Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, a young Rob worked in a tweedy, old mens’ haberdashery. Being retail, one had to work on Saturday, and autumn Saturdays were always my favorite.
I worked with one old-timer named Phil, who’s grown son Mark lived in town. Mark worked for Georgia Pacific during the week, but on weekends, he turned into a chef.
So, Saturday morning, while we were still Windexing the tie case and straightening the Countess Mara sweaters, preparing for another lazy day of schlepping rags, the phone would ring…
