if it hadn't been with Dwight, it would have been with someone else.
I could see that and Mom couldn't, and she and I fought so much over that point that I guess it was easy for her to leave me with Dad and Dwight when she packed up and left the state. We still talked occasionally, but not much at all in the last two years. When Dad had been killed in that freak busted play on the football field in Richmond and Mom had called and told me she was sending a ticket for me back to Fresno and I told her I wanted to stay with Dwight—and why I wanted to stay with Dwight—she hung up on me and hasn't spoken to me since. All there were were occasional terse e-mails asking if I'd changed my mind or threatening what she'd do if there was a hint of Dwight stepping out of line with me. For some time, I was terrified that she would step in and do something to make me come to her, but that hadn't happened. And now that I was eighteen, there was nothing she could do about it.
In the meantime, Dwight had been a dad to me. He'd quit his football career, which showed some promise to stepping up to the NFL, and had settled in as a football coach at a small college—all to give me a settled life in school. He'd even made sure I got a place in the college for the coming fall.
And in all that time, even though I told him what I wanted from him, he hadn't laid a hand on me. I'd seen him with Dad and that's what I wanted too—and not just with anyone; only with Dwight.
