Ever since I was little boy, I have been a huge fan of the candy that is often mistakenly referred to as Reese-ees Piece-ees. Many people will probably remember when they were everywhere thanks to ET and Eliott sharing them on the silver screen in the Eighties, but nowadays they seem to be less ubiquitous. My mother, who has a future gift filing system in her brain, decided to put my little patio praise session of the peanut butter treat into the folder marked with my name. The day before my trip she showed up at her house with an industrial-sized orange bag and advised me to take it with me to California. Afraid of my addictive personality and the complex I have developed about sugar-related weight gain, I asked her to keep the bag at home and put the contents in a glass jar so that handfuls of pieces could be grabbed by various house guests in the future - namely, me. I was sure that if that bag ended up in my suitcase, then all of those lovely little pieces would have been consumed in the first week of my 6-8 week sabbatical resulting in a combination of bliss and fat kid self-loathing. Mom graciously held onto the bag without being offended and I left for Laguna the next day; Reese's Piece-less.
Within the first few days, I found myself rabidly patrolling the Orange County gas stations for my favorite candy. Kicking myself as I handed over a couple dollars for a very small, 220 calorie bag of my favorite treat, I couldn't help but laugh at myself. I could have taken that huge bag and rationed out little Ziploc baggies for myself, but no, that would have been too logical. Instead I found myself spending money that I should have been saving to go toward more important things. The little bag lasted me a good two hours. I only took out two pieces at a time and held them in my mouth until the thin candy shells melted and that rich, peanut buttery goodness was set free from its sugary confinement. It took everything I had not too speed-chew the peanut butter and dump the whole bag into my mouth. I justified the caloric intake by only enjoying them while I was walking around town. Despite the fact that I was clearly taking in more calories then I was expending, the "walk while you Reese," rationale seemed to justify my indulgence. Can you imagine if I had that huge bag my Mom offered? I would have been walking all day, everyday.
Fast forward to two weeks ago. I arrived in the Koreatown area of Los Angeles to stay with my friend Matt. There are a few dollar stores and run-down corner bodegas near his apartment, but none of them, I repeat, none of them carry Reese's Pieces. They all have Reese's Cups, Reese's cookies, (which I had never seen before), and some Reese's version of the Nutty Bar, but not one store within a four mile radius carries my candy. I would have settled for a dollar store knock-off, but no dice. Even the grocery stores in other neighborhoods that we patronized seemed to have decided to drop the item from their confection inventories. What is going on here? All I wanted was a small bag of deliciousness with which I could stretch my enjoyment of the best candy ever made over an hour long - or longer - stroll through the dicey neighborhoods near Downtown LA in which I am staying. Is that too much too ask? Apparently it is too much. I knew I should have taken that bag from Mom.
Had I been doomed to suffer savage sweets withdrawal in the City of Angels? Would I have to wait another two to three weeks to get my fix? Would I have to leave the city in order to get a hold of that damn candy? The answer, my friends, was "yes." However, I would not need to go all the way back to Laguna, or God forbid, wait till I got all the way home to satisfy my craving. No, I just had to go on a road trip with Matt and his girlfriend to the Hoover Dam, which included a pit stop in the nearby town of Upland, in order to keep from getting cold sweats, hallucinating, and mumbling "pieces...not cups" through trembling and drooling lips as I stared ahead in catatonic state.
It was about eleven this morning when Matt decided to fill up Melissa's SUV on our way to Nevada. We were out near the 'burbs somewhere and happened to spot a mega-gas station from the freeway. We were obviously outside of LA because the building, driveway, and gas pumps didn't have an inch thick brownish-yellow grime on them. This place looked brand new with its twenty different gas pumps, clean white asphalt, and half-mile walk to the large convenience store building. All I wanted at that point was a Coke Zero, but, as has become a California tradition at gas stations, I cruised by the candy aisle. "Resse's Cups, Reese's Nutty Bar thing...Holy shit!" I cheerfully yelped. On the bottom row, near the sugary rejects of the convenience store world were the little orange bags that I had seen in Laguna. The young lady mopping the floor nearby flinched at the bearded crazy man shouting in the candy aisle and exchanged a worried glance with her co-worker behind the counter. I smiled and held up the bag as if to say, "see, they do exist," and made my way to the cashier. The young lady behind the counter was very sweet and, surprisingly, unfazed by my bizarre exclamation. I stood in front of her with an air of pride as if I had captured the elusive animal known around these parts to be,"just a myth." I had bagged the big fish that got away from all the local fisherman. This pocket-sized, orange bag that cost me $1.60 was my white whale. As she counted my change, I started to wonder if I should grab a few bags to play it safe. However, as if the last couple weeks of frantic searching and failing to find the candy never existed, I convinced myself that one bag was enough and that I would have plenty waiting for me in Texas.
I triumphantly showed Matt and Melissa my acquisition and hopped in the backseat of the Jeep. I carefully placed the bag into the cup holder and tried to pretend that it wasn't there. And then something really strange happened. Now that I had the candy, I didn't want it. Well, to be more honest, my intense want of it decreased substantially. Feeling a little philosophical, I began to wonder if my desire for the candy was amplified by their lack of availability. Don't get me wrong, I love the pieces, but at that moment I wasn't ready to fist fight some street toughs for a handful like I would have a week prior. At this point I could take them or leave them. Was the real thrill in the chase and not in the actual peanut butter consumption? Did I truly only want the things I couldn't have while simultaneously under-appreciating the things that I do have? Haven't we all experienced this one way or another? Staring at the small bag in the cup holder, I pondered this very deep line of questioning for a moment....
My intense exploration of that life lesson lasted all of about five minutes. Once I had the first two pieces in my mouth and the shells melted away it was over. I tried to space out the time between each trip into the bag, and the number of candies I would pop into my mouth, but I had eaten them all within about ten minutes. Its funny and sad how self-control and an addictive personality can be brought together in a strenuous tug of war because some Willy Wonka type-genius at the Hershey company one day had a great idea.
As of this writing, I'm back in LA and miles away from my favorite confection. This puts me back at square one. I should have learned my lesson and stocked up in Upland, but I didn't. I figured writing about it would somehow soften the blow of my making the same mistake twice, but it hasn't. It's been less than twenty-four hours and I'm already kicking myself for abandoning a potential RP Reserve. Again!
So, what's the lesson? What's the moral of this story? That is completely up to you. There are probably a lot of things that can be taken from this tale. I think recounting this experience has provided me with a few good things: some personal insight, a nice writing session, and a bit of a chuckle at my own expense. However, one thing it has not provided is the thing that I probably need most: The handful of Reese's Pieces that I am desperately craving.
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