As Mr. Desouza leaned on the rail of the front porch of the newest store in the "Corner Grocery Store" family, he quietly sipped his coffee and looked out over Main Street.
The porch on the front of all of his stores had been his idea; his baby.
Growing up in the rural south, the local market in his town had always had a porch out front where folks could gather to talk and catch up with each other and while away the hot days. A few old timers would whittle little animal carvings for children with their pocket knives and make strange, cryptic proclamations about the weather, like "looks like it’s gonna’ be a hog fat winter this year."
The front porch of all Mr. Desouza’s stores had a fleet of rocking chairs, all designed to get folks to sit and relax a bit.
He had been told that this was a poor idea for New England towns, because people here were not given to sitting around much, and certainly not in a public place where they may be forced to interact with strangers. People here like to be in and out.
But against all odds, folks had started sitting around.
At first it was just teenagers, and Mr. Jones, his executive assistant, had warned him that the high school students who had taken over the rocking chairs were going to drive business away.
But was Mr. Desouza was resolute, and after he had hired the ring leaders of the teenage mob sitting outside his stores to part time, after school positions, the makeup of those hanging around outside on the front porch became more mixed, and even seemed to be enjoying themselves. (The free peanuts and pretzels had been a good touch as well.)
The grocery store front porch idea had been such a novelty hit in the area that a few local and regional newspaper reporters had come out to write articles about the phenomenon, and snap pictures of local residents, happily sunning them in the rocking chairs while eating free peanuts.
And so, Mr. Desouza, himself standing on the front porch of the third and newest "Corner Grocery Store" had decided, on account of the good year on the books, the newly arrived sunshine and the article on the grocery store chain in that month’s issue of New England Magazine, that he was going to throw a party.
He was a savvy enough businessman, and had been a veteran of the grocery business long enough to know that you shouldn’t get too excited about a particularly good year on the books, because things in this business can change so fast. A big flood in the Midwest can make produce prices rise absurdly high, or fuel or energy prices can suddenly skyrocket because of some hiccup somewhere in the world make investors a little nervous. Or one little downturn in the economy can make folks re-assess what is really important on the old shopping list, and all of the sudden people aren’t buying high end produce items like arugula or taking a chance on that package of gourmet coffee in lieu of buying toilette paper and tuna fish.
All the same, when he and his assistant, Mr. Jones, had finished up balancing the books for the previous year that particular spring day, the sun had just come out of hiding for the first time in weeks and Mr. Desouza turned to his assistant and said "Jones, I want to throw a party, and I want you to organize it and arrange everything."
Jones, a shy and bookish accountant, who had been working with Mr. Desouza for almost a year now, just stared at him.
"A party sir?"
"Yes Jones, a good, old fashioned hoedown, like I used to go to back when I was a boy in Tennessee."
"A hoedown sir?"
"A party Jones!" Haven’t you ever been to a party?"
"Yes Sir, Mr. Desouza. But what would it be for?" said Jones after a minute.
"Do I need a reason to throw a party Jones?"
"No sir, it’s just that people usually want to know what kind of party they are going to, you know, what it’s for."
"Oh, okay. Let’s call it a grand opening celebration for the new store."
"But the store’s been open for six months sir."
"Jones, if you will stop arguing with me about this I’ll put you in charge of the whole affair, and if you can pull it off I’ll give you your own store to open. You can do whatever you want to with it."
"My own store?" said Jones, hesitantly.
"If you pull off a barn-burner of a party, if you can dazzle me with a shindig so grandiose that it will be talked about for years, then I’ll give you your own store to run" said Mr. Desouza, standing up from his chair, as if to punctuate his point.
"I know how we’ll do this" he continued, not waiting for Jones to respond. "You plan the party, I’ll prepare the space. I’ve been wanting to do something with that empty lot out back ever since we opened here. Jones get a band and I’ll have a bandstand ready for them!"
"What kind of band sir?"
"Jones, are you going to shower me with questions about this are you going to show a little initiative? Are you a man, or are you an ameba?"
Jones suddenly stood up, as if to match Mr. Desouza’s action and said "I can do this sir; I’ll use the invitation list from the company Christmas party."
"That’s the stuff!" said Mr. Desouza. "Oh, why don’t you invite that new lawyer and his family who just moved into the old Anderson place on the hill."
"Will do" said Jones, a new resolve in his voice. "No budget, right sir?" was the last thing he dared ask.
"No budget Jones! Let’s see what kind of party that will get us."
True to his word, Mr. Desouza did not ask a single question of Jones about the party in the weeks following the conversation. Instead, he busied himself with the vacant lot.
The very next Monday, a fleet of landscaping trucks appeared in the rundown field out back of the store, and a small army of workmen cleared the brush and started building terraced gardens with winding paths along side them. Every few feet a park bench was placed for viewing purposes, and by the end of the week a remarkable manicured park emerged from the ruins of a once vacant lot.
The landscapers also brought a few carpenters with them, and little by little an elevated bandstand appeared, followed by a large wooden dance floor that could comfortably fit a large dancing crowd.
A few decorators followed the carpenters, and lanterns and strings of lights were hung over the dance floor, while a few water fountains were installed along the paths of the park to give the whole affair a dignified touch.
Jones, despite all his previous hedging, grew into his side of the task as he saw the park going up outside his office window. He was constantly on the phone; ordering this or that, and he could even be heard humming to himself as he worked out something or other on the lined legal pads that started piling up on his desk. And once in a while snippets of phone conversation could be heard coming out his office, with phrases like "is that price for both the caviar and the toast points, or are they billed separately" and "would you be able to play all day, or do you have an end time that you would need to stick to?"
Yes, there was definitely something in the air.
On the morning of the big party Mr. Desouza, resplendent in best white seer sucker suit and jaunty straw hat, went to pull into his usual parking spot at the new store and found that there was a large delivery truck with New York license plates blocking his spot. There was also a catering van from Connecticut parked across two other spots as folks in starch white clothing unloaded crates and tables. Jones was on the porch of the store talking on a cell phone while gesturing a third truck to pull around the store to unload.
"Jones" said Mr. Desouza, "did you get caterers from out of state for this party?"
"Yes sir, they came highly recommended by a few of our suppliers, and I worked our a few special deals to get them here for the day."
"What sort of food are we going to have?"
"Well sir, I could tell you, but I’d rather it be a surprise."
"Fair enough Jones," he replied. "I’ll be in my office for a few hours before we kick this thing off at noon."
"Yes sir, this is really going to be something."
About an hour later, Mr. Desouza was looking at some invoices when the loud sound of bluegrass music broke his concentration and he got up from his chair and walked over to the window to look down into the park. Party preparations were at full tilt, judging by the small army of workers busily scurrying around. There on the bandstand was a ten piece band just starting up an old bluegrass standard for a sound check, their instruments filling the entirety of the newly constructed stage.
"Jones" he yelled from the window, "is that a bluegrass band?"
"Yes sir, they're ‘The Footstompers’ from Memphis Tennessee."
"Jones, did you know that I love bluegrass music?"
"Yes sir, you’re always playing it in your office."
Mr. Desouza smiled a wide smile and said "carry on, carry on. One hour to go."
At exactly twelve noon the "Footstompers" started off the festivities with a rousing tune and the small army of caters stood at their stations, ready to serve. There was real caviar, served with toast points and a station for making real Italian sandwiches, with ingredients and sandwich making professionals straight from Brooklyn, New York who had names like "Big Louie" and "Little Al." There were pastries from the best shops in Manhattan and lobster and fresh clams from Maine and oysters straight out Long Island sound. There were bowls of pasta so deep a small child could be lost in them, and a twenty gallon chocolate fountain for fondue. There were professional waiters who stood at attention, their linens draped over their forearms and a roast pig slowly turning around on a spit. There were bottles of wine from Italy and France that were more expensive than Mr. Desouza would want to know, and enough fresh bread to make a cathedral out of.
And no guests.
"Jones" said Mr. Desouza as they stood by the new stone pillars that marked the entrance to the park to greet their guests, "where is everybody? It’s almost quarter 'till one.
Jones was visibly upset.
"Sir," said Jones quickly, "we sent out the invitations weeks ago. They were professionally done and there were over one hundred RSVP‘s"
"But there is no one here Jones, not one guest has come yet."
"I know sir, but I trust they will come, we just need to give them some time."
But they did not come.
At two pm Mr. Desouza look around and said to Jones "why don’t you call the other stores and have them close early today and invite all the employees over."
"Close all the stores seven hours early sir?
"Yes Jones, close them all and invite every single employee over here. But don’t stop there, call every employee and former employee on the books and invite them all over. And tell them not to worry about getting paid; I’ll pay them for the whole day."
"Yes Sir Mr. Desouza."
But four pm rolled around and the park was still devoid of guests. The band had played their hearts out for the first three hours and went through their entire set list twice before Jones let them take an extended break.
Mr. Desouza, who did several perambulations around the park and was obviously doing some thinking, came over to where Jones was miserably drinking a glass of champagne, his bowtie loosened and a cell phone open on the table in front of him.
"I just talked to the manager of store number two sir, he thinks most employees will probably just go home for the day and relax. Some may come, but I think some are apprehensive about coming to a party with you sir, like it’s some sort of job performance evaluation."
Mr. Desouza sat down next to Jones and was silent for a few minutes. Then he stood up, straightened his jaunty straw hat and said "Jones, you have outdone yourself with this party. This food! This music! It should be enjoyed by somebody. I want you to take the company van and go around town and invite every single person you see to come on over.
"Every person I see sir?"
"Yes, and I mean everyone! I want you to go to the old folks home over on Prospect Street and over to the trailer park on High Street. Fill up the van and come back here, and then go out again. If you can fill up this park with guests then I’ll give you that store to manage."
Jones, who needed a moment to take in this wild idea, finally sprung to action. He tore out of the store parking lot and returned with a van full of passengers in less than twenty minutes.
Mr. Desouza greeted each and every one of the guests that spilled out of the van and escorted the group over to the food tent.
To say that this was a "diverse" group of folks would be an understatement. There were residents from the Old Folks home, along with a few dazed hikers who Jones had found making their way back to their cars after the day’s hike. There were teenage skateboarders from the local skate park and a hitchhiker who had found perhaps the best destination he could have imagined.
The band, sensing a change in the air, took the stage once more, and thrilled to have an audience for the first time that day, tore into their set list with abandon, fiddles blazing harmonicas wailing and the upright bass guitar thumping away.
Jones continued to make the rounds about town and within an hour and a half he had brought fifteen van loads of passengers to the party.
That was not the end of it.
The old folk’s home brought over many more residents in special busses, and Jones and Mr. Desouza wheeled those in wheelchairs to the food tent where they tasked waiters to attend to them. And just about everyone started making phone calls.
At six pm the lights above the wooden dance floor were switched on revealing a park jammed full of partiers, dancing to zippy bluegrass music and eating food more refined and expensive than they ever could have imagined.
The band eventually ran out of songs to play and energy with which to play them, and when they announced that this was their last song the crowd called for more.
Mr. Desouza, a little delirious with the excitement from the festivities, took the microphone and asked if anyone else wanted to play some music.
A group of teenagers shyly raised their hands and Jones ushered them up onto the stage.
The leader of the teenage group borrowed an electric guitar from one of the Footstompers and another teen took the seat behind the drum set. They then proceeded to play an abrasive punk rock song that made Jones wince and look over to where Mr. Desouza was standing at the side of the stage.
But then a man from the old folk’s home walked to the center of the dance floor and started to dance a wonderful little shuffle to the punk rock music, a wide smile on his face. He was promptly joined by the group of hikers and the hitchhiker, and then by Mr. Desouza himself.
By the second punk rock song the entire dance floor was filled with bodies in joyous motion. It was most definitely the best audience the young punk rock band had ever had.
The party showed no signs of waning as the hour approached midnight. Many more folks went up on stage to play music, including Jones, who sang a sad country song on an acoustic guitar while couples slowly danced under the stars.
It was by far the best party that anyone attending had ever been to, and as the dawn approached the attendees started slowly filing out of the new park, tired but delirious with the sort of joy that follows attending the party of their lives.
As the sun rose over sleeping waiters and plates half full of food, Jones was just waking up from a spot on one of the new benches that had been installed just weeks before. He was using his fine dinner jacket as a blanket, and as he came to he saw the smiling face of Mr. Desouza, who was sitting on the end of the bench.
"How are you Jones?" he asked, tipping his straw hat back on his head.
"Fine sir" Jones replied, propping himself up on his elbows.
"Jones" said Mr. Desouza, "I have something for you."
"For me sir?"
"Yes" said the older man holding an object in his hand out to Jones.
"A key sir?" said Jones, squinting in the morning light at the object.
"It’s the key to this store Jones. It’s all yours now. You can run it in any manner you see fit, make all decisions, set any course you want for its future. This was some party."
"Thank you sir" said a slightly groggy, but happy Jones.
A week or so later Mr. Desouza got a phone call from the new lawyer in town, the one who had bought the old Anderson place on the hill.
"I hear there was quite a barn burner down at the store last week" he said. "Everyone I have talked to in the last few days is taking about it."
"It was quite something all right" said Mr. Desouza.
"Why weren’t we invited" asked the lawyer, I hear there was caviar and lobster and Belgian chocolate."
"You were invited" replied Mr. Desouza. "It was an old fashioned "hoedown" themed invitation. Didn’t you receive one?"
"Was that the thing that everyone is talking about? It seemed a little hokey to me when I saw the invitation, besides I had a trial on the following Monday and I had to prepare all weekend for it."
"That’s really unfortunate" was Mr. Desouza’s reply. "It was some party."
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