Mitch’s

I had the best high school job a kid could have ever asked for.

The summer between my sophomore and junior years, just shy of me being able to drive, a new convenience store opened across the street from my house.

And I mean ACROSS THE STREET. Across Holly Springs Road, to be exact. Downtown Holly Springs, to this day, remains the fire department, an auction barn, my mama’s house, and that store.

The store needed a stockboy. The store also, in a first for that particular corner of Spartanburg County in 1990, was aiming on selling beer.

Friends, the job market seeking that particular position was NOT crowded. But Mama cared more about me having a job than she did about me spending time in the mere presence of Mr. Busch’s finest, and so I walked across the street.

I’m not sure how long it took me to get hired. It was several minutes, at most. And the man who sealed the deal was the man whose name was on the building.

Officially, it was Bradley’s Redi-Mart. To everybody in Holly Springs, it was Mitch’s. Still is, if it ever was to you, through a bunch of owners now.

Back then, Mitch Bradley’s was one of three single-named stores in a roughly four mile stretch of Hwy. 357, though one was on the way out. Souther’s, Bradley’s, and Golightly’s if you stood on formality. George’s, Mitch’s, and Matthew’s if you were one of us.

And actually, if you remember Matthew’s, it’s time for a number of regularly-scheduled medical procedures, because we’re getting on up in age.

I’d frequented George’s quite a bit, visiting late into the evening with my dad who had worked part-time at the counter in his summers away from teaching school. I was soon sweeping floors and stocking shelves, getting “paid” in Topps baseball cards, half-liter drinks in glass bottles, and Coke Icees, the real ones, with the polar bear on the machine. I’ve still got a Darryl Strawberry rookie card I uncovered from one of those packs.

But that was for kids, and this was high finance. Every summer morning at 7:00, I’d walk across the street and Mitch would be waiting for me. I never beat him to work, not once, despite sometimes trying. I’ve always been somebody who, once I get myself out of bed, can go full-speed pretty quickly. To get to the store on time, I didn’t have to roll out of bed any earlier than 6:50. So, I usually did. And Mitch knew that. That’s why, several days a week around 7:30 or so, he’d quietly push a Hardee’s biscuit in my direction and send me to get us a couple of drinks from the cooler, and we’d eat breakfast as I made ice bags before the morning rush truly started. While I bagged ice, we’d talk about yesterday’s baseball games, or whether Chapman football was going to be good again (they were), or Mitch’s time in the Marines, or, most importantly and most frequently, racing. More than anyone I’ve ever known, Mitch Bradley had a love of all things racing, having driven in several divisions with a bunch of success. In fact, part of my daily uniform at the store was a racing jacket. It was a bright red, warm thermal jacket with COORS in enormous block letters across the back, and even on 100 degree South Carolina days, I needed it to stock the cooler. It celebrated one of Mitch’s favorite drivers, Bill Elliott (and I’ll take a shot at spelling it Eyyott, the way he pronounced it), and it NEVER left the store.

I mentioned high finance. On Fridays, at noon, Mitch would hand me a $100 bill from somewhere in the cash register. That’s $20 a day, for those of you keeping track, for stocking shelves, sweeping floors, making ice bags, and keeping the cooler full. Five hours a day for a hundred bucks a week, and $125 on the weeks he asked me to work Saturdays.

Cash money. I walked across the street to work. He usually fed me breakfast and I was home by lunch. Typically, my friends were just waking up or had another long day ahead of them busting their tails at the dreaded peach shed and I was off, home, fed, and showered by 12:30.

And I got to hang out with Mitch.

That in itself was something. I got to see how much he did, quietly, for any group or organization or charity who asked. I got to see his love for his community. I’d sometimes go back on Friday evenings, if there was nothing going on quite yet, and put my name on the list for a plate from Quincy’s in Greer, usually just Mitch and Allen “Possum” Dill and me and maybe a couple others, and get an education while I split my sides laughing.

Mitch gave me the week off when our church youth group went to the beach that summer. It was one of the best trips of my young life. We had a great time, we had another great time when we got back on Sunday night, and several of us (I was driving by now) went out to get a bite of dinner afterward.

Three of my friends were in a terrible accident on the way home. One of my best friends at the time was badly injured. She was in a coma for weeks. She nearly died. Mama woke me up as soon as she got the call. We rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night. When it was obvious there was no help that any of us would be able to provide, and to make room for the family, we went home.

And the next morning, I walked across the street.

I’ve never told anybody else this next part. Not my mama. Not my friends. Nobody.

Mitch Bradley met me at the door. You know how small communities are. He knew already. I didn’t have to tell him anything.

He wrapped me up in a bearhug, which is strange when you’re 6-4 and pushing 190 pounds. He prayed with me. He prayed FOR me, and for her, and for all of us who had just been on the trip, and for how we’d handle what was to come, if it wasn’t what we wanted or were prepared for. It was the first time I’d ever seen a grown man physically hit his knees and beg God for intercession.

And then he sent me home, with a biscuit and a $100 bill, even though I hadn’t worked the week before.

“You keep that for when you need it, and you go on back to the hospital when you think you need to, and you come on back up here when you’re ready.”

Mitch died unexpectedly earlier this month. I hadn’t seen him in a few years. I wish I’d seen him a lot more frequently. I wish I’d made it a point to. And I’ve started and stopped writing this a dozen times since then.

But you know how those one-name stores and those small communities are. Change comes in fits and starts, and often never happens completely. Some things usually stay the same.

At some point after my summer employment, the Redi-Mart got a new sign. Mitch put his first name on the building, in quotes for some reason. And for a long time, if you looked hard enough, you could see the ghost of the letters. I’d look for it every time I rode by there to get to Mama’s. Behind the current sign, just faintly and often just barely, there it was. “Mitch” Bradley’s Redi-Mart.

It was a reminder of one of my favorite summers, and of one of the best men I’ve ever known.