The candy store was where we bought our school supplies, newspapers, pints of rich ice cream, cigarettes, and neighborhood gossip. Just after dinner, the men would gather in the front, in circles of smoke and worn t-shirts, pointing in the air or scratching at the rough stubble on their cheeks that had already grown in at the end of the day. When the Daily News truck finally pulled to the curb, the delivery man would climb to the back of the truck and a stack of newsprint, tied in raw jute cord, would heave its way out of the back, landing with a breathless thud on the sidewalk. One of the men, with cigarette stuck to the corner of his mouth, grabbed the stack and walked it into the store, the cord ceremoniously popped, and the editions picked up and paid for.
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