Someday We'll Look Back and Laugh

In years gone by, before MacDonald's and Wendy's and Burger King, every dime store and drug store had a lunch counter, commonly called a soda fountain. It was quite busy at lunch time with workers on a midday break or shoppers resting up between errands. They could get a sandwich - egg salad was my favorite - and a beverage. And a seat. And most times, you could bump into someone you knew and chat for a few minutes. There was an afternoon lull, and the busy time came again when the movie let out. Couples stopping in for a soda to continue the date a little longer. Singles having a dish of cream, hoping to extend human contact just a little more.

The soda fountain. Home to a sandwich or ice cream or even an "ammonia coke" if you were a bit weak from all your exertion. There was also pie. And coffee or tea. The taps, three of them, that dispensed Coca Cola, root beer and seltzer. The lower steel pumps that held the syrups - cherry, lemon, chocolate - at your fingertips with just a push. And the covered containers that held crushed strawberries, crushed pineapple, gooey marshmallow, nuts in syrup, cherries - all dispensed by the ladle in each. The bowl holding golden ripe bananas for splits. The tall stainless cup that held the syrup, seltzer and ice cream before it was slid onto the mixer to blend until the thick concoction was poured into a tall glass to be savored while giving your feet a rest.

And the soda jerk. No, really, that's what he was called. He wore a hygeinic lab coat and a white paper campaign cap. He expertly constructed a sandwich, whirled to remove the milk shake cylinder from the mixer and pour the drink into the tall fancy glass, delivering sandwich and shake simultaneously and planting the straw dead center into the shake with a flourish. Watch him split a banana expertly, lay it into the fancy oblong dish, layer it with three perfect scoops of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry ice cream. Top each in turn with crushed strawberries, crushed pineapple, chocolate syrup. A sprinkle of crushed peanuts over all and a generous mound of whipped cream. And then. And then. Three ruby-red maraschino cherries. A work of art! And he so young! Except I didn't care for those dry shards of peanut on my ice cream.

I was pregnant, very, with my first child. It was Summer and in D.C. that meant h.o.t. Hot as only D.C. can be in August. I had no a/c and the fan in my apartment couldn't even move the humid air, let alone cool it. I lumbered down to the drug store, on a mission to have a CMP and a tall glass of iced water. If you don't know, a CMP is a Chocolate Marshmallow Peanut sundae. I hoisted my preggo self onto a stool and rested my bare arms on the cool, marble counter. I watched as the soda jerk prepared a couple of dishes of ice cream for the Dad and his two little girls who were seeking respite from the heat, just as I was. At last, the young man stood before me and as he wiped the counter with a damp cloth, asked what I would like. I smiled sweetly and said, "I'd like a CMP, please, and do you have wet nuts?" His face turned red and he stared, unbelieving, at me. My face turned red and I fled the store. To this day, I have never had another CMP.