i've just seen a face

This is Daniel Roebuck. He's an actor. A pretty busy actor, as a matter of fact. You know him. He's that guy from that thing... you know. Actually, IMDB (the invaluable Internet Movie Database) lists him with over 250 acting credits, not to mention his numerous other credits as director, producer, writer and "special thanks." Here's a story about when I met Daniel... who is a really nice and gracious guy, to boot.

My in-laws owned and operated a store in a once-thriving farmers market just outside of Philadelphia. By the time they became my in-laws, the store was well into its fifth year of business. (Side note: my father-in-law opened this store as a stopgap while his primary business — a popular hardware store — was rebuilt after a devastating fire.) The store in the farmers market — Larry's Hardware — became a well-known "destination" as my wife and my mother-in-law brought in more "pop culture" merchandise, shoving aside precious shelf space once occupied by hammers, trowels and boxes of nails. 

I began working for my in-laws by the time my soon-to-be wife and I had our third date. I worked every weekend while I diligently sought a job in my chosen profession — graphic design. Even after I secured many a position in the design field, I still found myself stocking shelves and applying price tags to various items each and every Saturday from early in the morning until late at night. On Fridays, I was at my regular job, but Saturday was "Larry's Hardware" day for me. My wife, however, worked both days. When our son was born, Fridays were the times I spent with him while Mrs. P worked late. After putting him to bed, I would try my darndest to stay up until Mrs. Pincus got home. Sometimes, I didn't make it and I was often jolted awake by the sound of a key turning in the front-door lock. The TV was showing something that I don't remember watching. We'd go to bed to get a little rest before tackling a marathon Saturday at Larry's.

One particular Friday, I was watching a movie that I had never seen before. It was called River's Edge, a 1986 independent effort from director Tim Hunter, who went on to helm a lot of episodic TV, including Twin Peaks, Mad Men and the recent Hannibal. River's Edge is a dark, disturbing tale featuring a quirky cast of actors with a young Keanu Reeves at the forefront. I watched the film, admittedly dozing on and off as the hour got later. When Mrs. P got home, we talked a bit. She told me about some regularly-occuring incidents at the store and we headed off to bed.

The next day, I caught myself dozing off while sitting at the unusually not-busy cash register. I glanced over at one of the aisles — ten or so feet away — and I saw my wife talking to a customer. He was a man about my age. He sort of looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place him. I stared at this man as my wife talked, gesturing to some items on a shelf, although they were too far away for me to hear actual details of their conversation. Where do I know this guy from? was going over and over in my head. Finally, it hit me... I think. I got up and walked over to them. At first, I didn't interrupt them and the man smiled and nodded at me. I couldn't hold back any longer.

"Do I know you from coming into the store," I began, "or do I know you because I saw you kill your girlfriend in River's Edge last night?"

He wasn't even taken aback by my accusation. As a matter of fact, he laughed. Loudly. And so did my wife. Through her laughter, she explained that she just had a nearly identical exchange with this man.

"I asked," she said, "do I know you from coming into the store or because I saw you in an episode of Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman?"

Daniel in Lois & Clark and River's Edge

The man, as we soon found out, was Daniel Roebuck. Daniel, a native a nearby Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, explained that he has been coming to this farmers market since he was a child. Now that he lives in California, he makes sure that it's one of his stops when he comes in to visit family. As we continued our conversation, we heard customers whispering and pointing at Daniel. We heard things like "That's Cody Bank's father!" referring to his role in a popular kid's film franchise and "There's the guy from Lost!," recalling his role of the notorious "Dr. Leslie Arzt," who blew himself up in a memorable sequence in the cult series. Other folks remembered other times they've seen Daniel Roebuck flash across their TVs or the big screen during an evening at the movies. After all, he's been in a lot, working alongside some of Hollywood's biggest names (Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive comes to mind), as well as being cast as a regular in the TV series Matlock and Nash Bridges. Horror films seem to be Daniel's bread and butter, appearing in a number of shockers with both big and small budgets. Daniel briefly paused our conversation to run out to his car to retrieve a photo album (this was before such a collection could be conveniently stored on one's phone) displaying his vast accumulation of horror movie memorabilia. He also inscribed a glossy, black & white headshot of himself to my wife and me. He actually purchased a few horror-related items to add to his collection, thanked us and exited into the busy main aisle of the market — where more people rattled off some of Daniel's past roles in somewhat hushed tones.

Daniel as Grandpa

From that point forward, we saw Daniel Roebuck in everything! New shows, old shows that we've seen a zillion times, but just now noticed an appearance by our new friend. He's been in a slew of comedies, dramas and anthologies. He was even in a late-season episode of Love Boat... (but who hasn't?) He played Jay Leno in a made-for-television movie about the late-night talk show rivalries. He played Garry Marshall in a TV biopic about Robin Williams. He's been featured in small roles in several of rocker-turned-filmmaker Rob Zombie's productions. As a matter of fact, Daniel landed the plum role of "Grandpa Munster" in Zombie's upcoming take on the classic TV sitcom.

Daniel popped into the store a few more times before its permanent closing in 2007. I have contacted him through various social media platforms, and after relating the story you just read, Daniel confirmed the episode and told how it still makes him laugh. He's a good guy.

If you didn't know his name before, you do now. And, just like us, you will now spot him in everything.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I don't remember, I can't recall

For around a thousand years, my wife's family owned and operated a stand in a once-thriving farmers market just outside of Philadelphia. Its humble beginnings were actually rooted in another man's business. My father-in-law was reeling from a devastating fire that wiped out his own hardware business that he ran in a building across the street. In an effort to generate some income while he rebuilt his business, my father-in-law bought out an older man who owned a little hardware store in Zern's Farmers Market. In addition to the man's unusual and mismatched inventory, my father-in-law brought in newer merchandise as well as a few items that were able to be salvaged from the fire.

Over the years, more merchandise was brought in and more space was secured to accommodate the expanding inventory. We busted through to the next stand and, with the addition of some second-hand shelving and creative merchandising, turned "Larry's Hardware" into everyone's first stop upon arrival at Zern's.

In reality, Mrs. Pincus was responsible for Larry's Hardware's popularity. Working at the store (sometimes unwillingly) from a very young age, Mrs. P began to bring in unusual items. Specifically, she sought out pop culture kitsch and collectibles that appealed to our fellow collectors — and other folks with disposable income. With our own Disney collection as a jumping off point, Mrs. P created eye-catching displays of Coca-Cola memorabilia (both new and antique), sought -after metal lunchboxes, superhero and rock & roll items, ephemera related to long-forgotten TV shows and movies and hundreds of corporate promo items. There was something for everyone, no matter what sort of collection you had... or wanted to start.

Word began to spread and each weekend (the market was only open on Fridays and Saturdays), the aisles were jammed with curious shoppers out to marvel at the childhood memories that dotted our shelves, as well as hardcore collectors seeking out that one elusive piece that'll complete their collection. Mrs. P, our son and I would offer assistance to several customers simultaneously — giving advice, explanations, prices — hoping that each bit of information we gave would result in a sale. We had regular customers and we would regularly supply their collections. After a while, Mrs. P would look for items for specific collectors. She knew what they liked and she knew what they would pay for things. Her uncanny sense of shrewd business acumen was unmatched. The best salespeople make it appear as though they aren't selling. And Mrs. P was one of the best. She could sell a drippy popsicle to a man in a white suit.

Of course, the typical Zern's customer wasn't typical. They were extremely discerning, very suspicious and not always willing to part with their hard-earned money. Mrs. P became their friend... and your friend wouldn't steer you wrong. She developed a trusting bond with a lot of her regular customers and they kept coming back for more. Some of them, however, weren't even sure what exactly it was that they collected.

Dough Kid

One older woman would come in almost every weekend and ask if we had anything with the Dough Kid. It took us a little while to understand that this woman collected items related to The Pillsbury Doughboy. She never referred to the character by his correct name. She'd point to things in our glass-front showcase and say "There's the Dough Kid!" When corrected, she wave us off dismissively and say "Well, I call him the Dough Kid." We, of course, got used to her pet name for a nationally-known and recognizable advertising mascot. I wonder if other dealers were as accommodating Eh... what am I thinking...? This woman didn't shop anywhere else.

Is that Elvis?

Another man would come in a lot, though not as often as the "Dough Kid" lady. This man was usually dressed in nothing more formal that a threadbare athletic shirt and torn, paint-splattered work pants. His hair was combed into a slicked-back close approximation of a pompadour and ducktail. Fittingly, this guy collected Elvis memorabilia. Y'know... Elvis. Presley. Elvis Presley. The King of Rock & Roll. Just making sure we know who we are talking about, because I'm not too sure this guy did. When he would make an appearance in the store, he'd start things off by asking, "Got anything Elvis?" One of us would lead him to a showcase and begin point out and extracting items emblazoned with Mr. Presley's familiar visage. Paperweights, serving trays, wristwatches, salt & pepper shakers  — all indelibly branded with some sort of Elvis logo, guitar, profile or silhouette. The man would squint at the particular item, lean back, stare down his nose and mumble, "Is that Elvis?" That was his lead-off question. Even after a brief explanation  — "This metal ashtray features graphics from the movie poster for Harum Scarum" — he'd stare in bewilderment and ask, "Is that Elvis?" Sometimes, it took all the willpower I could muster to keep myself from shouting "Do you even know who the fuck Elvis is???"

Ooger Booger

When Disney released Tim Burton's holiday-clashing animated film The Nightmare Before Christmas, Mrs. Pincus brought in loads and loads of related merchandise to cash in on the sudden interest and budding collections of a certain faction of our customer base. In its initial run, Disney didn't do much merchandising for the film, but as the cult audience grew, more and more items were produced, even though it was years after it had vacated theaters. The most popular character from the film was tall, lanky Jack Skellington. His love interest, the demure rag doll Sally, was very popular among the female goth teens. The villainous Oogie Boogie, not surprisingly, had his share of fans, too. One such customer had a certain affinity for the bug-stuffed burlap sack bad guy — we think. The fellow who come in and ask if we had anything depicting "Ooger Booger." At first, we all just stared blankly at the customer while our brains made internal "clickity-clack" sounds as our collective memory databanks scanned for a close match. "Y'know... from the Nightmare movie." "Ooooooohhhhhh! Ooogie Boogie!," none of us said, so as not to embarrass this idiot. He came in fairly often and still never got the name right.

My father-in-law closed up his store in Zern's in 2007, but Mrs. Pincus kept the collectibles business going online — to this day. An online business presents a whole new set of frustrations, but, at least mispronunciations aren't among them.

However, some people still don't know what they want.

www.jopshpincusiscrying.com

closing time

For our second date, the future Mrs. Pincus took me to her parent's store in the rural town of Gilbertsville, Pennsylvania. Gilbertsville was a place that time had forgotten. Just an hour west of Philadelphia, the fifth largest city in the country, Gilbertsville was a tiny farming community inhabited by characters from a John Steinbeck novel — folks that can only be accurately described as "salt of the earth." The men were weathered and grizzled, with far less than the standard adult issue of teeth. Most were clad in well-worn overalls caked with and stinking of farm animal excrement. The womenfolk were meek and reserved, dressed as though they were the stand-by female model for Grant Wood's "American Gothic." And, for some reason, they cowered behind their spouses. This was 1982 and when these people said they were headed to "The City," they meant Reading, Pennsylvania. They'd never set foot in Philadelphia. You could get murdered there.

This populace comprised the customer base of my future in-law's store — an amalgam of hardware, housewares, novelty items and anything on which my father-in-law thought he could turn a quick profit. The store was one of many that occupied Zern's Farmer's Market, a weekend-only commerce center that was a regular gathering place for the aforementioned locals for almost a century. Alongside the store was an array of vendors that offered fresh produce (well, fresh at least until early evening on Saturday), unusual configurations of processed meat identified on hand-written signs by angry-sounding Teutonic names, prepared food (like the popular chicken gizzards in a Styrofoam cup of, what appeared to be, motor oil), as well as sturdy, double-stitched clothing suitable for plowing the fields and a wide assortment of antiques, curios, collectibles and what-nots. But Zern's was more than just a place to buy things. It was a social outing, along the lines of a square dance or a barn raising. (I'll have you know that I refrained from saying "cross burning" as a second example, so I'm pretty proud of myself.)

Mr. and Mrs. Hardware
in their natural habitat.

How am I so intimately familiar with Zern's Farmer's Market? Well, by my third date with Mrs. P, I was working there. That's right. This naive kid from Northeast Philadelphia, who got lost outside of the comfortable boundaries of the city limits was now employed as a stock boy under the tutelage of my soon-to-be father-in-law. In addition to a concession in Zern's Farmer's Market, my father-in-law owned a stand-alone store directly across the street from Zern's that was open an extra day longer than the market. Here he sold, what he referred to as "the serious hardware" — professional-grade trowels and hammers and other implements of construction with which I was not familiar at the time but would come to be well acquainted. Despite years of experience in other retail establishments, I was not permitted to operate the cash register. That privilege was enjoyed by only one person and his name was emblazoned on signage throughout the store. Instead, I was relegated to schlepping cartons of merchandise from the storage area — a large, dirty, poorly-ventilated barn-like structure that had been attached to the existing large, dirty, poorly-ventilated main building. Boxes were piled high and my job was to bring them up to the selling floor, empty them and, at my father-in-law's behest, make all of the contents fit in a space that was way to small for proper accommodation. In the summer, during which I spent many a weekend stretch, the heat was stifling. In winter, the building could be used to keep meat from spoiling. Days, no matter what the weather, were grueling marathons that monopolized entire weekends, including the hour-long ride to and from Gilbertsville. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for his generosity, affording me employment while I sought a job in my chosen field. I just have a funny way of showing my gratitude. 

On Fridays and Saturdays, the logistics of the operation were slightly altered, as my future spouse and her mother would come to open and run the stand in Zern's. I would work with my father-in-law at the hardware store across the street, the two of us coming up much earlier in the morning. While he was a sweet, pleasant man at home, he would succumb to a lycanthropic transformation somewhere around Schwenksville when he would be come a ruthless martinet bent on uncontested ruling over his retail empire. On Saturday evenings, I would head over to Zern's to help Mrs. P bring things to a close for the day. Those were my favorite times. First, I was sprung from the sometimes unreasonable demands of my father-in-law. Second, I got to spend time with my fiance (Mrs. P and I would marry in 1984). We would steal away from the "satellite stand" for a few minutes (this is probably the first time my father-in-law knows about this) and walk thorough the market to see what we could see. Sometimes we'd wander outside to the weekly flea market, where a glance in any direction looked like a living Dorothea Lange photograph. Here we would peruse the unusual (and unrecognizable) items offered for sale. Then we'd quickly rush back, grabbing a soft pretzel or a bag of old-fashioned penny candy, just in time to start the task of closing up the stand for another week.

For twenty-five years, I worked at Zern's. In my younger days, I fearlessly scaled rickety shelves to retrieve that one elusive gizmo that was missing from a customer's life. I was there to help bust through the back wall when we expanded our selling space. I assisted in the arrangement and promotion of special sales when my wife slowly, but diligently, transformed the one-time hardware/housewares store into a treasure trove of pop culture collectibles, bringing in cool memorabilia to join the (ever-shrinking) mix of screwdrivers and extension cords. Mrs. P creatively spearheaded an annual Coca-Cola Festival, offering more Coke branded items than you knew existed. During the summer, she turned the store into an indoor beach party, displaying everything needed for a rural summertime soiree. She single-handedly introduced "Mardi Gras" to the heretofore sheltered population of Gilbertsville.

Throughout my nearly three decades of employment, we would regularly hear customers tell us that Zern's was closing... for good. Every weekend, a growing number of shoppers — many of whom had it on good authority* — would explain confidential details of the fate of the venerable market. "Oh yeah," they would smugly cluck, cocking a thumb confidently around a faded overall strap, "this place was sold to [insert local land developer here]. I heard they're gonna tear the place down and put up a [bowling alley, amusement park, car wash, supermarket, housing development, apartment complex, golf course, multiplex movie theater]." Yep, every week, according to our loyal customer base, Zern's was a goner and would soon become any number of decidedly un-Zern's-like domains. I came to learn that Gilbertsville was "ground zero" for wrong information. They never got anything right. But, that was part of the charm. I suppose.

A fond(ant) farewell

In early 2007, my wife's family made the difficult, but realistic, decision to close their store in Zern's. It was a tough decision, but with many contributing factors (declining sales, my in-law's advancing age, a fucking Walmart within spitting distance), it was the right decision. We mounted an almost year-long liquidation sale — slashing prices, moving merchandise, clearing shelves and wondering what we would do with our weekends. Just after Thanksgiving of that year, my father-in-law contracted an auctioneer and the remaining merchandise was practically given away for pennies on the dollar. (My father-in-law was not happy with the auctioneer or his meager results. He still grumbles about it to this day.) At the end of the day, we closed up shop for the very last time. We left the Zern's parking lot like Lot's wife fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah, never looking back for fear of being turned to pillar of fasnachts.

And then we never had to go to Zern's again. Mrs. Pincus remained in frequent contact with some former employees, as well as fellow merchants (some of whom are regular readers of this blog and may have been understandably offended by many things I've written, especially in the first, second and a little bit of the sixth paragraphs of this entry). Mrs. P has even returned to Zern's for a visit on several occasions. However, she went as a solo. I have not been back since the day we closed our doors. Recently, though, through my wife's Facebook page, I have been privy to the same rumor-mongering about Zern's that I heard in the past. Misinformation for the electronic age. But, this time, uncharacteristically, they got it right.

Zern's announced it was closing... for good.

In a lengthy Facebook post, the current owner cited a number of reasons for the proposed September 2018 closure, but the real reason is: Zern's is a relic. A dinosaur whose concept has long overstayed its welcome. A folksy, genial, single-proprietorship retail operation cannot survive in the world of big box mega-stores and internet shopping. It just can't. Even in a place like Gilbertsville that's several years behind the trends. The business is offered for sale, but I doubt there will be any takers. If there are, it will be to level the structure and build one of the previously mentioned options about which customers had speculated.

Do I have have memories of Zern's? Sure. There was no place like it. It was like a visit to Twilight Zone's Willoughby every weekend, if the citizens of Willoughby attempted to "jew down" the merchants. Do I have fond memories of Zern's? Few. It certainly gave me fodder for stories that made it to blog entries over the years. Will I ever stop talking about and thinking about Zern's once there no longer is a Zern's? 

Never.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* he said sarcastically