Bitterness at the Savannah Sweet Shop

After a good night’s rest with hot showers and cable television (we splurged on a room for the night) our arrival in Savannah, GA is full of expectation. We park on the edge of town and walk in. Savannah is beautiful. There are public squares full of pink and white flowers shadowed by ancient trees draped in Spanish moss. A man plays the flute in the shade. Wandering over to drop a dollar in his bucket, we introduce ourselves. This native Savannahian directs us to River Street, which is paved with cobblestones from the first slave ships that docked in the area. There are shops for tourists and locals, and delicious food. I head into a candy shop, feeling guilty for the indulgence. In the shop there are handmade candies of every specification- pralines, taffy, chocolates-created right before my eyes. A man tosses me a taffy he has just finished pulling. It is pink and green with a texture. Delicious. There is a window for praline samples. I lurk there, waiting for someone else to request one of the delicacies. I wish I hadn’t. A woman I identify as a tourist by her clamdiggers, relative age, and the tell tale nametag that reads Julie something or other rushes from the front entrance to the praline window in full steam. She stops, waits for less than 20 seconds and begins tapping he foot. She stares at her watch. I stare at her. A tall black man wears a nametag as well. It says Keith. Keith stops preparing confections behind the window and approaches the window. He leans over into the corner to grab something. As he stretches his hands to retrieve a glove the tourist woman opens her mouth, wide like a fish. Eyes blaze and nostrils flare as she prepares to give him hell-for what? Having to wait less than a minute for a free sample? She finally realizes what he had been doing and deflates. She coos, sickeningly sweet,

“Oh”, she makes this two syllables, “You were getting a glove”

I think, “Way to state the obvious lady.” Then she drops the bomb.

“Good boy.” She drawls out the vowels. I shake my head thinking I must have misheard this impatient woman address a thirty year old man so condescendingly. She talked to Keith as one would speak to a dog or a slow child. I can’t help but turn at look at her. My eyebrow raises on its own accord. Having received her treat she sallies forth for the next free sample, neglecting to say even a simple thank you. Keith turns to me and asks if I would like to try some.

“Yes please.” As he passes me the treat, “Thank you, Keith. Have a good one.” The praline melts in my mouth, a warm combination of salty and sweet tinged with the regret that there was nothing I could do to change what I had seen. I wave good-bye, clutching my goodies and walk into the Savannah sun.