Welcome back.
My “Come on Baby, Light My Fire ” story took place in 1957. Twenty-three years later, in 1980 and at age 34, I moved back to my hometown of Dover-Foxcroft, and was happy to do so. This little hamlet felt so much safer after where I’d been living over the last eleven years. And upon my return, I was overcome by wonderful waves of nostalgia. I found myself taking several little sentimental journeys on foot, re-visiting all my old childhood haunts: the home I’d grown up in as a child, the playgrounds, the river, the old Indian cave, the municipal beach at the lake, the camp and, of course, the old drug store. It all felt so Ray Bradbury-ish, if you know what I mean.
And of course I was surprised and delighted to find Beryl, pleasant as ever, and still working behind a drug store lunch counter. The catching up we did was so therapeutic for me. She wanted to know all about where I’d been and what I’d been up to all that time. And likewise, I wanted to know about the happenings and whereabouts of her co-workers from way back then, about the town in general, and what had been going on in her life as well.
But of course finally, we came to one thing I was really itching to find out…
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“But enough about all that, Beryl. There’s a question I’m dying to ask you.”
“What’s that, Tommy?”
Tommy. Now boy, didn’t that make me grin. I’d been called a lot of things over the last two or three decades, but I know I’m back home again when I get to answer to “Tommy.”
“Something that’s been bugging me for years, actually,” I say. “And as many times as I’ve told and re-told the old story, there’s always that one, nagging, little piece-of-the-puzzle missing. So, here it is.
“Just what, exactly, was… the ‘Hot Shot?’”
She blinks, tips her head to one side. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I guess I don’t know what…”
“Oh, sure you do, Beryl. Of course you do. Just think back now… all of us little boys and girls crowding around the counter for ice cream sodas, cherry Cokes, and root beer fuzzies? Oh, and Zombies? You remember the Zombies don’t you…?”
“Oh. Well sure, of course I remember the Zombies, but…” Then she blinks once again, and I can see that flash of recognition. A frown forms. “Well, I guess I’d almost forgotten all about… those… ‘hot shots.’” Her expression implies that she’d rather not remember. But she can’t help it of course. Now that I’ve gother seat-belted securely into the Wayback Machine, and we’retravelling on our way back to… the “Hot Shot” days of yesteryear…
“OK,” she finally says, “first and foremost, I have to say it was the owner’s idea, definitely not mine. I didn’t like it. At all. But he, and the pharmacist, got really fascinated by how you boys would do practically anything to get attention. Attention from us. Attention from the girls. And they got to talking about just how far you’d all go. Giggling over there behind the pharmacy counter like a couple of little ten year olds themselves. Then they devised their little plan for their own warped entertainment. I’m not sure, but I think there might have been a wager involved. Anyway, I don’t believe they ever expected it to catch on the way it did, though. But Tommy, you need to know I was against it from the start.”
“That’s the way I seem to remember it, Beryl. You, never being too keen on the whole thing. And that I had to practically twist your arm to let me have it. And don’t think I don’t appreciate that in retrospect, Beryl. I do. But wow, it never ever occurred to me that we were being watched by a couple pairs of eyes peeking out from over the pharmacy counter. I mean, all you could ever see of them was just their heads. I never even thought to wonder who came up with it. I’m really surprised. All I knew is, it was just something going on there at the drug store. It was just there. It was part of the scene, and I desperately wanted to be part of That. I was such a brainless little sheep back then.”
“Believe me. You were far from the only one. But mostly it was the high school boys. And that was bad enough. But when you jumped into line… oh, I really didn’t like that one bit. But… there you have it I guess.”
“Well, yes and no. I mean, that only explains the why and the how. What I’m a lot more curious about is the what. Like, you know. I mean, just what the heck was that stuff, anyway? Battery acid? Sterno? I’ve been wondering about that for years. So…?”
“OK. It was a pure distillate of hot chile pepper concentrate.”
“What? What!? Wow! Holy cow! Ouch!”
“Yes, I know.”
“But why in the world would a drug store have something like… hot pepper concentrate on the shelves??”
“Well, not so much on the shelves. Not back then. It was kept back there, behind the pharmacy counter.”
“OK. But why? What the heck would something like that be used for?”
Pain management. It’s used as a counter irritant.”
“Counter irritant?”
“Yes. something you can rub in over a sore muscle. Or an arthritic joint. You see, the burning sensation on the skin is so intense, it temporarily cancels out the nerve pain going on down beneath it. The actual name for it is capsaicin.”
“Capsaicin. So, that’s like, what, when I’ve got a bad headache or something, and I could just slam my fingers in a door? Which would hurt so bad, wouldn’t feel my headache?”
“Something like that. At least… that’s the general principle, only a lot more complicated.”
“A counter irritant, huh? But that sounds like you’re just temporarily trading one pain for another.”
“Yes, but it’s only for temporary relief. It’s complicated.”
“Well, it wouldn’t end up being so temporary if you slammed your hand in a door.”
“No, it wouldn’t. But I don’t think you’ll find anybody recommending crushing your fingers for pain management, either.”
“Well, couldn’t you just put capsaicin on your fingers afterwards then…? I’m joking.”
“Like I said, only for temporary relief.”
“All right. But wow, even to this day I can’t get over (A) how badly it burned, and (B) for how long the burning lasted. It certainly didn’t strike me as very temporary. But… yeah, time is relative.”
“The mucous membranes are particularly sensitive to it. And they readily absorb the capsaisin, hold onto it, making it last for a longer duration. And it really is especially painful to the mouth, nasal passages, and the eyes. Compared to just being rubbed onto the skin of your arm, say, which is painful enough.”
“I’d say. From what I can remember. Wow. ”
“But you know, it is sold on the general shelves these days. No prescription needed.”
“Well, I didn’t know that. Pain to kill pain. Who’d a-thunk it? Butl yeah. Fighting fire with fire, I guess.”
“Sure. That, yes. And also for self-defense.”
“I’m sorry. I beg your pardon…?”
“In those handy little aerosol cans? Called pepper spray?”
“Omigod! Pepper spray?”
“Yes. I’m sure you know how effective pepper spray can be. At warding off attackers?”
“Wait. So… are you saying…that I… willfully swallowed… pepper spray!?”
“Why do you think you took off flying around the store like a rocket on the Fourth of July?”
“So… oh my God! I always suspected I wasn’t too bright for my age, as a kid. But now you’re telling me… I mean, jeez, what kind of a dummy was I back then? Hey guy, check this out. If you’ll watch me lap up a spoonful of pepper spray, I’ll pay you twenty-five cents for your effort. But thatmuch of a dummy!”
“You only had about four drops of it.”
“Oh, which was enough, it was plenty, I can assure you!”
“And which, don’t forget… it was against my better judgement. Despite all my repeated warnings.”
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This is a true story. It really happened. Even the conversation-heavy epilogue above, if not quite word-for-word, is close enough to win a cigar, in my humble opinion. And if youfind the anecdote somewhat shocking and somewhat mean-spirited, then know this: so do I. But only by today’s standards, that is. Because here’s the thing : I didn’t then. I can laugh at it today. Yeah, even if I got one hell of a burned mouth out of it. See, the world that I, and my generation, lived in 65 years ago was another planet. A planet with its own constantly developing standards. Its own level of knowledge. Its own mores. Just like the world we’re living in today.
It’s as simple as this— No matter what year or decade you live in, there you are…
NEARING THE END OF THE LINE 