OCTOBER 18, 2021 – Our town’s hardware store of choice was Joe Chutich’s Western Auto on Main. That’s where Dad bought stuff and where he rented a TV for the Olympics, presidential nominating conventions, and the moon landing. Joe was nice but serious. His kids were nice and smart. One’s now a Minnesota Supreme Court Justice.
Every week the mail brought an advertising rag from Joe’s. My reactions to classic marketing techniques were opposite of what was intended. Next to big-ticket items were the words, “NO MONEY DOWN!” As a third grader, I thought this was pre-emptive notice that serious Joe wouldn’t tolerate bargaining. The price you saw was the price you paid—no discounts! With respect to pricing, I thought “$X9.99” was bad judgment. Nine was the largest single-digit numeral, so why attempt to entice customers by advertising prices that contained so many nines? Why not zeros, since zero was nothing? Plus, Joe could earn an extra cent on everything sold.
By the fall of third grade, I realized that to improve my status, I’d need to upgrade from my 16-inch Evans (see 9/28/21 post). Although stingrays were cool, I thought three-speed “English” bikes was classier. For weeks I’d been monitoring bike prices in Joe’s advertising paper—and counting my accumulated allowance—to see when price intersected with the amount of my savings. The day before Thanksgiving is when the red, 26-inch, three-speed, “English” bike—at $29.99—came within 25 cents of the amount in my piggy bank.
On the day after Thanksgiving, I filled my pockets with hard-earned coinage and headed for Joe’s in downtown Anoka, a mile away. I must have informed Mother of my destination. Dad was at work at the courthouse a block from Joe’s. The weather brought wind and drizzle. When I reached the store I was disappointed to learn someone would have to assemble my bike. Instead of hiking back home, I toured the three square blocks of downtown Anoka—multiple times—and checked on progress at Joe’s after each round. Well past lunchtime, parts had finally become a bike. I piled my loot onto the counter, and the clerk patiently counted out $29.99.
When I rolled the bike onto the sidewalk outside the store, very wet snow was falling. Though I’d asked for the seat to be positioned as low as possible, the 26-inch bike was slightly over my limit. I’d need to be off the seat when pedaling, and this requirement further reduced control on the slushy sidewalk, as I learned (to my humiliation) in front of Ben Franklin, two doors down from Joe’s. I walked the bike the rest of the way home.
In hindsight, the most curious thing about the whole venture was that Mother didn’t seem at all worried when I returned a very long time after I’d left. In that era your parents didn’t worry unless you didn’t return before dark, and even in late November several hours remained before the sun went down.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
