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Stuart McLean’s “The Vinyl Cafe”

I recently became a fan of the radio show “The Vinyl Cafe”, which airs on CBC Radio. From Wikipedia:

The Vinyl Cafe is an hour-long radio variety show, hosted by Stuart McLean and broadcast on CBC radio and on several U.S. public radio stations. It airs Sunday at noon on Radio One and Saturday at 10 a.m. on Radio Two. The show features essays, fiction and music; while frequently humorous, the weekly programs are also often wistfully nostalgic. The show also endeavours to introduce listeners to new Canadian musical talent.

For a number of years, I have been a fan of Old Time Radio, and for me, The Vinyl Cafe is a bit of a modern-day flashback to the genre. At times, the Vinyl Cafe reminds me of my 2 favorite OTR shows, Fibber McGee and Molly and The Jack Benny Show. For example, one of McLean’s recurring story characters, known as Dave, reminds me a lot of Fibber McGee. Dave’s wife, Morley, is the level headed one in the relationship, and often gets Dave out of a bind, much like Fibber’s wife Molly.

One of the best things about radio shows like The Vinyl Cafe, is they can really trigger the “theatre of the mind”, as Frosty Forst would say. There’s something magical about sitting around a radio (or in this case, listening to an ipod, or listening on a digital stereo system), listening to stories, and imagining the sights and sounds as they are vividly described in the program.

A relatively new feature of the program is the “Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange”, where Stuart encourages his listening audience to submit short stories, with the possibility of being read on the show. The only 2 rules, as Stuart explains, is that submissions are “something funny or something touching – anything – so long as it’s a true story and so long as it’s short.”

I am not a writer by any means, but I ended up making a submission. Here it is.

Dear Stuart,

Fifteen years ago, I was 22 years old and was starting my second year of college. I lived with a friend in a humble and sparsely furnished basement suite in Burnaby, BC. As we did not have a car, we would frequent businesses within walking distance – the video store, the supermarket, the pizza place, and Elio’s Barber Shop.

The wear and tear of the orange tiled flooring was proof that Elio’s shop was popular. This guy had been in business for more than just a couple of years. The decor left a bit to be desired, but the shop served its utilitarian purpose as a place for a guy to get a haircut and be on his way. Just a radio up on a shelf in the corner, a half dozen chairs for customers to wait their turn, and the usual an assortment of dog-eared magazines.

Elio was a seemingly gentle and quiet man, and back then, it was pretty business-like between us. I‘d sit in the chair, he’d cut my hair, I’d pay for the cut, say “thanks” and that was pretty much it, other than basic small talk. It was more or less like that each month when I came for my haircuts over the next few years.

As time went on, the quality and quantity our conversations increased. I got to know more about Elio—his family, his home in White Rock, his immigration from Italy, his love of soccer, and his knowledge of politics and current events.

One day about five years ago, Elio told me that his wife had surprised him and was taking him to a live performance of a radio show called “The Vinyl Cafe” later that evening. He told me he was a huge fan of this show, and he had been listening to it for years. In fact, that’s precisely what was playing over the shop radio at that exact moment in time. I had no knowledge of the show until that moment, but I can still hear the echo of the CBC when I think back. And I remember how Elio beamed at the thought of attending your performance that night.

About two and a half years ago, I asked Elio about his future plans, and a possible retirement date. He said, “maybe in a few more years”. I had guessed he would be about 60 years old, so this timeframe made sense. But, I could tell that retirement was a decision he was making very carefully, and not one to be made hastily.

On a warm day in the summer of 2005, I was planning to stop at Elio’s for a haircut on my way to an event that evening. Because my home was now a bit of a distance from Elio’s shop, I had to plan my trip and manage my time accordingly. It was a Wednesday, and I knew Elio took Sundays and Mondays off, and it was mid-afternoon, so I figured I would not have to wait long once I got there. Much to my surprise, the door was locked and there was a sign written on a piece of paper—“Closed today, sorry for the inconvenience”. “Inconvenience, hmmph!”, I thought to myself. I left annoyed because, for the first time in nearly 15 years, Elio was not there to serve me when I expected him to be.

Later that week, I dropped by Elio’s once again. To my relief, I could see Elio through the big glass window, as I had many times before. When my turn came up, I asked Elio about the previous Wednesday, and if he was taking some extra time off in the summer. He explained that he was at a doctor’s appointment that day in another part of town. Suffice it to say, I felt a bit selfish about how I had reacted to the shop being closed earlier that week. When I left the shop, I told Elio that I would see him again in a month or so, as always.

When I returned for that haircut, I noticed Elio seemed to be favouring his right leg, and was standing on a special mat as he tended to his customers. I asked him about what I saw. He said the doctors thought it may be side effects from a small stroke or other incident, or perhaps a muscular issue, but they weren’t sure. He mentioned an upcoming appointment that would hopefully lead to a conclusive diagnosis.

On my next visit, Elio’s physical condition seemed to have worsened. The doctors had not yet achieved a firm diagnosis, all they knew for sure was that the problem was getting worse and it meant Elio would have to seriously consider retiring early. Elio told me he had put the shop up for sale and would be retiring as soon as he found a buyer. When I asked him how long that might take, he guessed at least a couple of months. When I left, I shook Elio’s hand and wished him luck in the sale of the business.

When I returned that next month, Elio was not there. Instead, a young woman was standing in his place. She had bought the shop from Elio, and this was her very first week on the job. I asked her about Elio’s condition, and she said he was doing fine, and that he was very gracious in the passing down of his business to her. She showed me the flowers on the ledge next to the barber’s chair that had come from Elio and his wife, sent to congratulate her on her new career.

Elio had operated his barber shop for more than 30 years. Over the final 15 of those years, I have transitioned from starving student to college graduate, have built a successful career, bought my first home, and have found and married my wife Leah. All this time, Elio was a constant in my life.

I recently learned that Elio passed away from a battle with ALS, commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, in October of 2007. Elio was just 62 years old.

I wish that I had taken the time and made the effort to contact Elio upon his retirement, as I do not feel I had a chance to thank him for all of his good years of service. By sharing this story with you and your listeners, I hope to inspire others to recognize these seemingly “ordinary” people and thank and appreciate them for their hard work, and for always being there for us.

I often think of Elio, especially when I hear your voice, Stuart.

Sincerely,

Dave Zille, Port Moody BC

I don’t think my chances of having the story read on-air are very high, but I enjoyed the process, and it brought back a lot of memories.