To be honest with you, I thought about it all the time. I've spent seven years of my life at The Bookshelf in Thomasville, long enough to watch newborns become second graders and gawky teenagers become eloquent adults, so I wondered when I'd lose a customer I loved, and I wondered how I'd deal with it, what it would be like to lose someone who wasn't really mine, but who felt like it.
A couple of weeks ago, Olivia started to worry about our friend Al. She couldn't get a hold of him for his special orders, and he wasn't returning any calls. I wondered, too, but winter -- even our mild version -- is hard for our older customers, and my Google searches offered no answer. Al was, we assumed, fine, but hunkered down at home until warmer weather prevailed.
Then Friday, I don't know what possessed us. We'd met to talk about coronavirus, to listen to the President's address, to figure out best next steps for our business. We'd talked a long time, and then Olivia again asked about Al. I Googled to no avail, then tried Facebook. I wish I hadn't.
I wish I'd been alone, wish I hadn't been halfheartedly looking for answers, assuming I'd find none, wish I wasn't some internet sleuth always digging around, wish I didn't have to look at my manager and give her the sad news no one wants to give. I wish I wasn't 34, wish I wasn't a boss, wish I wasn't this person constantly having to do and say hard things.
Al died back on February 26. He was 83 years old, and once I found his obituary, I agreed with every word. He was a "friend to everyone he met." Every single Bookshelf staffer would agree.
Look, Al had his favorites. (Olivia, for sure.) But he loved all of us well, coming into the store often after his workout at the gym, asking right when he walked in the door, "How are my girls?" It could have been creepy, I guess, or odd, but believe me: We've seen our share of creepy, misogynistic customers, and this wasn't that. This was a man from New York, a former salesman -- a good one, no doubt -- coming in to hang out at his favorite downtown spot, offering kind, innocent hugs to women he treated like granddaughters. When our bookseller Nancy lost her husband last year, Al reached out in sympathy and kindness. He was a class act of the highest caliber. You know how I know?
Because I just work retail, and he treated me like royalty.
A lot of our older male customers are patronizing. (One infamously once asked to meet our owner, and when I introduced myself, he laughed and said -- not unkindly, I guess -- "They're letting eight year olds run bookstores now?") Some of them are sexist and rude. Al looked me in the eye and asked how business was going. He complimented the store and our customer service. He knew every single one of our staffers by name. He talked to us at length, occasionally staying well past what any of us had time for, but even when we minded, we didn't really, if that makes any sense at all.
The funny thing is, as far as I could tell, Al didn't really read. I'm sure he could, of course, but what Al did was purchase dozens of big band CDs. I special ordered them for him once, the day he came into the shop and introduced himself. He'd just moved to Tallahassee to be closer to his son, and if I could find him this CD he was looking for, he'd be my customer for life.
I did, and he was.
What do you say about someone you knew, but also didn't? He treated us like granddaughters, but of course, someone else rightly called him "granddad." We just saw him once every week or so, holding his CDs until he was ready, ordering the most obscure music you could possibly imagine, hearing snippets and stories of his life in pieces and parts. We only caught a glimpse, but it was good, and so this is hard.
If you had told me seven years ago I'd be crying in my bed on a Friday night, typing out an ode to a store customer, I would have laughed in your face. Back then, I thought Thomasville never would like me, figured establishing a Cheers-like atmosphere in a place I'd never called home was an impossible dream, an insurmountable task. Now, of course, I realize somewhere along the way I did it, and so I've been giving my heart out in all kinds of ways, which means it's going to be broken, probably a lot.
Al's funeral was last week in New York, and we didn't even know. That's just the oddest thing about all of this; you feel like you know someone, but nobody calls the local bookseller when their dad dies. Who would?
And so this is the best I can do, the best closure I can offer myself, the best justice I can offer Al. Any retail worker will tell you, there are good customers and there are bad customers. Al was one of the good ones, and I'm only sorry I didn't get to tell him so in person.
Rest in peace, Al. It was a joy to know you.
