More than a Customer

This past Friday afternoon I was about two hours from the end of my shift when one of my coworkers called me over to the front counter and gestured to a couple of women standing there.

The younger woman spoke. "Hi, do you remember me? I'm Patrick's daughter." Patrick was one of my most beloved regular customers, and I remembered having met her once a while back when she came in with her dad. We both went to Buffalo State, and we'd talked about school stuff. I said, "Oh, yeah, hey! How's it going?" She took a deep breath and offered forth, "I just wanted to let you know that my dad passed away on Sunday."

My jaw dropped, I gasped loudly, and my hands flew up to cover my gaping mouth. My eyes welled up immediately thereafter, and I just stood there, my hands clamped on my face, for what felt like several minutes. My supervisor came up behind me and said, "Why don't you go sit down for a bit?" I nodded my head and walked over to hug Patrick's daughter and offer my sympathy. She told me the funeral was the next morning, gave me the information, and I told her I would be there.

The cause of death is unknown. He went to bed Saturday night and just never woke up. He was 61 years old. Same as my father. Two years younger than my mother. And one of the funniest, friendliest, most appreciated customers I've had in the more than six years I've worked there. Patrick was smart, compassionate, and so fucking funny I used to burst out laughing just looking at him. Sometimes I'd start laughing as soon as I saw his car pull in. He stopped in several times a day. He was retired, but he'd been a USAF medic in Vietnam, and spent most of his time working as a VA Pathfinder, a veterans' advocate.

We used to talk for long stretches when it was slow, and sometimes he'd be in there when I'd stop in on a day off and we'd stand around and talk. We talked about cars. We talked about being Irish and our respective trips to Ireland. We talked about his kids. He shared off-color jokes. Sometimes our conversations got serious and deep, and we talked about Vietnam, and my dad, and my relationship with my dad, and I think in a lot of ways I kind of looked at Patrick as the kind of dad I wish I'd grown up with. I remember thinking how lucky his daughter (who is in her early 20's) was to have such a great guy for a father. My heart broke into a million pieces for her now. How could she be blessed with such a wonderful dad only to lose him so early?

Patrick was more than just a customer. He was a terrific human being. One day I had left work and was running errands when my car ran out of gas. I called the store to see if anyone was there who might be able to come and get me. Nobody was leaving any time soon, but Patrick was there. He got on the phone and told me to sit tight. A few minutes later he arrived to pick me up. He took me back home to get my gas can, then took me back to my car, waited while I put what was in the can into my car, and then followed me to the nearest station to make sure I made it okay. And at his service yesterday, I heard account after account of things like this that Patrick did for people. He was just that kind of guy.

Life hardly seems fair sometimes. I can think of at least a dozen douchebags I'd like to see drop dead, people I wouldn't miss for a second if they went away forever. But Patrick? He was one of the good ones. I know it seems strange that a customer's death would have such a profound effect on me; after all, he's not the first customer who's died. There have been a few others in the last 6-1/2 years I've been at this job. But none were such stable and enjoyed presences there as Patrick was. The others were daily customers, nice people whose deaths definitely hit me in the gut and sent a wave of sadness over me. But never until now have I actually mourned a guy whose lattes I looked forward to making.

Rest in Peace, Patrick Galvin. You will be missed dearly by everyone who was lucky enough to know you.