That was the beginning of a close friendship with Jay and

his family that continued through college and for the next

fifty years, long after Jay had died. I worked part-time at the

store a few hours a day during the summer and long hours

during the Christmas season. I worked hard, a habit I got from

my Jamaican immigrant parents. Every morning they left

early for the garment district in Manhattan, and they came

home late at night. All my relatives were hard workers. They

came out of that common immigrant experience of arriving

with nothing, expecting that the new life ahead of them would

not be easy. Jamaicans had a joke: “That lazy brute, him only

have two jobs.”



After I’d worked at Sickser’s for a couple of years, Jay grew

concerned that I was getting too close to the store and the

family. One day he took me aside. “Collie,” he told me with a

serious look, “I want you should get an education and do well.

You’re too good to just be a schlepper. The store will go to the

family. You don’t have a future here.” I never thought I did, but

I always treasured him for caring enough about me to say so.