The Martyr

I can’t explain the reason why, but I woke up this morning and said aloud to myself, “Don’t play the martyr!” I uttered it in a affected patrician voice, underscoring the word marrr-tyrrr. It’s what happens to those of us who go through life indelibly recording in our brains seemingly inconsequential remarks by obscure people in not especially exciting places.

A little backstory is in order here: Approximately thirty years ago, I worked in a pet food and supplies store called Pet Nosh. I came in contact with an eclectic collection of customers there, some of whom were quite eccentric and, I daresay, extraordinarily annoying as well. There was this one man who, if memory serves, was a dog breeder. Now, I might be painting with a broad brush here—but I really don’t think so—when I say that breeders tended to be an unsavory breed, if you will, of the human animal. This particular guy was right out of Central Casting. Tall, slender, and haughty, he looked and sounded like a bona fide Westchester blueblood. For those unfamiliar with this neck of the woods, Westchester is a county that borders the North Bronx. Courtesy of its Yonkers location, Pet Nosh catered to a diverse clientele, including men and women from such tony Westchester towns and villages as Scarsdale and Bronxville.

In one of his many visits to Pet Nosh, my favorite Westchester bluebood—who lives on in my mind all these years later—got into an argument with a customer of the opposite sex. She felt he had wronged her in some way, accusing him of cutting the line or some such thing. When she vociferously complained about being an aggrieved party, the pompous patrician would have none of it. He exclaimed, “Don’t play the martyr!” That was thirty years ago. I said the same thing this morning. And, if I do say, I’ve got that man’s pretentious intonation down pat. In fairness to him, I suspect that the individual who played the martyr in that insignificant snapshot in time was no wronged innocent bystander. While I don’t remember the details of that in-store dispute, my gut feeling in 2019 is that I was happy to see both of their backs on the way out in 1989.

And I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here by saying that the main protagonist of this essay—who once upon a time shopped at a place called Pet Nosh—is resting now in a cemetery or in an urn on a mantel somewhere. There are no more human beings playing the martyr—to his great dismay—in his earthly presence. Ah, but little did he know that in his sunset years I—every now and then—thought about him and mimicked him for nobody’s amusement but my own.

I have long wondered whether or not this man went home after that storied stopover at Pet Nosh and informed his wife, children, and grandchildren about the contentious row he had with a fellow store patron. Did he find that close encounter on the dog-eat-dog retail frontier memorable or not? I can’t say. What I can say is that I was witness to it all. I was there to ensure that one brief moment in time—in an indistinct little corner of the world—would stand the test of time and never, ever be forgotten. So, remember, don’t play the marrrtyrrr. You won’t regret it.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)