The man behind the counter

This weekend, I learned that Raymond Pfriender died last January.

Most of you didn't know him. His obituary said little enough, that he was born on October 14, 1948, and died on January4 of this year. He'd been a police officer and left behind his mother, wife, children and grandchildren when he died.

But the point where my life met his came in the 27 years he owned and ran the Cosmic Connection, a comic book store in Ocala, Florida.

My wife knew him longer than I did, being a regular customer when she moved to town several years before I met her. Ray's mom, Doris was working in the shop that day when my yet to be wife was scouting likely places to live. A good comic shop was high on the want list. One good conversation with Doris led to moving into town, and becoming a weekly customer.

When I arrived, I liked the place, too. The store was a lively place, walk-in customers mixing with a group of regulars, and we all got along pretty well. Ray was the guy who made it all work.

He was a former cop, still proud of his time on the force in New York, and local law enforcement was always welcome to drop in, even if they didn't buy comics--though many did.

Ray loved music, but not live recordings, believing the audience noise interfered with the music. When digital music came along, he searched high and low for the equipment to convert record albums into high-quality digital format--along with programs to remove the popping and noise from damaged albums.

His favorite color was purple, something my wife had in common with him, and the store walls reflected that after a renovation.

He liked the Silver Age comics more than the current stuff, and his personal collection reflected that.

He would go out of his way to special order things for people he liked, and gave generous discounts to people who bought a lot of books, as well as other things like statues, etc.

The back of his store, at one time, resembled a small studio apartment, replete with fridge, thoughtfully stocked with the kinds of drinks favored by the regulars.

He was fun, witty, sarcastic when he wanted to be, and a good friend.

Then, suddenly, after 27 years, the store closed. At the time, I'd been very sick, unable to get out, and one of the few calls I got was from Ray, both to ask if I was ok, and to arrange for me to keep getting at least some of my books, even though I couldn't really afford my "normal" haul. But I never did know what happened, and shortly afterward, I moved out of state, never knowing what happened, but hoping Ray was ok.

I didn't have the phone numbers or e-mail addresses of the other people there--the store was our social nexus, needing no other. Therefore I never knew what happened to them either.

I never really got to say goodbye.

Then, this weekend, searching for something online, I came across Ray's obituary, saying far too little about an old friend, other than that he was gone.

I wanted to post this for you--whomever you are--to read it. Then, the next time you go get your comics, take a few minutes, and talk to the man--or woman--behind the counter. You never know where your next friend will come from, or when you'll actually see them again.

As for me, this is my way of saying goodbye. I won't see you next week, Ray, but eventually, I'll be along. Then, you can show me around the new shop, and I'll pick up my books. Good things never really do end, do they?

Mike