On the first Sunday of 2011 a couple sitting at my desk were "in a rush".  A common tactic, but more frequently on a weekend, customers are jamming errands up against each other, so it was more likely the truth than part of an overall strategy.  'What's the hurry' I asked, countering.  They were off to a birthday celebration for an aunt.  Was today (January 2) the birthday, I asked.  Yes, they said.  I then asked for the age of the aunt.  87 they answered.  Bob would have been having his 87th birthday on that same day.  I felt that feeling I had laying on the floor of my studio 23 years earlier.  After getting up from Dad's shiva I had laid on the floor of my studio for what seemed like an eternity, staring at the ceiling unable to get back to work really, with my fingertips resting on my chest, the same way he did in the early evening after dinner, laying on his bed, listening to the news with his eyes closed, a pillow hugging his head...

 

Sometime thereafter, two old biddies from Lexington walked into the dealership and asked to see an '11 Outback loaded with all the bells and whistles.  Showing them the car inside the showroom, I suggested a test drive and within minutes had assisted the two unclaimed treasures into the car, with Pat behind the wheel and (sister) Sal in an orange man-tailored cardigan sitting comfortably in the backseat.  With my life in their hands, I took the passenger's seat and off we went.  After some preliminary car/weather/how/do/you/like/them/sox related chit-chat, I began the usual litany of open ended questions.  I learned they were sisters, next door neighbors and had moved to Lexington over 75 years ago.  They had also never left the same area code.  The younger (73) sister Pat had been an employee at Lincoln Labs going back to the late 70's.  

 

In building rapport with a customer, there is nothing more effective than drawing out a singular thread and then somehow weaving an elaborate fabric into an agreed upon price for a vehicle that answers their wants, needs and budget; and to this end - how not - I mentioned that Dad had often spoken of Lincoln labs; presumably through his work at AFCRL.  What was his name, she asked and I answered.  Now Dad left this area in '75, so I honestly don't think Pat MacDonald had any contact with him, direct or indirect, but from the moment I mentioned his name (after some cajoling she eventually bought the car and traded in her old Volvo), she called me "Bob".  The first time I let it go.  The second time I was able to politely correct her, and she apologized.  The same thing occurred again and again.  With ever increasing politeness, each time I would correct her and again she would apologize, and in her apology she was already making the same slip of tongue.  By the time she called me "Bob" the 9th time we were laughing about it, and it was then that I told her about the couple that came in on Dad's birthday to buy a car.

 

A few weeks ago, I spent 2 days with an elderly couple in a '95 Saab.  Figuratively. Customers have a way of being defined by their cars so please bear the car sales jargon.  On Day 1, we narrowed it down to the new (and amazing) Impreza, but only the wife drove. He had promised to get her to her PT appointment, but insisted they would come back "not tomorrow it's our 54th wedding anniversary", but real soon, for him to drive the car, (and for me to hopefully sharpen the pencil), as they say.  I learned they had lived in Framingham for 30 years, and the last 17 in Cambridge.  Jim had been a Divisional Sales Manager, and Sydney was a Medical Librarian. When I handed him my card at the end of their visit, he read my name out loud and looked at me somewhat puzzled. "You're not a doctor?" No, I said and chuckled politely, not because it was funny, but for how it would look if I didn't.  He was obviously a man with a sense of humor, and I was looking forward to our next meeting. Two days later they returned. Evidently their 54th anniversary was not the fireworks display they had hoped, though one of their 2 (or 3) kids did call, and after assisting them into their seats, I took my usual front passenger seat from where I could answer any questions, give directions and do schtick.  There was something about Jim; either his gait or his facial expressions, or a combination of both and how they combined with his thick working-class Bostonian accent that reminded me of one of the butchers I knew working for Uncle Morris at Landy Beef.  So, after merging into traffic, I said: "I bet you know my father in-law". Everybody knows Seymour, but no, they knew a number of Seymours, but not Marcy's father. "I know a Rosenberg" he said, then paused briefly, "Paul Rosenberg", and without skipping a beat I said: "that's my uncle".  He was floored. He told me how he had moved from Chelsea to nearby Claflin Rd.; how you went to the Driscoll school, and Brookline High. He knew about the kids to some degree; Jamie in Israel. He was visibly moved talking about you, and kept repeating and emphasizing how close you had been.  "Paul is one of my oldest and closest friends", then from the back seat, Sydney lamented "we travelled in different circles". It led me to think about friends and family spread all over the place; each unto his own.

When we parted, I told him that he shouldn't feel loss for having been out of touch with his old friend.  We all have friends we're out of touch with. We can only concentrate on our own lives. I told him that I too felt out of touch with you; we all travel in different circles, and if we're lucky enough and time allows it, our lives do collide and overlap…  I asked his permission to recount our chance meeting to reach out and tell you what I'm sure you already know; I love you, and I'll always be proud to be your nephew.

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