Gregg Pope was neither a classical composer nor musician. It’s doubtful whether he ever seriously listened to a note of classical music in his life. He was simply a decent and kind man—and posterity rarely confers any of its glittering honors for that.
We worked together at Amoeba Hollywood. He was one of the people in charge of the store’s book department, handling the buying and pricing of used material. Someday the entire Amoeba story will be told; a tale of nepotism, lawsuits, and willful fiscal mismanagement. It suffices to say that almost anybody who was actually knowledgeable and competent was intentionally left out of the cult of Amoeba’s true believers and tonsured acolytes. But Gregg was that rarity: A regular guy who somehow managed to make his way into a position of some power within the store.
Gregg and I weren’t friends but we talked often, especially on Saturday mornings when I was assigned book duty. We talked about sci-fi a few times, a genre I’m a bit cold toward but for which he had a great enthusiasm. He recommended me some Ursula K. Le Guin; I passed him along a recommendation for John Brunner. One time he saw me drink a can of plain La Croix in the break room by the store’s offices. “You sure like those,” he told me. “Just watch out that the fizz doesn’t make you float away. We need you Saturday.” He smiled his shy grin from beneath the big Buddy Holly glasses which eternally sat upon his nose.
Unless you were one of the “lifers” who were paid well because they had started with Amoeba back when it was flush with money, before the owners flushed their good fortune down the toilet, chances are you were struggling to pay bills. Quite a few of my books ended up being resold with Amoeba price tags thanks to Gregg, who was very generous with trade-ins, giving far more money than whatever it was I had to trade was worth. One day I had brought in a couple bags of books to resell for much-needed cash. A couple of hours later, Gregg came up to me in the jazz room where I tended to the classical section.
“Hey, I can’t buy your books today. Mark’s here.”
Mark is the buy counter manager and notorious among crate-diggers for his lowball offers, even for obviously valuable collections. He is also incomprehensibly paid six-figures at a record store which, apparently, is struggling financially; he even owns a house thanks to the job. Most Amoebites were lucky if they had enough money to afford a closet to rent.
I don’t remember what I said to Gregg. It must’ve been some remark which was intended to be uttered as a personal aside but which was loud enough for him to hear. But he heard it. I needed money bad.
“Are you short?,” he asked me.
Maybe the money was needed for dinner that night. Or to tide me over to the next payday. I can’t remember anymore. But what I do remember was him asking me:
“How much do you need?”
Gregg then dug into his pockets and offered me $50, no questions asked. I told him I couldn’t take it, that it was fine, and at any rate I didn’t like owing people money.
“You wouldn’t owe me. Just take it.”
After some further deliberation, I took the money. And Gregg was true to his word—he never brought up the money again.
A little after that I left Amoeba, under acrimonious circumstances it needs to be added. Occasionally I’d remember Gregg. He was one of the good ones.
We weren’t friends. But his kindness to me will never be forgotten. It was something which came to mind again and again after I heard what happened to him a few days ago. I don’t know what terrible pain led him to do what he did. All I can sincerely pray for is that wherever he may be, that he has finally found the peace which had eluded him in life.