I Think I Can Manage is a weekly column by retailer Steven Bates, who runs Bookery Fantasy, a million dollar retail operation in Fairborn, Ohio.  This week Bates remembers a recently deceased friend of the store. 

Writing a regular column about managing a specialty retail store can be a challenge, first coming up week after week with topical, relevant, interesting subjects, then actually writing them in an informative, entertaining, interesting way.  Some weeks I nail it; other weeks I don't (last week I 'recycled' a months-old column from my store's Website after finding myself both in a deadline crunch and suffering a case of 'retailer's block').  This week, I was determined to write about something more in keeping with the column's intended purpose, whether that meant searching the Internet for timely news bits or searching inwardly for some universal experience to share with ICv2 readers.  I trusted the muses to guide me in the right direction.

Before I could start my column, I got a phone call from Chuck, my Assistant Manager, who was audibly choked-up.  Sam, one of our friends and former employees, had died unexpectedly in his sleep.  He was 33 years old.  The coroner's report indicates massive heart disease, blockages, blood clots.  Sam had become ill at the gym and went home and went to bed early Sunday night.  When he didn't show up for work at his new job and couldn't be reached, they became concerned and called authorities.  Sam just wasn't the kind of guy to blow off work and not call in.

I'd known Sam and his best friend Jerry since they were kids.  They had actually been the Bookery's first employees, hired by the owner to sort comics two years before I ever set foot in the place.  Over the years, I had grown accustomed to their faces-two Asian kids about as different as night & day.  Of course, they were inseparable.  Jerry was confident, athletic, personable, while Sam was fearful, skinny, and introverted.  Over the years, Sam had made great strides in making himself over, lifting weights, opening up to people, learning to trust his instincts.  Sam had Jerry to thank for much of that, a surrogate brother who pushed Sam to be his personal best.

Sam was a good friend.  Scratch that--he was a great friend.  I don't know that I ever met anyone more loyal, more trustworthy, more sensitive.  Sam could be oblivious at times, don't get me wrong.  But if he knew something was bothering you, he was always there to prop you up, lending a (bumpy) ear, offering whatever insights or honest opinion he could.  Sometimes he needed the same thing, and he was always grateful if you took the time to talk.

Of course, being a friend, I took advantage of Sam on numerous occasions.  Sam's fear of bugs was legendary.  I've lost count of the times I 'got' Sam with a plastic spider or cockroach, hidden in a file draw, glued to his bottle of pop, or placed in the cash register draw for him to 'discover' at an inopportune time.  Then there was the time I gave him dog treats and told him they were 'diet Hershey's kisses.'  Watching him drink straight from the faucet that day was classic.  And there were puns, hundreds, thousands of puns over the years, designed to make Sam moan or groan or laugh or, sometimes, just leave the room.  Sam played the victim with aplomb, even when he was nailed into the bathroom.

Sam had recently left the Bookery (on good terms) to take a job at a government contractor's office at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.  I was so proud of him for getting back out into the 'real' working world, after taking a sabbatical at the Bookery following an Enron-like implosion at his previous corporate job.  I know Sam was proud to be working at a place that recognized his potential, and he was rising daily to the new challenges put before him.  He really seemed vibrant in recent months, so happy, so motivated.  He had the whole world ahead of him.

I loved Sam like a brother.  A brother that could eat all the pizza without taking into consideration that no-one else had eaten their share.  A brother that could eat the same smelly tuna fish and rice doused in Tabasco every stinking day for weeks.  A brother that loved his BW3 hot wings almost as much as his Flying Tiger Chinese food, and could eat both in large quantities.  A brother who could chew you out for losing a Steve Martin video in the same breath he's cursing himself for losing someone else's samurai DVDs.  A brother who embraced peace but loved Pride and Ultimate Fighting Championship.  A brother who made you smile, and laugh, and feel good about life.

I know readers of this column are looking for something relevant to their situations, as retailers, publishers, manufacturers, hobbyists.  I'm not sure Sam's passing qualifies, so, my apologies, and my gratitude for indulging me.  But one thing Sam recently told me might apply.  At his government job, someone botched something up real good, and the Air Force general in charge of the project was on a rampage.  All of the employees, who had seen this scenario before, were hiding their heads in the sand.  Sam, the new guy, was at a loss.  Here was this irate officer, blowing up and looking for hot targets to blame.  Suddenly, Sam told me, it occurred to him that this guy was no different than an irate customer at the Bookery.  Sam told me he switched into 'customer service mode,' putting himself on automatic pilot, and defused the situation.  His new coworkers were impressed by his attitude and ability to calm down the general.  Sam chalked it up to his experiences at the Bookery, and told me that he was grateful for the opportunities he had been given here to grow and learn on the job.

Now its my turn to thank Sam for everything he gave me, as an employee, as a friend, as a brother (yes, that includes the Steve Martin video).  My life is enriched for having known him, and his passing creates a void I'll not easily fill.  If I could say one more thing to him, one last good-bye, I know what it would be.