By Jim Hagarty
2015
I moved into my house 29 years ago next month. One of my first forays after moving in was to a small variety store on the next street, a short walk away. I met the nice couple who ran the place and since then, we have had many a chat over the counter. Weather, politics, philosophy, music, life – it all got thoroughly discussed and I said many a brilliant thing. I think they learned a lot.
I was single then and eventually I married and kids arrived. When the kids were young, they’d send me home with a free popsicle for them, from time to time. Sometimes I didn’t have enough money for my purchases. They’d wave me off, pay us later, they said. I always tried to remember to do that. Sometimes a dime, sometimes 50 cents.
But something has always been amiss. After almost three decades, I have never known their names. I always hoped that some other customer that was there when I was would address them by their names but it never happened. After 20 years or so, it just became too embarrassing to come right out and ask them.
Last week, I noticed a help wanted sign on the door. So I asked them what was up. Well, this is what was up: “Jay’s retiring,” said Jay’s wife. “So is Jenny,” he chipped in. Now, I could have asked them their names, on the first day I met them. Instead, I found out the information as they are preparing for the last day I see them. My one consolation is the fact that I am pretty sure they don’t know my name.
Yesterday, I went into the store, and someone new was behind the counter. A friendly young woman, mid-30s. I asked her if she was the new employee, and she said yes. Then I asked her something else. “What is your name?” I said. “Nicole,” she answered me. “I’m Jim,” I said. Not making that mistake again. The next 29 years should be a breeze.
