Elizabeth "Betty" Rogers Fertig 1921 - 2014

Since August of 2012 there have been a succession of deaths in my life. One week in 2014 was bookended by the loss of my closest friend and the loss of a primary childhood mentor. One loss was encompassing, the other came as a whisper from the newspaper. It's the whisper I want to talk about. Betty opened a franchise of The Book Rack in my hometown when I was almost ten years old.  It wasn't until I read her obituary that it hit me what an astonishing influence she had been on my life.

We were not friends. Certainly, she was friendly to me but she was also frequently impatient and I was a child over attuned to the responses of adults. I never knew if I was going to jeopardize what I saw as precarious privileges. Now, with adult eyes, I realize our relationship was extraordinary. The public library was a several hour walk from my home, while Betty's store was less than two miles. I would pack a shoulder bag with books scavenged from flea market trash bins and bring them in for her approval. I think she took more than she truly wanted, because when she would reject a book there was a regretful explanation of why. Betty allowed me to spend hours in the store unchallenged. I was never asked to leave, even if a whole day had passed. I was quiet. My much younger sibling was permitted to do the same, but was more restless than I. We would arrange the shelves. Sometimes she might direct a customer to a certain section and I would find the item they were looking for and point to it without speaking. Then I'd slide into another aisle so they could shop privately. Eventually, when I was eleven or so, Betty trusted me enough to run errands for her or to watch the store while she walked down to the cafe. She kept a foreign language shelf in the back. When I took my wagon of Girl Scout cookies to meet incoming ships at the port, I'd pass out bookmarks to the sailors. "Biscoito? Livro?"

None of this is the remarkable part. Betty allowed me to read anything I wanted. After lugging my bag of books in for credit (never for cash, although I was always hustling for money) I'd lug home a different bag of books to read. Despite my age, Betty never censored my choices. She might ask if I was certain, or ask me to take a more worn copy if there were duplicates, but the books I chose were the books I took. "Bring this one back quickly, it's popular" was a common admonishment for new releases. When offered recent release books by family or family friends, I always rushed them into the shop. In exchange for being helpful and respectful, I had a safe haven and unlimited resources. Through her store I read college textbooks, WW2 pocket series, gothics, romances, mysteries, horror, Sartre, Camus, Chaucer, travel guides, sex manuals, science fiction. Anything my fingers touched could be mine, for as long as I wanted it.

For a child of dubious economics and questionable school attendance this was an amazing opportunity. By sixth grade I'd read all of Shakespeare and many of his contemporaries. I knew my Sheridan from my Moliere. By ninth grade I was familiar with multiple schools of philosophy and the evolution of horror from Lovecraft to Saul. I supplied V.C. Andrews books to half my middle school and Rosemary Rogers to the other. While my formal education was sporadic and truncated, my informal one was limitless. Betty never asked me to defend a choice or explain it. There were no quizzes, no essays, no instruction on how to experience a book. If it was Thomas Hardy or Willman's Thomasina the most she'd say would be "Did you like this one? Was it good? Should I highlight it on the suggestion wall?" Betty Fertig treated a street kid like an intellectual equal and changed an unknown number of lives as a result. I'm grateful I was polite enough to frequently check in as an adult and let her see how I was getting on.  

Brian Kozicki 1965 - 2012

The Coolest Thing I Ever Gave Him

Brian Kozicki wasn't a woman-hating asshole.

Maybe that seems like a low bar, a gimmie in the hurdles of life. For a man in Brian's chosen profession, not being a woman-hating asshole was a goddamn miracle. (I shouldn't focus on that. Brian was so many things that not being misogynist is only a tiny part of the picture.) If he'd climbed mountains or bred pygmy goats you'd marvel at a life lived in pursuit of a passion. And Brian was deeply passionate about his interests. (But goats and mountains weren't among them.) He loved his family, his community and his chosen life. He was a passionate advocate of literacy. He was a man who believed the least among us had the same value as the most. He was a man who tried to live his values. Mostly, he succeeded.

To use a tired comparison, he was a bear of a man. Sentimental, loudly dressed, eager for a laugh or a good natured argument, Brian embraced people in all their diversity. He greeted his friends with huge hugs, then said goodbye the same way. He could be so full of cheer that it was impossible not to smile. (He wasn't always happy, none of us are.) Happiness was a goal he worked toward. Given a choice, he chose joy. If Brian couldn't fix his own problem, he'd work on yours. If you didn't have one, he'd tell you about someone else's so you could work on it together.

Most of the time, Brian picked up the check at meals. "It's a business expense." (It wasn't.) He always apologized after complaining, even when the problems were huge. He didn't want to bring you down, enough about him, back to you. I loved making him laugh. His face would light up when you surprised him. He welcomed people like he'd been waiting all year for just that exact person to walk in the door. Brian treated a five year old with a dollar the same way he treated a hipster with hundreds. He was as passionate an advocate for his wares as Steve Jobs was for Apple. "Just look at this!" he'd exclaim. "I'm going to give you this because you have to see it!" If you loved it, he'd beam. If you hated it, he'd be just as excited. At least you gave it a shot. That's what Brian always wanted, a shot. 

Brian owned a comic store. He owned a comic store in boom years, in bust years and in between years. His dream of a large multimedia arcade wasn't meant to be, but it would have been my favorite place ever. He once introduced me to Paul Lee by saying Paul would love me, when normal protocol is to treat the artist as the main event. I think, although I could be wrong, that it was Paul Lee who drew Brian into Batman as a bartender. It made sense. Brian loved to talk as much as he loved to listen. The counter was his natural habitat. He could talk me into any book, any restaurant, any person. When I'd get annoyed and write irritated letters to editors he'd call and offer me a book signing. Manchester's own, featured in a new tirade. 

There were three things Brian never got me to do. The first was disc golf. The second was work the shop. The third was joining him for SDCC. For years he tried to tempt me. (Did I want to have dinner with Mark Hamill?) He'd bring me signed things from Kevin Smith or Jason Mewes. "Look what you missed!" followed by "Look what you missed again!" and eventually "What's wrong with you!?!?!" He'd say "You should go. We'd have a great time. Kevin Smith would love you!" 

Brian died at 46. This is ridiculous. I am writing this a full month since his death but less than twelve hours since I found out he's gone.  The world needed Brian. It needed his enthusiasm. It needed his passion for education in whatever guise it came. When I first met Brian I saw or spoke to him several times a week. Then I moved away. Then I had kids. Then I had cancer. Then I had it again. Over the years a few times a week turned into a few times a year. Each time, each conversation, was one of laughter and joy. (Even the ones about chemo.) Listen, I know this was filled with cliches. This wasn't an original thought or an innovative page. This was a very long way to say something very small. 

I want you to meet my friend Brian. You'd really love him.