"Jim Webb; Jim Webb."

Something recently reminded me of when I used to accompany my mom into Salt Lake City on Saturday while she made the rounds between stores shopping for clothes, furniture or whatever happened to be on the list.

There was a department store, Auerbach's, that was along the lines of the fancy New York stores with an elaborate cosmetics department complete with the overdressed, hauty department head who always stood out because of her striking appearance. The place was nice and it was where I made my first announcement about what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be an elevator operator.

Now I was only three or four at the time, I think, (maybe eight or nine; always the under-achiever) and I don't know if it was the actual operation of the elevator, the personality of the guy who did the job or the cool uniform. But it was endlessly fascinating to me that the door would open, we'd get on and the fellow operating the elevator would perform some mechanical manipulations and the door would open onto another floor.

But the best part about going to Auerbach's was that a very elegant and soft-spoken voice would come over the loudspeaker, after the sound of a polite chime, and repeat my name twice.

"Jim Webb," the voice would say as if it were an inquiry. And then again; "Jim Webb," as if it were the answer to a question.

That happened for years. It started when I was too young to know what was going on and my mom probably told me it meant that they were watching me. And it continued until I was in high school. I was sad when I realized that I didn't hear them paging him any more. Whoever the guy was, he worked there for a long time but we never met.

Maybe that's when I first started feeling special. I mean to have my name broadcast throughout the entire store every time I went there and usually several times was sure to make some kind of impression. Gee I may have just discovered the root of my paranoia!