"E su di me, puoi contare per una rivoluzione"
En e Xanax v.2, Samuele Bersani.
When I buy cigarettes — so, every day — I usually spend the change on sweets.
Partly because I've got two kids who go "Surprise!" the moment I walk in, and partly because I love Liquorone liquorice.
The same kind my grandfather used to buy us at Signora Piccirillo's shop, Lago area, Santa Maria di Castellabate, during those endless summers with 40 cousins, 15 aunts and uncles, and another 184 relatives and in-laws.
But that's a different story.
My tobacconist — or rather, my female tobacconist, I love the feminine version of trade names, like the perfumer, the florist, the tobacconist, the ice-cream maker — is on Via Tribunali, and I've been going there for about 15, 16 years now.
She tells me it's X euros and 70 cents, and I'm like, okay, I'll take 3 Liquorones.
Now, someone my age would just shove the sweets in their pocket and walk out.
Not me.
I take the sweets, hold them out clearly where the tobacconist can see them, so she can check there really are three.
She, puzzled, says okay, have a good day.
Until yesterday evening.
She says, "sorry, but why do you make me count them, it's not like I doubt you or don't trust you, they're three sweets."
Well, dear tobacconist.
We were kids, me and my little brother.
We were on Via Pisciscelli, Vomero-Arenella area, with our mother.
And our mother, back then, smoked MS Morbide.
So, tobacconist's shop.
While our mother finishes her purchase, me and my little brother steal ourselves one sweet each — commercial value, 20 lire.
Mou toffees, the yellow ones with the red MILK writing.
Two sweets.
Obviously, we leave the tobacconist's, and after a few dozen metres, me and my little brother show off, display our trophy.
My mother, in a tone straight out of a German Marshal stationed in Naples in September '43, says: Where did you get those?
There it is.
We went back, under a barrage of maternal threats, mortified, crushed, desolate, prostrate and humiliated. We returned the stolen goods, the Mou sweets, to the tobacconist on Via Pisciscelli.
So there you go, dear tobacconist — that's why I always make you count the three sweets I've been buying from you every single day for about 16 years now.
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