What Will You Say to Your Last Customer?

Who am I?

I'm the guy who always buys from the Schwann's man because I got something the first time he knocked and now I don't know how to say no.

I'm the guy who buys chocolate-covered pretzels at a school fundraiser because I can't look kids in the eye and tell them no.

I'm the guy who can't walk past a run-down country store when the elderly owner catches my eye through the window, because passing by is a form of rejection I can't bear to inflict.

So I opened the screen door and stepped inside.

In the late evening light his store looked run-down and antiseptic in equal measure: metal cabinets, creaky wooden floors, fluorescent lights, clean but scratched windows, shelves filled with a jarring mixture of canned goods and boxed goods and auto supplies, and that lingering odor of fried food that always manages to smell a couple days old.

I smiled and said, "Evening," as I headed towards the candy section; chewing gum is always safe.

"I've got a few pieces of chicken left, and some mashed potatoes," he said, his gravelly voice failing to hide an underlying trace of earnestness and hope.

I'm the guy who doesn't want to but still says, "Hey, that sounds great." I don't like gravy, but he was clearly proud of his -- he told me he fixed it the way his mother once did -- so I said yes to the gravy too.

As it turned out his mother's gravy was decent. Not great, because this is not that kind of story, but decent.

He wiped the counter and said, "You know, it's past my closing time. Decided to stay open a little longer. Kind of special."

"Oh really?" I said. "Why's that?"

"Today's my last day. I'm closing my store and retiring."

"Hey, congratulations," I said, but when his smile faded I thought I had said the wrong thing.

"Well, I suppose so," he said. "Been here a long time. Done this for 34 years. Didn't turn out quite like I hoped, but what the heck, can't complain."

I ate and we talked for a while. I thought he seemed lonely. Then I realized I had him wrong.

Who was he?

He was a man who was happy for people who were getting company; it's nice to have friends who care enough to visit. He was a man who enjoyed when families stopped in after church; he wanted to attend but couldn't afford to close his store.

He was a man who made his mother's gravy because it made him feel a part of her was still alive.

We talked until I could tell he was ready to leave.

I'd like to say we became lifelong friends, but this is not that kind of story, either. Still, I did add a small link to his very long chain of connections with strangers and friends alike, and that was enough.

He locked the door behind us. My car was the only one in front of the store. I asked if he needed a ride.

"Nah," he said. He pointed down the road. "See all those lights? That's a party they're having for me. Decided to make 'em wait. Spent years waiting on other people. About time they had to wait on me."

He smiled and we shook hands before he shuffled away. I saw no eagerness in his step but no hesitation either -- just a calm acceptance of whatever came next. Things change, and that's okay.

This is who he was: He was a man who owned a country store and never found a way to build a thriving business, but did find a way to build a life.

For once, that's something I'm proud to be.

Related:

• Why You Should Go Home Early Today
• The Business Lesson I Learned From my Grandfather, His Broom, and His Horse