A place I’ve patronized for about 30 years was just sold. My happy place is gone. It is difficult to put into words the sense of loss. It was an aquarium; it sold fresh and saltwater fish and anything a hobbyist would need for either. But it was so much more than that. It was the Cheers of fish stores. Remember how Brer Rabbit had his happy place, bramble bushes he ran to when he needed to think, relax, or hide. This place, Barrier Reef on Boca Raton Blvd., was my happy place. I’d often go there just to go there, to watch the fish swim in the tanks, to hear the latest family news of a staff member. It provided a type of therapy.
The store was pretty bare bones. ‘Nothing pretty or exciting about it. It had a small staff, and they grew old with the store. It was a treasured neighborhood store, a family-run business; you walked in and were warmly greeted. When I was down with pneumonia and hadn’t dropped in for a month or so, I got a call to see if everything was okay. In this day and age, that is almost priceless. What was most priceless was that the people who worked there knew what they were doing. They knew fish. They knew supplies. They knew equipment. They never tried to up sell you unless they felt you needed something more to accomplish what you wanted.
Like Cheers, everyone had a story, and as the years went by, the chapters of the stories unfolded. Ever become so engrossed in a book that you didn’t want it to end? I have. Somewhere in the middle, I would slow my reading. I’d limit myself to one chapter, or maybe half a chapter that had a logical stopping point. The book and I became friends. I went to it for a reason, and it provided what I came for. Yet I knew that one day those dreaded two words would show up: The End. And so it is with my Happy Place.
I don’t think I ever spent more than fifty dollars at a time there, but because I was so consistent and loyal, a customer the relationships grew. The owner and founder was a bear of a man, gruff. He didn’t look the part, more of a dock worker than handler of small fish. One day, I told him I was doing some volunteer work at an inner-city elementary school, and they would love to have a fish tank. The PTA had no money for such things. Mr. Gruff became Mr. Softy. They got it with all the fixin’s, including the fish.
We would talk, he and I. I don’t have many heroes, but he became one of the few. During hard times when business was down, he didn’t lay people off. He did whatever he had to do to make sure everyone made some money. He cut hours to keep the staff on. They were his people—his extended family—and he worried about them. That was him as a store owner.
He was also a husband and father. His wife contracted cancer. It was a long, slow slog to death. There was nothing this big, strong man did not do to nurse her, to care for her, to make her feel loved. “For better or for worse.” He believed that and lived. It. There were other family problems. Serious ones, ones that stretched the family fabric to near the breaking point. He did not buckle. I think many a man would have thrown in the cards, expressed bitterness and anger, given in to depression. Not he. He held it all together.
I’ve known his younger daughter since she was a child. I’ve watched her grow up, get married, have children. After his wife’s death, dad decided he needed to live life a little, found a woman, remarried, and did some travelling. This little girl became the manager of this very complex, if small operation. Aside from dealing with vendors and the landlord, dealing with livestock is pretty much a 24-7 operation. Changes in water chemistry, tank temperature, the possibility that one sick fish could wipe out a whole tank, dealing with the machinery that keeps the water flowing, and making sure the chemistry in the tanks matched what was best for the species. She did it all.
Like most small businesses, Barrier Reef had its ups and downs. Because it was small and bare bones, ways had to be found to keep it current. Not every idea worked out. One year, they took the adjacent space and put together a showroom for fish tanks. I don’t think this city was a big enough market to sell enough tanks to make it work. Another effort, for a period, involved tinkering with hours and days to reduce costs. The reality was that the store had to be open whenever people wanted to buy things, so they figured out how to be a seven-day-a-week operation and survive.
One of the most interesting shots they took involved changing their image. You may recall that there was a hot TV show about guys who built custom-made tanks for people all over the world. I think it is still on cable—maybe reruns. I walked into the store one day, and within the same square footage was a new display area. There were several new custom-made tanks. Instead of a few hundred dollars, these tanks went for thousands. They were spectacular in size and shape. But, to me, it was a misreading of their core, their base. It didn’t have a $5,000-a-tank customer base; it had a base that came in to schmooze, ask questions, rant about fish tank frustrations, and feel good when they left. People like me. Cheers’ customers drank beer, not martinis.
Barrier Reef had a small number of people with a long list of problems. McGruff gave them a place to feel needed and wanted. The staff included a few men who used to be in the fish business and, for whatever reason, found themselves out of business and maybe also out of luck. Again, McGruff and later, his daughter, took them on. It was an even trade. They got a chance to rebuild their self-worth while the customers found yet another person on the floor who knew the answers to their questions. One of the unique and highly valued aspects of how business was conducted was that if someone asked a question to which the answer wasn’t known, there was no guessing. Someone else in the store was asked. If no answer was found, Miss Manager got on the computer to find it. There was no such thing as “too busy” when it came to a customer.
Happy customers were what they wanted. Here’s an example. I saw online a fish that I had never seen before. It was really striking. They ordered them for me. Now, a store can’t call the wholesaler and order two or three fish. When I received the call that the fish had arrived, I found that they had received about a dozen, paid for, of course, upfront. Not only did I not have the room or the money for a dozen, but I didn’t like the fish. They looked nothing like what I’d seen online. I was given a lesson in tricks of the trade. Those pictures were taken with a lens and filters and taken when the pictured fish was at its most colorful. I felt terrible. The response? “Bill, you have to like what you buy. Don’t worry. Someone else will buy them. It’s not an issue.” And someone did.
I could go on, but I think the point is well made. I will expand the general thought. Throughout our years in Boca, we have made it a habit to find local merchants to patronize—a restaurant, the dry cleaner, a little hole-in-the-wall women’s boutique, my barber, and my wife’s hairstylist. I recommend it. It pays many different kinds of dividends that you won’t get in larger, fancier places.
So I come to “The End” and lift a glass to say Cheers to the now-gone Barrier Reef and its version of Sam, and Shelly, Cliffy and Norman—Cheers to the “Cheers” of aquarium stores.Columnist and author Bill Gralnick was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY. He recently finished a humorous memoir trilogy. The first book is “The War of the Itchy Balls and Other Tales from Brooklyn.” The second is “George Washington Didn’t Sleep Here.” The recently published third is, That’s Why They Call It Work.” He is currently working on a novel. His books are available on Amazon and his other writings at https://www.williamgralnickauthor.com.
