I first met Rick at the New Jersey shore point my mom and I frequented, not long after I obtained my driver’s license. Every summer until her death in 2012, we would go stay at the beach for five days at a time, three times each summer, as well as over Easter and Columbus Day. It was also common for us to see a beautiful Saturday forecast and we would make the 200 mile round trip for the day. I would call mom once I felt confident about the meteorologist’s prediction and I would say, “Pack up the car!”
We always parked in the same lot upon arriving at our destination, the smells of the nearby peanut shop leading me there long before Waze could. The guy manning the lot, probably in his early 30’s at the time, would have me back into the spot he chose for me. He was always patient and kind, for you see, a passing grade on a driver’s exam does not a skilled backer-upper make.
Several years later I would enter the workforce where my boss offered me several games from his Philadelphia Flyers season tickets, located on the second level of the Spectrum arena. At one particular hockey match, mom and I noticed Parking Attendant Guy. Although well into winter, his skin was still golden brown. I wondered if it takes an equal amount of time out of the sun that you have spent in it to lose the burnt sequoia of summer?
The gray, snowy months dragged on, more trips to the ice rink occurred, as did continual sightings of the man with the tan. Finally spring arrived, bringing with it our first trip of the year. Since we were staying a few days, we didn’t need to park in the public lot. But when June offered us our first lovely, sunny day, “Pack up the car!” was cheered as lustily as if we were rooting on our hockey team. As we pulled into the lot, there he was. His face lit up when he saw us, I imagine in that line of work you recognize your regulars by their vehicles first, faces second. As I rolled down my window, letting in the familiar, soothing salt air, I smiled too. While we chatted about the off-season, I handed him my money. Then I said, “Can I ask you a question?” Not waiting for a response, I blurted out – and it was a blurt I recall all these years later – “Do you go to a lot of Flyers games?” He looked at me in surprise, then slowly replied, “Yeeeesss . . . “ Feeling a bit stalkery before an abundance of stalker tools were available at our fingertips, I countered in one long breathless sentence, “We go to a lot too and sit in Section 29 and have noticed you walking up and down the steps at every game.” He laughed, then explained that he was the statistician for the team for all home game radio broadcasts. That made perfect sense as the press box was located above our seats in the rafters of the sports venue built in the late 1960s. On that day, in a fairly empty parking lot, summer wasn’t the only thing that was beginning. This was the moment that our relationship changed from vendor / customer to friends. We introduced ourselves, shaking hands. His name was Rick. He showed us where to park, knowing the drill I put my car in reverse and easily slid between the designated lines. He followed us as there were no other cars needing his attention, chatting for awhile before mom and I headed to breakfast. When we came back for our beach chairs, cooler and bags, more conversation took place. We learned that like my mom, Rick was from Philadelphia. From then on he referred to her as “Silly Milly From Philly.” She loved it.
We began staying at a motel right next to Rick’s parking lot, we would cut through his “office” on our way to and from the beach or the boardwalk. Long talks with him would ensue, unless the craziness at the season made it impossible for him to take a break. Even still, on those occasions he would yell to us, regardless of the fact that we had just seen him an hour or a couple before.
We also started seeing Rick at our favorite breakfast spot, always seated at the counter, facing a large mirror where he could watch the comings and goings of vacationers and mostly, I am sure, the pretty girls. He was part of the family of the people who owned and operated the restaurant, not by blood but by community and a palpable love. We would come to know one of the owners, Kathy, as she was front of house, seating people, running the cash register, sometimes working as server. Her husband was always in the kitchen, to this day I have yet to meet a pancake better than his.
The initial fall after the leveling up of our connection, when Rick walked to the press box at the Spectrum he looked for us and we exchanged waves. My mom listened to all the Flyers games on the radio, she began to wait for Rick’s name at the end of the broadcasts when all who had made it possible were recognized.
The years passed. I met my husband. When he was introduced to Rick there was an instant bromance as their love of all sports – especially hockey and football – bonded them. I would come to realize later that Rick was passionate talking sports with everyone but still, he and Mister Rain became buddies. Not much for sitting on the beach, my then boyfriend would spend hours with Rick at the lot. During the summer, Rick was as much a part of our lives as the ocean, both constant and predictable. When a new arena was built, the press box was now across from us, but Rick would pick up his binoculars and look for us and wave. It never ceased to surprise us to see him in a collared shirt.
Although we “saw” him during the hockey season, we had no other contact between November and Easter. As technology advanced, becoming ever-present in our lives and in our hands, Rick stayed deviceless. When drafting his fantasy football team, he would use the newspaper or magazines rather than online data, also getting input from his friends. And everyone seemed to be a friend of Rick’s. In the off-season resort, residents are left to fend for themselves, the visitors gone home. Winters on the Eastern coast can be difficult, ever hear of a nor’easter? The population drops from over 100,000 to 10,000. We were always excited to see him in the spring or even in December if we took a trip to do some Christmas shopping.
Time moved on but Rick did not. Before I knew it, Mister Rain and I were married for almost 20 years. A few months before that milestone anniversary, mom and I went to the shore for Easter, as usual. She had received upsetting news about a mass in her belly but we did not yet realize the ramifications of this terrifying intruder. I only use that word, intruder, in retrospect, knowing now what I did not then. I woke up in our motel room on Easter morning to find her sitting on the edge of her bed. I wished her a Happy Easter, she returned the sentiment, then told me how worried she was. I threw back the covers of my own bed, moving to sit next to her. My arm around her, I said, “We will get through whatever this is together.” Three months later, she would be gone.
Summer would never be the same for me, trips to the shore stopped. It took several years before I could bring myself to return, but one fall day my husband and I made the drive. I had lost my sight by then, that happened five months after mom’s death. We had given up our Flyers tickets some time prior. So much had changed but when we walked into our favorite breakfast restaurant, there sat Rick. His familiar, “How you guys doing?” was proffered, it was then that I told him and Kathy that Silly Milly From Philly had passed away. The man most would stereotype as having not a care in the world proved otherwise, he was very upset. I felt terrible knowing the bad news was not over. When the dust settled, Mister Rain took the reins, telling them about my vision. The teary eyes were replaced by shock and disbelief. Yeah, I know.
I don’t know if it was on this day that my husband and Rick exchanged phone numbers. It could have been a future trip, in another fall or spring. I’ve never been back during summer since mom died. Whenever it was, Rick had a flip phone even though they were already relics. They would send occasional texts back and forth about football. Then a few years ago, Kathy texted to tell me they were closing the restaurant. Mister Rain and I went down on the last weekend they would be open, bringing home commemorative coffee mugs and a sign that hung on the wall. Rick was there, as always, and it was clear though happy for his friends, he was sad. As was I. Somehow it felt like losing mom all over again.
I send Kathy a Christmas card every year, we text occasionally. I cannot begin to imagine the amount of people she and her husband collected during their 30 years in business. Texts between Rick and my husband stopped after about a year, when Mister Rain reached out and did not hear back. But we knew we would see him again on a rare but future trip and we did a time or two.
The other week I got to thinking about Rick and googled him. That was a futile exercise, as I knew he doesn’t have a social media presence, but I did it anyway. Imagine my surprise when I saw his name in the results. . . . it was his obituary. I immediately began to cry. I was shocked. He had died on Christmas day a year ago at the age of 68.
I showed Mister Rain and as is not all that uncommon when something like this happens, he said he had just been thinking of Rick a few days before. When he finished reading the obituary, he said there was a line in it that may be the best he’s ever seen:
“The “king” of long goodbyes always had one more thing or one more person to ask about before disconnecting.”
After about a week, I texted Kathy. She provided more details as to what had gone on. Rick’s death was unexpected. She apologized for not letting me know. She still has the voice mail message he left her before he headed to his brother’s for the holidays.
The shore town I once loved and considered my second home is very different than it used to be. Other restaurants we enjoyed for decades have closed, torn down to make room for rental properties. Motels have been turned into condos. Mom is gone and now so is Rick.
It has never been so easy to stay in touch with people as it is these days. Therefore, it is even more distressing when someone falls through the cracks and you find yourself looking at their photo on a funeral home’s website. The only thing worse is discovering they have been gone for awhile. I cannot explain why that matters but it does.
I have strong evidence that my mom is with me, not in the metaphorical way that people say, meaning well but only serving to infuriate me. I am equally confident that most of the time she is on our favorite beach, it is the perfect temperature, the sun is high in the sky. She is drinking lemonade and eating cheddar Goldfish crackers. Now Rick is there in the place they both loved in life. When it is my time to leave this earth, I know that mom will come to get me, we will pack up the car one last time. As she shows me around, I will be thrilled to see a lot of people whom I miss terribly. As we finally take to our chairs after the many joyous reunions, I will notice a familiar figure on his beach cruiser bicycle riding down the boardwalk. I will walk up the steps from the sand, waiting for him, able to see the Flyers logo on the front of his t-shirt now that my visual impairment is no more.
“How you guys doing?,” he’ll ask. “Me and Silly Milly From Philly are just fine, thanks. How are YOU?“
#sisterrain #alittlesightalotofheart #legallyblindwriter #rick
