Harold Stoneman woke up that morning, his head throbbing and his mouth tasting like shit. He had consumed most of a bottle of Jack Daniels the night before, more than he would drink in a year. It took more than a few seconds for him to remember why he had gotten drunk and the profound effect on his life the letter from his national office had already had.
Very simply it stated that "due to poor volume over an extended period of time," the Shelter Island store would close on September 15, 1977. It said nothing about Harold's future other than that the regional V.P. would be "contacting you very soon." Harold knew from what had happened at other closings he had heard of that he would be offered an assistant manager's position at a location just far enough from Shelter Island as to make him not want to accept it. What they didn't know is that Harold wouldn't have taken a job as an assistant if the store were just across the north side ferry in Greenport or the south side ferry in Sag Harbor. Being a manager, being in charge of a dozen employees was the sum total of Harold Stoneman's life. He had no real friends, had never married or had children, had no hobbies other than (easy) crossword puzzles and had never even been laid. No, he wouldn't be assisting anyone at another F.W. Woolworth. That was an easy decision. What he would be doing, now that was a much harder call.
His demeanor at the store later that day suggested there was something very wrong and the older employees picked up on it but didn't have the stomach to ask. They had, to be sure, known that Woolworth was beginning to close stores all over the country and indeed, right on Long Island and they guessed that was the cause of Mr. Stoneman's sad face. But no one said a word until Rita came in at three o'clock sharp, walked behind the counter and said hi to Mrs. Brodsky. She spied a sullen Harold Stoneman sitting alone in a booth with an unopened ledger and walked over to him.
"Mr. Stoneman, what's wrong, sir? Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
Harold Stoneman looked at Rita, cleared his throat, felt tears begin to well up in his eyes and said, "We've been notified they're closing us up right after Labor Day. I'm sorry."
Now Rita was a bright, street-smart, soon to be seventeen year old young woman, but very few sixteen year olds would understand the impact on a man like Stoneman that those words carried.
"Gee, that's awful, Mr. Stoneman" was what she said, but her use of awful was as in "now I'll have to find another job." The soon to be ex-store manager thanked her and walked over to his office and shut the door. It was three full days before he could bring himself to place a letter on the wall near the punch clock outlining the store closing.
By the time Maryann sat down to talk to Rita, Mr. Stoneman had already left for home. Only in passing had Rita mentioned the fact that she would be out of work in a few months. Most of the conversation had centered on Eddie's friend and fellow band member, Tommy Mullen. Tommy was the lead singer and played rhythm guitar. He was also the founder of the band, the treasurer, the bookkeeper and, if would turn out most importantly, their manager. He was twenty years old, brighter than the three other members combined and looked like a young Steve McQueen. And he was kind, leading him to say "hi" to Maryann and even remember her name on a recent night when she came to see them play. From that moment, Maryann had been crazy about Tommy and was trying to get Rita to ask Eddie to carry the message. Rita, well schooled in the world of "Could you find out if so and so likes me" (though from the male side), wasn't having any part of it. She knew Tommy didn't have any particular girlfriend, but she also knew he wouldn't have any interest in the rather full figured Maryann. She decided her best course of action would be to find a way to tell her friend the truth, though she couldn't quite figure out the right combination of words. Not until several were already out of her mouth did she realize she was promising to have Eddie speak to Tommy.
Late that night with her radio on the nightstand playing softly and her body entwined in two lavender comforters she momentarily felt calm and secure. Her nightly ritual was to decide what the best moment of each day was and try to have it be her last thought as she fell asleep. She settled on the dance she and Eddie shared before they went to the diner, before they parked for an hour of stops and starts. For since the time they'd had sex she'd become hesitant to do it again. To say this confused Eddie would be a major understatement, especially since Rita told him, truthfully, how great it was. But Rita was beginning to get frightened and wasn't really sure what she was frightened of. Was it of becoming pregnant? Eddie had pulled out in time. She had since acquired a diaphragm and, anyway, she loved him with all her heart. Why did she feel ambivalent? What was worrying her? What's more, the longer she thought about it the worse she felt. Who could she speak to about her feelings? Eddie? Her actions earlier that night said it all and it didn't go over very well at all. Maryann? She'd tried, but Maryann looked at her like she was crazy and said she'd give anything to be in her shoes.
She began to get a hollow feeling, that feeling you get when you come to the realization that you have no one to turn to about a problem that you've been grappling with. She focused on dancing with Eddie, but fell asleep planning on how to tell Maryann she was wasting her time dreaming about Tommy.
After finally putting the official notification of the store's closing on the bulletin board, every single employee came up to Harold Stoneman and offered his or her consolation.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Stoneman."
You're sorry, he thought.
"I'm sure you'll land on your feet, Mr. Stoneman."
"They're making a terrible mistake, Mr. Stoneman."
But he knew closing his store was no mistake. They should have
closed it years ago. But by the time Woolworth's had started
closing stores, Harold was over fifty and knew that his age,
combined with his less than sparkling personality, would make
finding anything comparable next to impossible. He had been
locked in and now it was ending and the thought was terrifying.
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Material Copyright © 1998-2003 by Jim Bearden