By Robert D. Bailey June 4, 2019 — There was a time when Wise Potato Chips were served loose in large tin containers. Containers that were found in corner stores when corner stores were as ubiquitous in blue-collar neighborhoods as Starbucks in gentrified neighborhoods.
My mother forbade my sisters and me from eating the potato chips. When asked, she’d exclaimed, “No!” With her lips in a scowl, she’d add, “They’re nasty!” I was generally an amenable child; willing to defer to the wisdom of my parents or to at least, in most instances to my mother’s scowl when her lips twist with all the passion her late teens, early twenty-year-old self could exhibit.
But in this instance, her admonishment flew in the face of my experience. Larry W., Greg S., Bennie and Janet, My best friend Bum B., all ate Wise potato chips and did not appear to be dying horrible deaths; I argued to myself.
It was a hot, summer day. So hot and humid, the air muffled the sound of the little traffic that moved on Haverford Ave in the early afternoon. School was out so there were few people walking the streets. It was so hot that us kids confined our play to front porches and shady front steps.
I had scrounged up enough change from junking papers and soda bottle returns to afford a ten-cent bag of potato chips and a Frank’s lime soda.
It was a good day for my subterfuge. My older sister was otherwise occupied with her friends so I would not have to worry about being ratted out. My younger sister was also occupied with play so she wouldn’t rat me out but would blackmail me later for at least half.
I proceeded to Mr. Richmond’s store which was a block away from my house and with the self-confidence of an able thief in the night, I placed my order. Mr. Richmond, in his gruff Eastern European manner, performed the ritual I’d looked on with envy as it was performed for my friends. He rinsed off his hands in the sink behind the counter and waddled to the faded yellow and blue container which appeared huge to my nine-year-old gaze. He removed the lid and with a perfunctory napkin, reached his hairy hand, up to his hairy arm into the container.
The best of life was the day I found McDonald’s French fries, a close second to loose Wise chips. Second because they lack the zest that comes from a hairy Eastern European hand.