liquor store

The Rest of the Story: KittyTown and the Quan

Advice to children crossing the street: damn the lights. Watch the cars. The lights ain’t never killed nobody.

~Moms Mabley

Yesterday, I wrote about the Quan. I emailed my sister, asking for a memory or two. This is her response in its entirety. I’ve changed nothing except the names.

Two things first.

I just set up an account with StumbleUpon. Writer Dad was taken (now I know how you felt Dave; sorry). My username is writerdaddotcom. If you’d like to be friends, let me know.

Also, I need help with my Feedburner feed. Since I started, I’ve been unable to deliver full feeds. Yes, I have the full feed plugin, and yes everything is set as it’s supposed to be. If anyone can help, I’d really appreciate it. Thanks.

Without further ado, Kittytown:

I’m a bit shocked and appalled that memories of the Quan are not crystal clear in your mind.

The Quan did not happen because we were bad kids. The Quan happened because we were not allowed to have sugar. I think that is the thing that is so shocking now… that MOM (our mother’s full name) would not let us have sugar.

The Quan could only happen when the stars were aligned just right. By which I mean (of course) that it was Sunday and Mom went grocery shopping without us. We never would have dared with Mom home. I believe that if it was announced she was going without us, we had some sort of secret signal… a look… we just knew. We had preparations to make: finish our chores and then we would each go to our secret stashes of change and cram everything we could into our pockets. Then we would make sweeps of the house looking for unclaimed change in corners and on counters, maybe under the couch.

By the time Mom had her keys in her hand, we were ready. Her car was barely out of the driveway before we told Pop we were going out to play and were out the door. We would walk to the corner, doing our best to appear casual. We probably thought we were sauntering with secret agent slickness, but I’m sure we were quite obviously up to something. By the time we hit the corner of Golden and 20th, we’d look both ways and race off. You pulling ahead of me on your scooter, me pounding my little pink moccasined feet against the pavement as fast as they would go. We’d fly to the Quan, our hearts pounding and so excited we were barely breathing. And I was not much bigger than Mia.

I can still see the candy display on the counter. I remember the selection. We’d get the big stuff first… the quarter candies: boxes of lemonheads, red hots, jawbreakers, and the occasional box of boston baked beans. No grapeheads. Never grapeheads. We neglected the chocolate because it was too expensive and we were bargain shoppers. If we were feeling spendy, we would each spring for a 45cent jolly rancher stick. Then we’d throw in some packs of hot dog gum and a few envelopes of cinnamon toothpics. Whatever money was left would be traded for as many bazooka joe’s as we could afford.

Quan counter guy would sweep our candy into a plain paper bag, which you would then roll up and hide under your shirt. We would race back home as fast as we could and then hole ourselves up in your room. The candy would be dumped out on the bed and divided… some of it to be gorged on immediately (only what we could finish before Mom got home) and the rest would be horded away, hopefully to last until the next clandestine Quan trip.

This was probably the only time not involving action figures that I was allowed in your room without being beat up.

Writer Dad and KittyTown

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The Quan

Before we start, I’d like to turn everyone’s attention to Blogger Dad. His weekly eight questions is eighteen this week because his subject cannot ever stop talking. Though to be fair, I answered only what was asked. If you read it, and enjoy it, please consider a Stumble. It could help two bloggers with one click.

Note to Writer Dad: Please do not assume your readers know the minutia of your everyday life, or expect them to read every post. Such behavior is arrogant. At the very least, provide a link to you’re previous discussion. Omission of such a simple blogging regularity is thoughtless. The writing, it’s okay. The blogging needs work. Please fix.

I’m on it, and sorry about yesterday.

A habit is something you can do without thinking – which is why most of us have so many of them.

~Frank A. Clark

Last week, my sister sent me an email.

You should write about the Quan.

I should write about the Quan.

What’s the Quan?

The Quan was an everyday ghetto liquor store, located approximately four blocks from the house where I grew up.

My sister was brief. Here’s what she meant:

You should write about how when we were little, we used to sneak to the Quan to buy candy, then hide it so Mom wouldn’t find out.

If KittyTown doesn’t answer my email by the time I publish, then I’m saying we started embarking on these adventures around the time I was eight and she was six or seven.

We never would have designed such a plan ourselves. Our original minister of mayhem was our half sister. She lived in Arkansas, but came to live with us nearly every Summer.

Our sister was two years, and an entirely different life, older than us. She had tattoos before I had braces, and if it hadn’t been for Stephen King, she probably would have been responsible for my first exposure to the really filthy words.

One Summer, she crafted a plan of elegant genius.

We’d run to the Quan (it was practically next door), buy what we wanted (candy is cheap), and slip back home without being missed (Pop’s watching a baseball game and is going nowhere).

We lived on a quiet street, populated mostly by couples either at starting gate or finish line, providing us with precisely no on to play with. Surrounding our street were scattered patches of danger.

Each block from our house to the Quan grew progressively worse, until arriving on the corner of We Shouldn’t Have Done and What Were We Thinking?

At season’s end, big sis flew East. Our taste for illicit freedom went nowhere.

My sister and I began to frequent the Quan.

I loved those adventures, but they’re only prelude to my message.

Years passed.

I continued to visit the Quan. Except the Quan was now my girlfriend’s house, at the other end of town, in what was widely regarded as the worst neighborhood in our city, and I needed two bus transfers to get there.

Like the Quan, I disregarded danger to own an opportunity.

I was never murdered, but I did get caught.

Twice.

Our habits are there until we exorcise them.

We’re all responsible for our own behavior. No excuses. We should work to recognize our most negative patterns, then quell them.

Otherwise, we’re just spinning without launch.

My sister did respond, almost immediately (I love email). Her words were funny. Good memories.

Partly because I’m lazy, and partly because I loved her email, tomorrow is Writer Dad’s first guest post.

Don’t get excited. Honestly, it’s just a copy and paste.

Tomorrow: KittyTown’s taking on the Quan.

Writer Dad

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