It was a Thursday morning around 11:00 am. I had parked my car in the garage on 81^st Street and started my short walk to Zabar’s. When I turned the corner on 81^st street to Broadway, I saw dozens of Zabar’s employees standing on the sidewalk and the road, clapping. Soon, more employees emerged from the store to join those already out there.

Almost everyone had their cameras out, taking pictures of the scene outside the store. Everyone seemed to be waiting, all eyes looking north as though they were expecting a famous movie star to be driving south on Broadway. Horns from cars with disgruntled drivers blasted the area. Traffic was almost at a standstill, and red lights occasionally brought the cars to a complete halt. Finally, what we were all waiting for appeared: A hearse with close family and friends of Saul Zabar slowly passed the store amidst thunderous applause. Saul had passed away two days earlier and today was the funeral and burial which would take place at a cemetery on Long Island.

Slowly, the hearse passed and faded into distant Broadway, cameras were returned to their pockets and the employees returned to work.

I proceeded to the fish counter where I have been working for the last 35 years. I retrieved my knives from the secret hiding place where I store them when they’re not in use and readied them for the day’s work. One by one, my associates slowly appeared until all stations were tended. The fish counter was fully staffed and ready. Slowly, the store became filled with customers as if it were any other day. But it was not like every other day to me. When I looked out at the shoppers and the counters opposite mine, everything was the same yet different. The store’s usual brightness seemed to have faded somewhat. My mind started to wander:

What will happen at 2:00 pm next Thursday, and the Thursdays thereafter when the “Over 95″ Club convenes for its regular Thursday meeting? Will it convene? Now there is only one remaining member and he will be 96 on Jan. 1, 2026.

Only time knows the answer.

About ten months ago, just after I reached the age of 95, Saul appeared behind the fish counter at about 2 on a Thursday. He had been showing up here at the fish counter for about as far back as I could remember. We would greet each other and discuss what had occurred during the prior week. He would tell me about the doctors he had seen, the physical ailments that had been affecting him. He would often ask if I had experienced the same malady or situation.

We talked about films we had seen on television during the past week, which were the good ones, which were the bad. Sometimes we would talk about the fish. I thought the sable was exceptionally good this week, tender, sweet not salty, I might say. He would then slice off a piece and make his comment.

Then, suddenly he would turn and leave the fish counter. No “goodbyes,” no “see you next week.” He was gone. The meeting was officially over. On one particular Thursday, a while back, I told him that I had inaugurated “The Over 95 Club” and that he and I were its only members. I got a half smile from him on that one.

And so the “Over 95 Club” continued with its Thursday meetings until one Thursday, about six months ago, when he didn’t show up. I let it pass. I asked some of my co-workers if they had seen him in the store during the prior few days and they said he had been in the store every day as usual; however, he spent less time than was his custom.

As the days and weeks passed, he would come to the store even less frequently and on an irregular basis, until one day he stopped coming. I didn’t get details other than that he was sick.

The “Over 95 Club” met no more.

Every Thursday that followed I wondered if he would show up until one day, about six weeks ago, I got a call from the store’s general manager — Saul had had a stroke, was in the hospital and was not expected to make it. I sat down, stunned by those words: “Not expected to make it” I couldn’t let it go. I went to bed that night still hearing those words: “Not expected to make it.”

The following morning, at the breakfast table, I started to reminisce about Saul.

When I had started work at Zabar’s, he’d been a hands-on boss. No joking around when he appeared every day in each of our many departments, commenting on what he observed and making suggestions that he felt would increase efficiency. Even though he was firm and direct as “the Boss,” he was still “Saul” to everyone. No one called him Mr. Zabar.

He would visit the Acme and Banner locations in Brooklyn where all the fish was smoked; he was always given first choice of all the smoked fish. The smoked salmon he selected became the famous, one and only “Zabar’s Nova,” the choice of the lot. That hands-on style of his accounted for Zabar’s having the best smoked fish in all of New York and points north, east, south and west of the city.

Saul knew he would not be around forever, but maybe, just maybe Zabar’s would. So, he carefully selected those employees from the younger set who he thought were capable and had the foresight to realize the future that Zabar’s could have in store for them. He taught the staff all they needed to know, so that when the time came they would have the knowledge to follow in his footsteps.

He was a dynamo, and because of all that he did and was, I imagined him still there, still sitting with me on a break, still sharing details of his doctor’s appointments and the movies we both loved. I still saw him at the fish counter. I still saw him behind it or just walking through the store, his store. He wasn’t gone for me — and I wondered if people would still see me when I was gone.

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