Life Didn't Pass Me By, It Stopped In for Gas.

There is something about wearing your name on your work shirt for 30 years that makes you either bitter or very humble. It all started with a handshake between my brother and me. He had been running an auto-repair business by himself, and I, a former English major, was trying my first turn at business--managing a small loan office on the West Coast.

The agreement was simple. He would repair the cars, and I would do just about everything else. This included interfacing with the public on the petroleum-marketing side of the business--OK, that's really being the cashier in the gas station. I was to be the man out front who dealt with customers.

We would stay small, have one location and do much of the work ourselves, and when he was 44 and I was 40 we would retire on the appreciation of the real estate and the sale of the business. Everything worked out as planned, except the retirement part. One business expansion and five grown children later, my brother and I still work 60 hours a week to afford the $3,000-per-month group-health premium that covers ourselves and our wives.

The rewards of this kind of life tip the scales to the side of personal growth rather than expanding net worth. Who wouldn't learn compassion from chatting with a total stranger who sheds tears when small talk turns to his wife's struggle with cancer? Who wouldn't ponder human nature upon reading that a customer who had filled up for the holiday at your service station spent Thanksgiving Day stabbing his wife 27 times?

To run a small retail business is to be on the front lines of American life, and the lessons are there for the taking, if you're interested. I often think that my true job description lies somewhere between confessor and voyeur. I keep my mouth shut, pay attention and try not to judge.

When my kids were younger, they attended the elementary school across the street. The principal asked some of the parents if we would come in to talk to the students about our jobs. What I remember pointing out to the class was that from my vantage point opposite the main entrance, it was not difficult to figure out what was going on in their lives. A car pulls up, Mom slams the driver-side door, minutes later she exits the school with Junior in tow and slams his door behind him--I knew this kid was not getting the afternoon off for a random act of kindness.

For some time, my brother and I did work for two customers with a fairly common last name. I eventually asked one if he knew the other. He said they were brothers, but that they hadn't spoken since the day he told his brother that their father had died. The sibling had been uninterested. About a year later the uninterested brother's wife came in to tell me that her husband had suffered a serious heart attack. She said that she didn't know how to contact her brother-in-law. Would I call him? I would.

About six weeks later the lady came in to gas up, and I inquired about her husband. He had died. She thanked me for making the call and said that the two brothers had finally "had their talk."

The world of the small-business owner may well be endangered. The constant pressure to keep the cost of goods down weighs on the weakest link in the commerce chain--the mom-and-pop store. We may soon go the way of the chimney sweep.

"Megastore" and "superpumper" are code words for price and convenience. They scream, "Come here and get what you want cheap! We'll smile, we'll help you find it, we'll even let you ring it up yourself!" I must admit that's what I want, so I can compress all I must get done into my limited nonwork hours. But at what price does all this cheap accommodation come?

What is lost when the person who waits on you doesn't know your name? Is there nothing more to consumerism than just acquiring? Do speed and price trump a vanishing standard of personal service?

I remember some years ago, when the big blue and orange home-improvement centers moved into our neighborhood. I swore the guys in the orange aprons did a better job than the fellows in the blue ones--they offered more aisle help, they were more knowledgeable and they had a sincere desire to accommodate. I think that's quite an endorsement from someone who has spent his life trying to satisfy the needs of consumers. But lately I can't tell the orange store from the blue one, and there seems to be so much less help around in both. If I weren't so humble I'd swear I was getting bitter.

PHOTO (COLOR): WHAT HAPPENS AT THE PUMP…: I often think my true job description lies somewhere between confessor and voyeur

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By John De Costanza

De Costanza lives in Wilmington, Dela.