Honey or Vinegar

by Tim Lineaweaver

It was summer of 1974. I was eighteen and working for Eddie Jaskun at the Woods Hole Pharmacy. Eddie, or EJ as he was known, had a medium build, with thick dark hair on the sides of his balding head. He was a great businessman, a raconteur, with a whip-funny sense of humor and flair for the dramatic. He always chomped on a fat cigar. He greeted me each day with a warm smile and a hearty, “Timmy, my boy!”

The drug store had something for everybody. Behind the over-the-counter medications on the first aisle was shelved all kinds of liquor. There were two candy aisles, one with the usual candy bars and confections then another for the more high-end stuff including: Callard and Bowser’s English Toffee in its regal white box with the red crest and silver—black striped wrappings housing each delectable bar. The drug store had a wide selection of newspapers: the New York Times, the Boston Globe, and magazines, such as Time and Newsweek, Mad and National Lampoon, as well as Playboy and Penthouse and some of the raunchier stuff.

EJ scoffed at the Massachusetts Blue Laws. Many a thirsty customer come Sunday understood that Eddie would brown bag a pint or quart of liquor or shuffle a case of beer out the back but for “medicinal purposes, only!”

Also on Sundays, there would be several waist-high stacks of the various sections of the newspapers we sold. They were joined by tight black plastic bands that gave a satisfying pop when slashed with our Exacto Knife. My job was to dolly them inside then arrange different segments of the Times and the Globe in rows that EJ and I would collate. After, our fingertips would be blackened with newsprint. For the general public, we’d place the papers at the head of the aisles near the registers in big stacks that shrank quickly as locals, scientists and tourists grabbed them. We also had a “save pile” that we kept behind the main register for special customers. EJ neatly wrote their last name on the top of each paper above the main headline. Patrons could sleep late Sunday and still have their coveted paper. After we washed our hands behind the elevated pharmacy counter, we’d drink coffee and EJ would have me fill him in on whatever trouble my running buddy Nick and I had gotten into the night before.

One busy Sunday, EJ was capering between the pharmacy orders in the back and the front register, while I was helping customers locate various items and then ringing them up at the side register.

Around midmorning, a refined, neatly dressed man with well-coiffed blond hair and patrician looks approached EJ. “I’m here for my New York Times,” the man said as he tapped the countertop by the register several times with his manicured index finger.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Chesterson, we’re sold out today.”

“What do you mean you’re sold out, Jaskun? I told you to save me a New York Times—every day!” Eddie looked at Chesterson with a blank expression, shrugged and then glanced down at his cigar, which he turned at various angles in his fingers while considering its virtues. Several beats went by and Chesterson’s face reddened more with each one.

“What can I tell you?” EJ shrugged. “I’m out.”

“I want my New York Times. “Now!” he shouted.

“Hey, Chesterson”—EJ put on a sly grin—“Bah fungal.” He simultaneously brought his right hand up, grabbing the bicep with his left hand and gave a dramatic thrust into the air.

A Times-less Chesterson stormed off in a huff.

EJ tilted his head back in satisfaction and grinned as he watched Chesterson stomp away. “Timmy, can you cover the front register? I need a break.”

“You got it Eddie.”

As I took my position behind the counter, I glanced down to see one last, unruffled, plump Sunday New York Times with the name “Chesterson” written in Eddie’s neat script across the top.

---