Candy Store Confidential.
I had no idea what beans were about to spilled when Buzzy Buzzer and I ducked into his old haunt over on Greenwich for a little after-hours fountain refreshment at a tiny two-stool counter.
By after hours, I mean sunrise, when Buzzy seals up his all-night lunch wagon/radio shop and spools himself down from slinging falafel and horse-trading far beyond the valley of the shank of the evening.
This candy store, bodega, whatever they're called these strange dystopian Duane Reade days, was one of those city joints inexplicably jammed between two buildings, a shop so narrow, negotiating its nano square footage was pure spelunking in a cave of bottled water and salty snacks itching to cave-in any second.
Everything about the place said Violation, yet there it was, surrounded by shops with which this hole of a certain convenience had nothing in common, an enigma probably no deeper than succeeding generations of cousins and brothers-in-law paid-off in a timely manner all the way back to Boss Tweed.
Unusually, for that hour, I had the presence of mind to tap my phone recorder app, and busied myself making sketches as Buzzy worked himself into a lather with no intention to shave.