Mom phoned today, and that odd, measured tone in her voice immediately tipped me off that she had called bearing bad news. Mr. Page has died. Page's Sport Shop, where he was my first boss; where the olden days transitioned to modern times. He was a generous man who started me at $5.00 an hour back when the minimum wage was $3.35. I can still see him clearly, sitting at his desk in his cramped office piled high with old invoices, receipts, catalogs and Rotary Club awards that all dated back to the 50s. I can still hear the sound of the Beach Boys and the creaky spring on the swinging door and his herky-jerky clip-clop walk due to a bum leg and a childhood bout of polio. He didn't mind when I'd ride my scooter up the ramp and in through the back door, and he always kept my favorite soda flavor well stocked in the fridge. Most of all I remember how assured he was that my future would be blindingly bright.