Yesterday's Papers Wednesday, September 29, 2010
My friend Kihm Winship writes beautifully of the history of my hometown, Skaneateles, NY. Today he dropped a line to ask if I remembered anything of the original Riddler’s newsstand. His question hit something of a gusher.
My reply:
Do I ever remember Riddler's! Before my time, it was Lynch’s. Many old folks called it that years later. To me, it was always Riddler's. The store sold newspapers, periodicals, candy, soda, ice cream and enough cigars and cigarettes to put the local funeral director's children through college. In my younger days the store was on Genessee Street, the village’s main
drag. When I got to be ten or eleven, it moved to larger digs around the corner on Jordan Street. A few owners, and a long stint as "Herb's" later, it's still there. It was recently renamed "Riddler's" for nostalgic purposes.
The shop’s proprietor was Ed Riddler, a burly, retired army sergeant. As the man at the center of much of our daily commerce, Riddler became something of a local celebrity. He was also quite a character.
Ed seemed to wear the same clothes for a few years at a time, often topped by an army issue jacket with "RIDDLER" embroidered across the left breast pocket. His rotund and creviced face never appeared to have been shaven within the previous 48 hours. He always had the remnant of a stogie in the corner of his mouth. He could (and often did) yell at someone without the slimy stub ever moving from its permanent perch in the right corner of his lips.
Ed wasn't exactly fastidious but he was more filmy than grimy. His visage was scary until you realized he was actually a more than halfway decent fellow. If you were a kid who got past his initial attempts to spook you, and he decided you could be trusted, he'd find little tasks for you to do. These efforts were rewarded with the very best kinds of kid currency: baseball cards, comic books, candy or soda.
Ed's barter system didn't necessarily favor the erstwhile youngster. A half an hour helping clean up some mess in his medieval basement might have translated into a Hershey Bar. The ungenerous exchange rate was mitigated by admission into a mysterious area not open to the public. This entry into the unknown gave the chosen few the same sort of feeling of self-importance that a rock concert laminate provides these days.
Riddler's, especially on Genessee St, was a gathering place for kids -- mostly boys. After school or a ballgame there'd be a tangle of bicycles in front and back of the store. Our sturdy American-made steeds were often abandoned (or in that era's parlance "ditched") while still skidding to a stop. The resulting snarl of metal served as both an obstacle and warning to Ed's older customers. Beware! Youth being served.
When Ed decided that he didn't appreciate such restraint of trade, he had no problem throwing every kid out of the tiny store post haste. His temper usually held until we'd blown a collective few dollars on items that rarely cost more than a dime (except for ice cream, which could run upwards of a quarter if you started delving into exotics like sundaes -- although I can never remember getting more than a Riddler's cone because if you wanted ice cream, the Hitching Post or the Skaneateles Bakery were better options.)
Ed handed down semiannual edicts concerning the number of bicycles that were allowed on "his" sidewalk. For a few months his ruling would hold as we parked our bikes, kickstands extended, in neat rows. Eventually the rows and kickstands disintegrated into a new clump of Western Flyers, Huffys and Schwinns. Soon enough an old person would trip on the restored gallimaufry and Riddler would blow a gasket. We'd flee, leaping to the street or alley without hitting a step before engaging in a ridiculous fast-forward contest of pickup sticks, with our bikes serving as the sticks. We'd then peel out (more ancient parlance), running on a tidal wave of the panicked exhilaration that surges through children whenever collective disregard for authority is suddenly called to account by a bellowing adult. After scattering, we'd meet up a few blocks away to discuss the dramatic turn of events. Mostly we'd suss out the pressing question: do you think Old Man Riddler will tell our parents? He never did.
The premium real estate at the original location was a seat at the counter of the fountain. From there we could watch Ed engage in repartee with his favorite customers. It was a great floor show. One day he was haranguing future town official Fran Sheehan about something or other. Sheehan replied by busting Riddler for the rickety old table he used for storing reserved papers (with the name of each customer written in Ed's highly legible script, at an angle to one side of the masthead.)
Mr. Sheehan chided, "Hey, Ed, what was the number one tune when you bought this table? The Song of the Volga Boatmen?"
Riddler dissolved in laughter at Fran Sheehan's perfect joke. As an adult I've often thought of Ed's strategic retreat when I'm bantering with my colleagues in comedy. Some gags don't need to be capped and can’t be topped. The table, by the way, was still in service at least a dozen years later.
My most vivid memory of the newsstand flows from that old fountain at the original Riddler's. Among the items on the menu was a nickel Coke. At some point the fountain drinks gave way to a cooler full of bottled soda. No one could remember the last time anyone ordered a fresh-mixed beverage, served in ridged, scratched-up, plastic cups.
One day, low on disposable income, we decided to see if the cheap drinks still listed on the greasy and dusty menu board were available. Mrs. Baker, a long-time Riddler employee who never liked having to do impertinent things like wait on customers, allowed that since there was still syrup in the reservoir, nickel Cokes remained on the menu. Yours truly, Bob Brewer, John Considine and (I think) Bruce Hammel agreed to a "if you get one so will I" pact. With much grunting and gasping the enormous Mrs. Baker pumped the coke syrup dispenser. After a blockade of crystallized sugar was overcome, a dollop of aged syrup was dispensed into each of the four small glasses that were then filled with soda water and ice. Mrs. Baker labored through a half-stir of the drinks and presented them to us. We eyed the murky concoctions and then one another before hoisting and chugging the dubious fluid. We snorted and laughed as soon as we tasted it because clearly there was something wrong, very wrong, with the Cokes.
We jumped to our feet, sprinted out the back door and into the alley, where we projectile-vomited the moldy drinks. Ipecac had nothing on this stuff.
An ad hoc forensics team later convinced Riddler employee Howard Fisher to examine the carton of syrup. He did and discovered it contained an enormous infestation of mold that was only days short of bursting out of its container and engulfing our small town. Needless to state, we were the last patrons to ever drink a fountain Coke at Riddler's. No one even considered asking for a refund. It was a simpler time.
Riddler's contributed greatly to my love of reading. It was there I began to buy The Sporting News, Street and Smith's sports annuals, paperback books such as the essential Roger Maris At Bat,
as well as the half-dozen or so newspapers my old man had reserved for him each day. With the dailies priced at 3¢ or so per copy, Phil Crimmins' heavy newsprint habit didn't cost much more than a dollar a week. Before long I began reading beyond the sports and comics pages in those papers and started purchasing news magazines and more paperbacks.
When Ed Riddler realized I was buying the publications for myself, he was impressed. His praise was typically gruff, "Keep this up, son, and someday you might not be an idiot."
Sure enough, some days, I'm not.
My reply:
Do I ever remember Riddler's! Before my time, it was Lynch’s. Many old folks called it that years later. To me, it was always Riddler's. The store sold newspapers, periodicals, candy, soda, ice cream and enough cigars and cigarettes to put the local funeral director's children through college. In my younger days the store was on Genessee Street, the village’s main
The shop’s proprietor was Ed Riddler, a burly, retired army sergeant. As the man at the center of much of our daily commerce, Riddler became something of a local celebrity. He was also quite a character.
Ed seemed to wear the same clothes for a few years at a time, often topped by an army issue jacket with "RIDDLER" embroidered across the left breast pocket. His rotund and creviced face never appeared to have been shaven within the previous 48 hours. He always had the remnant of a stogie in the corner of his mouth. He could (and often did) yell at someone without the slimy stub ever moving from its permanent perch in the right corner of his lips.
Ed wasn't exactly fastidious but he was more filmy than grimy. His visage was scary until you realized he was actually a more than halfway decent fellow. If you were a kid who got past his initial attempts to spook you, and he decided you could be trusted, he'd find little tasks for you to do. These efforts were rewarded with the very best kinds of kid currency: baseball cards, comic books, candy or soda.
Ed's barter system didn't necessarily favor the erstwhile youngster. A half an hour helping clean up some mess in his medieval basement might have translated into a Hershey Bar. The ungenerous exchange rate was mitigated by admission into a mysterious area not open to the public. This entry into the unknown gave the chosen few the same sort of feeling of self-importance that a rock concert laminate provides these days.
Riddler's, especially on Genessee St, was a gathering place for kids -- mostly boys. After school or a ballgame there'd be a tangle of bicycles in front and back of the store. Our sturdy American-made steeds were often abandoned (or in that era's parlance "ditched") while still skidding to a stop. The resulting snarl of metal served as both an obstacle and warning to Ed's older customers. Beware! Youth being served.
When Ed decided that he didn't appreciate such restraint of trade, he had no problem throwing every kid out of the tiny store post haste. His temper usually held until we'd blown a collective few dollars on items that rarely cost more than a dime (except for ice cream, which could run upwards of a quarter if you started delving into exotics like sundaes -- although I can never remember getting more than a Riddler's cone because if you wanted ice cream, the Hitching Post or the Skaneateles Bakery were better options.)
Ed handed down semiannual edicts concerning the number of bicycles that were allowed on "his" sidewalk. For a few months his ruling would hold as we parked our bikes, kickstands extended, in neat rows. Eventually the rows and kickstands disintegrated into a new clump of Western Flyers, Huffys and Schwinns. Soon enough an old person would trip on the restored gallimaufry and Riddler would blow a gasket. We'd flee, leaping to the street or alley without hitting a step before engaging in a ridiculous fast-forward contest of pickup sticks, with our bikes serving as the sticks. We'd then peel out (more ancient parlance), running on a tidal wave of the panicked exhilaration that surges through children whenever collective disregard for authority is suddenly called to account by a bellowing adult. After scattering, we'd meet up a few blocks away to discuss the dramatic turn of events. Mostly we'd suss out the pressing question: do you think Old Man Riddler will tell our parents? He never did.
The premium real estate at the original location was a seat at the counter of the fountain. From there we could watch Ed engage in repartee with his favorite customers. It was a great floor show. One day he was haranguing future town official Fran Sheehan about something or other. Sheehan replied by busting Riddler for the rickety old table he used for storing reserved papers (with the name of each customer written in Ed's highly legible script, at an angle to one side of the masthead.)
Mr. Sheehan chided, "Hey, Ed, what was the number one tune when you bought this table? The Song of the Volga Boatmen?"
Riddler dissolved in laughter at Fran Sheehan's perfect joke. As an adult I've often thought of Ed's strategic retreat when I'm bantering with my colleagues in comedy. Some gags don't need to be capped and can’t be topped. The table, by the way, was still in service at least a dozen years later.
My most vivid memory of the newsstand flows from that old fountain at the original Riddler's. Among the items on the menu was a nickel Coke. At some point the fountain drinks gave way to a cooler full of bottled soda. No one could remember the last time anyone ordered a fresh-mixed beverage, served in ridged, scratched-up, plastic cups.
One day, low on disposable income, we decided to see if the cheap drinks still listed on the greasy and dusty menu board were available. Mrs. Baker, a long-time Riddler employee who never liked having to do impertinent things like wait on customers, allowed that since there was still syrup in the reservoir, nickel Cokes remained on the menu. Yours truly, Bob Brewer, John Considine and (I think) Bruce Hammel agreed to a "if you get one so will I" pact. With much grunting and gasping the enormous Mrs. Baker pumped the coke syrup dispenser. After a blockade of crystallized sugar was overcome, a dollop of aged syrup was dispensed into each of the four small glasses that were then filled with soda water and ice. Mrs. Baker labored through a half-stir of the drinks and presented them to us. We eyed the murky concoctions and then one another before hoisting and chugging the dubious fluid. We snorted and laughed as soon as we tasted it because clearly there was something wrong, very wrong, with the Cokes.
An ad hoc forensics team later convinced Riddler employee Howard Fisher to examine the carton of syrup. He did and discovered it contained an enormous infestation of mold that was only days short of bursting out of its container and engulfing our small town. Needless to state, we were the last patrons to ever drink a fountain Coke at Riddler's. No one even considered asking for a refund. It was a simpler time.
Riddler's contributed greatly to my love of reading. It was there I began to buy The Sporting News, Street and Smith's sports annuals, paperback books such as the essential Roger Maris At Bat,
When Ed Riddler realized I was buying the publications for myself, he was impressed. His praise was typically gruff, "Keep this up, son, and someday you might not be an idiot."
Sure enough, some days, I'm not.
