“So, tell me how you think the death of Curt Cobain will impact music,” a reporter asked me.
I stared blankly. “Let me get the manager.” I mean, I knew he died, and it was tragic, but I didn’t have a prepared statement for the media. I was only part-time.
My early days in Chicago, where I moved on my own a couple of years after college, were filled with the kind of swirling chaos that made sense in your twenties. What also made sense was that in addition to my low-paying, full-time job, I picked up a part-time job for “fun money.”
I lived a couple of blocks from a now-defunct music store called Coconuts. It occupied a giant two-story space at the corner of Clark and Diversey on the north side of Chicago. I’d gone in a few times–probably to buy cassette singles–and it had a really fun vibe. So, I applied and started working there shortly after.
On the employee roster, all of our names were printed: last name, first name. My last name is so long, it left room for only the first four letters of my first name. So, Ronald became Rona (rhymes with “My Sharona”). That’s what was printed on my name badge. It started out as a joke, but it turned into a term of endearment. And the beginning of one of my earliest friend group in the Windy City.
Working there wasn’t like a job. It was like going to hang out with a bunch of friends. It was getting paid (whatever minimum wage was in the early/mid-1990s) to have fun. And I guess there were customers involved too?
It was working weekend mornings when we were all of the same age and always hung over. But that space was our space, and we took really good care of it–were protective of it. We’d all exchange “the look” when someone from the first floor paged any of us on the second for a call on “Line 3” (which didn’t exist). We knew whoever was coming up the stairs was suspicious, and we had to watch them without them knowing we were watching. It was secret agent time!
After closing, we’d blast whatever CD one of us liked, or that was popular at the time, vacuum, dust, restock, and make sure we left that place in perfect order. Because it was ours. And so many nights–weekend or weeknight–a few of us would go out for food, drinks, and dancing in never-sleeping Boystown.
I don’t remember feeling tired after working a full day downtown at my retail job, then running home to grab a bite before clocking in at the store. I suppose youth deprived me of feeling tired–which I smile and marvel at now. But even if I was tired or cranky or sad when I walked into the store, I was greeted with a robust “Rona!” and I was re-energized. I was home in the kind of way I needed.
They called me Rona. And I loved it.
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