Threads That Tie Us Together

AnnaJean used to work at the French Fry Factory in Century III Mall in West Mifflin, PA.

The food-court tables always had folks chowing down on the yummy fries. It didn’t hurt that they gave mall employees a nice discount, either.

AnnaJean, with her glasses that upturned at the corners, had curly brown hair, and a big smile. I liked going through the line when she was there; if I didn’t have a smile when I placed the order, I had one once she helped me get my dinner.

Her smile was infectious.

Not a small woman, standing all day in the hot warming lights had to take its toll on her, but you never saw it. “When are you gonna come work for me?”, I used to ask her. “I need happy people at the bookstore!”

Her giggle was a high and tinkling sound, but she would just shake her head no. Until the day she didn’t.

She asked if I was serious, and yes, indeed I was. She had no experience selling books. She just liked helping people.

On her first day, I changed her name. AnnaJean was long and it wouldn't fit on a nametag. Did she have a nickname? No. Did she want a nickname? Not really.

She got a nickname: AJ. Shaking her head, she put it on her name tag. When her Fry customers would come into the bookstore they called her AnnaJean… for a while.

“I’m AJ now” she’d tell them. “My manager changed my name.” She’d duck her head and slide her eyes over to me, then laugh.

One day I called her house about a schedule change. “Will, Kelly, and AJ aren’t here” said the message. I had no idea she’d changed her name outside of work.

~

A few years before that, I was a new manager in a small strip mall store. The area was affluent, the staff was affluent also. Few of them needed to work, not really.

(Lord, please save every retail manager from employees that think they are doing the manager a favor by working. Thank you. Amen.)

I had part time help, in the evenings and weekends, to supplement my privileged ladies that worked only during the day. Elizabeth the wonder- shelver was there, and she was the exception to every stereotype of employees that ever worked at that store . Curly gingery hair, freckles, an ear to ear smile.

I would have cloned her if I could. But I couldn’t.

So I called my high school guidance counselor and asked if he could send someone my way. Someone that wanted to work. The guidance counselor (and God, I think) sent Rashawn.

Rashawn was WAY taller than my 5’2″. (A few days into the job, I found out his mom was my age. I think part of me is still reeling from that, all these years later. It was the first time that happened, but not the last.)

He and Elizabeth were the best, fastest, and most reliable parttime booksellers. Adding in Lisa and Brandy, we were unstoppable.

They never really knew what to expect from me.

Like the time I brought the circular saw to work and chopped up the receiving table and threw it out because it was too big. And everyone just put junk on it. (It was, and they did.)

True, I am not accomplished with power tools. True, I might should have asked for corporate permission before destroying company property. But it DID set the right tone for my management style at the time.

Brandy laughed, Lisa looked worried and shook her head before she gave a small smile. As I recall, Elizabeth asked, rather practically, where we were all going to eat lunch, since I’d just destroyed the only substantial flat surface we had.

I don’t know if Rashawn knew what I’d done, but I think he would have just laughed and gone and shelved a cart.

I tried to only say what I meant, and do what I said. I loved that store and those people.

A couple of years ago I sought for, and found, Rashawn on Facebook and sent him a friend request. He still has a great smile, and is as positive and focused as I remembered. He is successful at business and has a lovely family.

He connected me, again, to Elizabeth, and I like seeing their updates: these two no-longer-kids and their families. The two of them commented on a blog post, once, when I shared it on Facebook.

It reminded me of listening to them chatter as they raced to straighten the store at night. She remembered me pitting the two of them against each other in contests.

She also remembered me giving her a small elephant and a note telling her she had done a good job. She remembered me as tough but fair. I don’t remember the elephant, but I’m glad she does.

The way I smiled when I read her comments reminded me of the way I felt when she came through the door of the store.

~

A few years ago I learned accidently on Facebook that AJ had died. I no longer live in the same state, and isn't it weird the way we learn things about each other, now?

I searched online for news, someway to reach the family and pay my respects. I found her obituary: AnnaJean Marie “A.J.”

She had A.J. in her obituary.

“My manager changed my name.” I saw her all at once again; that lifted shoulder, half smile, barely suppressed chuckle. I heard her again at the cash wrap during the Holiday rush, voice raising higher than dolphin squeaks as the days ground on and on. I remembered her steadiness and calm when things hit the fan, as they periodically do in life and retail.

~

If I had known that the small, daily, unremarkable actions I did as a manager would leave traces 25 or more years later I would have done it differently.

I would have said thank you more often. Celebrated more birthdays. Told them how much they meant to me.

I would have bought more elephants.

~~~~~~~

What we do on a daily basis MATTERS. You matter. Always.

Comments welcome.

(A previous version of this article was posted on my Wordpress blog)