A few of you reading this will remember the stores -- there were two. Started by a great man, Larry Herndon (ca.1945–1982), and later continued by his widow, Sharon, I worked at the newer of the two with my
then girlfriend and dear friend still, Sandy. I came across this essay, written on the occasion of the original store's closing. (The Richardson store had already closed.) By then I had moved to Tennessee and could not be a part of the final chapter of these two great stores, so I wrote this essay to share my feelings with those who were there to shutter the doors for the last time.This is an essay of memories within memories. The names have not been changed because they really don't need to be. Everyone who ever visited the store was quite authentic, although I will admit we had our share of peculiar and quirky customers -- much like the boys of The Big Bang Theory.
I hope you enjoy.
Remembering Store Two – Richardson’s Remember When
When I remember Remember When, what first comes to mind are the masses of memorabilia that blanketed the walls, buckled the shelves, swung from the ceiling, and poked perilously out into the aisles, challenging anyone even remotely claustrophobic to navigate the store without suffering apoplexy. Six foot posters of Monroe, Dean and Jackson shrouded the windows and blacked out the sun, giving the store that kind of Speak Easy — Opium Den feel. Comic books of the ages, sealed painstakingly in plastic bags and housed in boxes designed to withstand the Apocalypse, were arranged in a cryptic order understood only by the staff and elect customers who had been initiated into the inner circle when Larry first set up the system. Remember When Virgins, those poor souls who had never before set foot in the store, whose eyes took too long to acclimate to the dim light, were often dumbstruck by the sheer enormity of it all as their senses returned.
On Comic Book Day, before the store would open its doors, Ritalin-deprived children and incoherently fanatic collectors would press their noses tightly to the few inches of exposed glass, frothing at the mouth for the latest X-Men or Graphic Novel, hoping for a glimpse of the newly arrived, pristine comics. Doors open, they’d swarm in and descend on their favorite titles, holding each copy towards the dim light to inspect it for flaws. One to read. Another to collect. Perhaps two to collect should one meet an unexpected demise. Everything enshrined in polyethylene bags. Double taped for extra freshness.
Then there were the Poster People. They came in a variety of ages and genders. Some lusted for Michael, others swooned for Marilyn. A few were merely looking for something large enough to cover a stain on a wall. But most were either genuine collectors, who would roam the stacks for hours in search of that one perfect poster, or hapless parents, who had been deployed on a mission to find something awesome, and would spend their time clutching the front desk (presumably from fear of being sucked into the bowels of the store) while a staffer was dispatched to search for the something awesome thing.
Seldom was anyone disappointed. Avid collector or casual customer, regular or drop-in, native or alien, at Remember When there was enough stuff crammed into both stores to satisfy just about anyone. If you went away from Remember When empty handed, there had to be something wrong with you.
But what I remember most fondly about Remember When was the time spent with friends. On the surface, Larry collected things — comics mostly, then posters, photos, toys, games. As he and Sharon together grew the business, the goodies multiplied and the space dwindled. But what Larry really collected was friends. And, by extension, those who worked with him also collected friends.
Remember When Two, the Richardson Store, was especially a people magnet. I have never amassed so many friends, and so many stories, as I did when I worked there. These delightful people would often come into the store and stay for hours, even the whole day, crowding around the front desk, sharing their lunches and their life stories.
The first who comes to mind has to be Ricky. Ricky had a delightfully annoying habit of telling terrible jokes and stories. He often tickled himself so much in their retelling that other customers looked disdainfully in his direction as he laughed uproariously at his own good humor. But Ricky was impervious to even our own pleas to stop with the stories. Something would catch his attention on TV or the radio, and like it or not we’d get a play-by-play. Ricky was always good with the details. Lots and lots of details. A story that played for two minutes on the radio could often go on for an hour in our store. I often wonder what happened to Rick. I hope he’s had lots of children by now. Children need fathers who tell good stories — whether they want to hear the extended version or not. Rick was a good friend and I hope he is still laughing uproariously.
Then there was Carol with her hand-made Tribbles. The Tribbles with the authentic smell. Every so often Carol would drop by in her dog-food laden car. The Tribbles Carol painstakingly made by hand were personally delivered and came in a variety of colorful faux-furs and were a favorite of Star Trek fans. But each Tribble was always accompanied by that same wet-dog smell. We all remember it. Children were especially sensitive to the smell, often picking up a Tribble to admire and cuddle it, only to fling it brutally across the store with a cry of “P U! It stinks!” much to the embarrassment of the staff. And always, shortly after Carol’s departure, the Tribbles would be herded into the back room for a serious showering in Lysol. Quadrotriticale may have killed them. But Lysol made them well again.
Then there were the ladies who lunch – usually Teri and Marianne. Their favorite past time — a long lunch and conversation at Remember When. Soon it became a ritual for people to drop by, stay for lunch and chat. Sort comics, file photos, hang posters, discuss movies, idle over lunch. What good times we had.
Then there were the drafted volunteers. John would always be there, to help run for and sort comics. He and Ricky, always willing to help, would take turns doing a comic run when the store was too busy and I couldn’t go. (In all honesty, I think Sandy was afraid I would never find my way back. My sense of direction ends at the tip of my nose.) Others were enlisted as well. Memory fails me for names, but I still see their faces. Enthusiastic friends of Remember When.
Then there was Jim. Jim would swing by in his beige Camero, looking for some one-of-a-kind-something, having just sold, traded, bartered, haggled, hawked or swapped some other one-of-a-kind-something. Often the one-of-a-kind-something he wanted was something Sandy had already purchased. Enthusiastic discussions would then ensue: "I’ll give you two of these for one of those" or "You really don’t need five of that DO YOU?" Casual listeners might certainly have thought these conversations bizarre. Spock himself would have proclaimed them illogical.
From time to time Skye and Marshall would come in, usually to talk about movies. For some reason, I have a dim memory of Marshall in a bee costume. What the occasion was I haven’t a clue, but when I called Sandy to ask about The Bee Guy she immediately knew who I was talking about. So either it was real or some false memory was implanted into both of us by aliens. Working at Remember When Two, either story is plausible. If anyone ever sees Marshall, ask him about the bee costume for me.
There was Steven, our young collector from England. When he returned home to England he became our direct source for all things Doctor Who, especially Jelly Babies. And who could forget The Gallifrey C
onnection, the Doctor Who club that grew from a few friends watching bootleg videos while wearing 15 foot multi-colored scarves in the heat of a Dallas summer to over 100 members strong, manning the phones during PBS pledge drives and annoying the hell out of the Corporate Suits they sat with. How many closeted Who fans did we convert during those pledges? We will never know.On occasion Janice would stop by, with Kevin hot on her heals. I honestly can’t remember what Janice was looking for because I was assigned to keep an eye on Kevin. Kevin and David (our nuisance from the pet store next door) were always into some mischief, generally prowling through the comics with candy-plastered fingers, which sent chills down Sandy’s back. David had to be one of the most annoying, obnoxious children I have ever met. Ricky was the only one who could tame him. I don’t remember any actual conversations, but I do remember there being veiled threats of covert and creative ways to deal with annoying little boys. After these discussions, David would skulk back to the pet store, only to be diabolically sent back again within minutes to annoy us anew. Weekly we tried banishing Hell Boy from the premises but it always failed. We were tied inextricably to the pet store by our collection of creatures – exotic aquatic African frogs, uncounted generations of gerbils, and Sara Jane, the fish who wouldn’t die.
Now, one of the unique aspects of Remember When Two was our agglomeration of wildlife. Besides David. The aquatic frogs were always a favorite with customers. In all honesty, they were a favorite of customers’ spouses, left to languish at the counter for hours while their significant others rooted through comics or photos or posters. We had stools reserved just for these abandoned souls and they would regularly take up residence, watching the aquatic frogs do their aquatic frog things. Sandy and I had several of these interesting creatures in an aquarium on the counter, the aquarium which also housed Sara Jane, the immortal fish. However, much to our chagrin, aquatic frogs had a tendency on occasion to pitch themselves out of the aquarium and onto the floor. Generally they were discovered before anything unfortunate happened to them. However, there was one occasion in which a frog, suitably named The Doctor, completely disappeared from the tank. At first we though that perhaps one of the children who frequented the store had made off with him. Or perhaps this was an actual regeneration and he had morphed into something new. However, there was also the strong possibility that Sara Jane, who habitually ate anything new introduced into the tank, had eaten him. She was looking unusually robust, so we finally concluded that Sara Jane had in fact consumed The Doctor. (Not long before then she had eaten The Doctor’s nemesis, another aquatic frog named The Master. So this wasn’t merely groundless speculation.)
Time marched on and, while we remembered The Doctor with fondness, soon his demise was no longer a topic of speculation. Then one day, months later, much to our horror, a customer, pulling back a comic book box from underneath a table, discovered the tiny remains of our beloved friend. There, flat, lifeless, and fossilized, lay The Doctor. Croaked. Rather than a stunning regeneration he had instead succumbed to premature degeneration. Even Superman couldn’t save him. And so our exotic aquatic African frog adventures ended.
Undaunted, we next went into raising gerbils. Nit and Kelly, and Boo and Scout (the unfortunate one with only three legs) entertained staff and customers alike with their antics and were particularly fond of toilet paper tubes. And as is wont with small caged animals, our gerbils’ behaviors often turned lewd. After all, despite the fact that they lived in a glass house, there was little to do after the tubes had been gnawed. And, a gerbil can spin his wheel only so long before he grows bored. So Nit and Kelly, and Boo and Scout often found other ways to entertain themselves. This never happened without benefit of an audience — usually small children who would ask their appalled parents if the tiny creatures were killing one another. After all, to the untrained eye, the tiny rodents’ love-making did look a bit savage. Blushing parents would hurriedly assure their transfixed children that the creatures were, in fact, "just playing," and quickly usher them towards the comics. It was truly surprising to discover how much "playing" a three legged gerbil could engage in. Needless to say, the pet store next door was never lacking in new gerbils. And buried somewhere, Sandy has a chart of the complete lineage of those four libidinous rodents.
There are so many more memories I could share with you — but Sandy has only so much voice in her so let me close with one more story, one that is a favorite of us both.
It may surprise some of you to learn that I am not a born Southerner. Neither is Sandy. While we are now naturalized citizens of The South, having lived a good deal of our lives here, we were both Yankee born. I hail from a Blue State, I’m very proud to say, and learned to drive in the midst of winter. Real winter. With real snow and real ice and really really cold temperatures. The kind that instantly freezes the hairs in your nose. Sandy too knows from cold — a f
ew years in Alaska will do that — and can navigate a snow storm with the best. And so it was that one day, during a snow and ice storm in Dallas, we faithfully headed to work, on Central Expressway, in my little 1979 Honda Civic — the car whose engineering was inspired by a TARDIS — bigger inside than out.The drive up Central was a lonely one that day. All the schools were closed. Corporate offices were closed. Stores were closed. The city had shut down and most of the natives stayed home, fearful of the tiny flakes falling gently around them. Those Texans who ventured out could easily be identified by the clanking chains they’d affixed to their tires. Now any Yankee will tell you that steel and ice make for great hockey but no one in his right mind puts chains on his car to travel on ice. No one but Texans, that is. And on this day only chained Texans and Damned Yankees dared travel beyond the safety of their driveways. Yet, here we were, inching our way up Central. Naturally, we thought, Remember When would open. After all, Sharon never called to tell us otherwise. So we braved the pygmy snowflakes and the black ice and made it, opening on time. The toilet hadn’t frozen and we had hot water so we were happy. And, despite the fact that Braums, our favorite source of sustenance, had locked its doors and darkened its windows against the storm, we were safe. I reasoned, certainly one day without a banana split wouldn’t kill me.
We didn’t think much more of it until we called the Carrollton store. No one answered. Could Sharon have slipped on the ice? Should we call 911? Had her car stalled in the weather or had the battery frozen? Maybe the store door had iced over and she was chiseling her way in.
Sadly, it was some time before the light came on and it dawned on us that perhaps, just perhaps, Sharon had not braved the weather after all. But how could that be? She barely lived but a few minutes away from the Carrollton store. We lived almost 30 miles from Richardson. Certainly if we could make it in a tiny Honda, Sharon could make it in her van. And so we waited.
By then, as I recall, Ricky had stopped by on his way to work. He giggled on his way out the door. He knew.
And so too had Marianne come by. She couldn’t believe we were dumb enough to make the trip, but, as was like Marianne, she never mentioned our stupidity.
We had no other visitors that day. We had a few phone calls that morning — mostly wondering if we were open and if the new comics had come in. Yes, we were here. No, the comics were not. Yes, they were probably still on a loading dock somewhere. Somewhere in Dallas, Wolverine’s whiskers had iced over and more than Superman’s tights were turning blue. And no, I was not going out to get them. They were super heroes and could fend for themselves.
As it turned out, Sharon never made it to the store that day. Unlike the Damned Yankees, she had had the good sense to stay home where she and Meeskite, her cat, stayed warm and toasty. Meanwhile, Sandy and I remained at the store until the phones stopped ringing, and finally packed it in for the long ride home. Aside from Christmas, I have never seen Central Expressway so deserted. It was eerie, like driving in a B-rated post-Apocalyptic movie. I can imagine Joel and the Bots sitting below the screen, criticizing our aimless dialogue and the lousy special effects as we drove into the gathering gloom. A TARDIS, disguised as a Honda Civic, making its way across the universe. Traveling home from the land of make believe.
As I said pages ago, Larry collected many things, but above all he collected friends. How fitting that he called his stores Remember When. We all do — remember when, that is. And when we think of the stores and Larry, and take time to thank Sharon for continuing his dream — and as you now all look around and see the many faces and generations of Remember When, the things we will all most likely take home with us are the memories of wonderful stories and lasting friendships. You couldn’t leave Remember When without making a friend. It was that kind of place. And that, above all else, is what I will miss. Because if you left Remember When empty- hearted, there had to be something wrong with you.
Remember when? Yes, we do ....
No comments:
Post a Comment