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A Tale of Two Drugstores
by
W. Walsh Doane
In the small town where I grew up, there were two drugstores: One
was referred to as Beerman’s and the other as Peterfoin’s. These
colloquial names were derived from the last name of their
respective owners. I don’t recall the name spelled out on the neon
sign that hung over the sidewalk at the entrance to each
establishment. Nor do I remember the correct spelling of the
druggists’ last names, which are spelled phonetically here the way
my friends would have spoken them. I guess I never did know
what their first names were, and I suppose I never will. What is
imprinted on my mind is the difference in the atmosphere that
pervaded the inside of each of these stores. It was as different as
night is to day.
From without, Beerman’s drugstore was modern-looking for its
time. Viewed through its large, plate glass windows that bent
around the corner of Center and Main Streets, it was brightly
illuminated from within. The light-colored floors and white,
chromium-trimmed counter tops were spotlessly clean, as were the
racks standing in line like tin solders up and down the aisles. You
just knew that the germ count in this store was low, so you felt
secure in having medical prescriptions filled there. Everyday
household necessities such as toothpaste, razor blades, deodorants
and various lotions could be bought at Beerman’s. In addition, all
kinds of greeting cards, stationery, nicely packaged candies and
small gifts were on display.
Because my home town of about three thousand residents had no
gift shops or department stores - not even a Woolworth Five and
Ten Cent Store - Beerman’s was the place of last resort for late
shoppers as the holiday season approached in December, and on
special occasions such as birthdays and Valentine Day. True, there
were a few small clothing and shoe stores nearby, but their owners
had little imagination and their out-dated inventories left much to
be desired. A couple of grocery stores, including an A & P market,
were also in town, but they sold only meats, fresh produce, canned
foods, soaps, bleaches and the like. Unlike today, there were no
supermarkets bulging with all manner of things from which to
choose a gift. Yet, despite the paucity of fashionable, high quality
merchandize for sale in this community, everything was ten to
twenty percent more costly to buy than in the far distant city.
Beerman’s prices were among the highest in town so I could rarely
afford to shop there. Moreover, Mr. Beerman had little patience
with young people in his store, always fearful that they might
break or spill something.
Growing up during the depression years of the 1930s, I once
proudly saved enough money from my weekly allowance of five
cents to buy a present for my father at Beerman’s drugstore. I
struggled a long time making up my mind about what to purchase
and was very proud of my final decision. I could hardly wait for
Daddy to open it on Christmas morning. “Oh”, he exclaimed with
a hug and a kiss, “it is just what I wanted, a new razor with extra
blades, Old Spice after-shave lotion, a matching hairbrush and
comb set, and even a bar of scented soap.” I was ecstatic! But alas,
my excitement was dashed when my mother took me aside and
quietly said, “That’s a lovely gift, dear, but a waste of good money.
Gifts you make with your own hands are far more appreciated than
those store-bought.” I guiltily accepted her implied admonition
about being a spendthrift and never again bought anything at
Beerman’s except patent medicines and prescription drugs.
Furthermore, from then on and whether they liked it or not, I
created all of the Christmas and birthday gifts for members of my
family until I was earning a living of my own and could afford to
buy them.
Thank goodness there was another drugstore in town. Peterfoin’s
was located on the other side of Main Street, half way up the block
from Beerman’s. It was in a disproportionately tall, slim building
of unique architecture. Sandwiched amidst an unbroken row of
single-storied structures, it stuck out like a sore thumb pointing
skyward. Its windowless, brick side walls were visible from Main
Street and hence the target of many a billboard artist. The top story
of this peculiar edifice was tucked under a forward-sloping grey
roof covered by overlapping, hexagonal shingles that suggested the
scales on some monstrous fish. A wooden facade, painted brown,
covered most of the brick wall at the front of the building, and its
upper story windows were blocked off by beaverboard from
within, presumably to conceal storage space for the drugstore on
the first floor. Unlike Beerman’s, this drugstore had a decidedly
somber and rather shabby appearance, no matter how many coats
of fresh paint were applied to its exterior.
The inside ceiling of Peterfoin’s drugstore was unusually high and
covered by discolored metal paneling that at one time must have
been a creamy white but had become darkened by patches of rust
and a overlay of greasy soot. The storefront windows stretched the
full height of the first floor, from top to bottom, and within them
stood cardboard displays advertising various over-the-counter
drugs, perfumes and the like. The interior walls of the store were
covered by wooden panels that had darkened with age and
numerous coats of varnish. People who shopped at Peterfoin’s did
so because they liked and trusted the owner and knew they could
get a better price for what they bought there than could be had at
Beerman’s.
On entering Peterfoin’s drugstore, the first object that came into
view was a long soda fountain with shiny, golden taps made of
brass. These elaborately shaped faucets dispensed the fizzy liquids
that go into making cokes and ice cream sodas. High stools made
of thick wire loops stretched from one end of the fountain’s
countertop to the other. Their seats were well worn and covered
with some sort of dull, reddish oilcloth that simulated leather.
Nevertheless, they were fairly comfortable to sit upon, especially if
one’s elbows were propped upon the counter for added support.
Patrons who preferred to sit at table height could go to the back of
the store and find a cozy booth to occupy.
Ice cream sodas, cokes, ginger ale and coffee were the standard
beverages drunk at Peterfoin’s from morning until closing time at
8:00 PM. Sandwiches were served only at lunch time. I can still
see in my mind’s eye a “soda jerk” grasp the handle on one of
those polished taps, pull it down, and dispense pressurized,
carbonated water into a tall glass tumbler with a splash. Depending
on the ingredients in the bottom of the tumbler, an array of bubbly
drinks was thus concocted. Peterfoin’s major attraction, however,
was an ice cream sundae that defied description. Young and old
alike enjoyed the novelty and visual grandeur of these sweet-tooth
masterpieces, which came in a variety of flavors. I wish I could
step back in time and devour one now. Much to my chagrin, I did
not like ice cream in my youth and settled on sipping chocolate
sodas through a straw when seated in Peterfoin’s.
Many teenagers in town made Peterfoin’s their hang out. They
would go there ostensibly to buy something or to check out the
latest issues of “funny books” and magazines on the racks at the
front of the store. Once inside, however, they would usually find
some of their peer group with whom to share refreshments at the
soda fountain or, more likely, within the booths at the back. Those
booths bore the scars of many a penknife that had whittled initials
into its walls and tables. Mr. Peterfoin did not seem to mind. He
left the teenagers pretty much alone to tell their “out of school”
tales, laugh at silly jokes, and flirt with members of the opposite
sex. He was a kind and generous man who loved young people. He
also felt it his civic duty to keep as many kids off the streets and
out of trouble as he could afford to accommodate in his store. This
I did not realize at that stage in my life, but I did know him to be a
person in whom one could confide secrets. His understanding and
advice helped me and my friend resolve some of the age old
problems that confront children on the verge of adulthood.
I recall one event that sent shivers up and down my spine. An
unknown pickpocket had invaded Peterfoin’s drugstore and
relieved a customer seated at the soda fountain of his wallet, which
had protruded partly out of his back pocket. He became aware of
what had happened only when he went to pay his tab. This sort of
thing just did not happen in my home town in those days, so it
stirred up considerable excitement and anxiety. The person
responsible for this travesty was eventually caught by the police
and identified by Mr. Peterfoin, who had a sharp eye for anyone
who entered his store, particularly a stranger.
I visited my home town many years later, long after I had
embarked upon a career of my own. Nothing much had changed
there except for fewer empty building lots, more houses, and some
changes in the names and nature of the stores that lined Main
Street. Missing was Beerman’s drugstore, which had been replaced
by a Hallmark stationery store, but to my delight Peterfoin’s was
still open for business. It was satisfying to see a group of
youngsters clustered on the sidewalk in front of this aging
landmark and to note others enjoying themselves in the booths at
the rear of the store. Mr. Peterfoin had retired some years earlier
but his spirit apparently lived on in that shabby drugstore with a
heart.
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