“Yeah, boy!” says Rusty Richardson as he greets me for my traditional morning coffee at Bernard’s Store for Men in Jasper. It’s 8:39 and the store isn’t even open yet, but my friend Rusty has allowed me a few petty rebellions. I have parked in my customary spot in the back parking lot, walked through the old creaking back door, and helped myself to cup of Joe in what, through adverse possession, is now my own coffee cup.Today the lights are dim as Rusty and staff prepare for another day of sartorial interchange at Bernard’s. Rusty, splendidly dressed in a white medium spread dress shirt, popping blue tie, wool trousers, and Allen Edmonds loafers, lounges back in his chair and spreads out The Birmingham News.“Have a seat. Tell me the news.”“I don’t know it. You?”The pale interior lights of the store flicker on, as background noise is awash with tunes from XM radio’s The Bridge.“Who’s this, Russ?” I inquire. (Rusty is a 70’s bands magician).“Little River Band,” he says assuredly, licking his thumb and turning the page without fluttering an eye.And this is how it goes. Almost every day, I make my morning stop at Bernard’s, pour my coffee, sit and chat with my friend Rusty Richardson. Nothing too ornate, just a cup of coffee and a good conversation. But it’s the kind of thing that is being lost in America. The simple pleasures of life.In the little bustling town of Jasper, people haven’t forgotten to invest in the lives of other people. Bernard’s has much less to do with the selection of men’s couture than it does the kind of service that Rusty offers, and who he is as a person. Here, Rusty is a town icon because of that fact.I believe that Rusty and Bernard’s were hemmed together a long time ago by a divine hand, and it would be unthinkable not to match one with the other, like peanut butter and jelly. I would feel downright betrayed if he gave up his anointed calling, his unctuous purpose as a haberdasher, and started selling, say, insurance. Some people—well, a lot of people—refer to Bernard’s as “Rusty’s” and there’s not a shred of doubt as to what they mean.As a boy, I remember walking into Bernard’s with my dad, and a darker-headed Rusty kindly stooping over to greet me, a bony, shy kid. Back then, the big lines were Tommy Hilfiger and Ruff Hewn, and Dad always stopped by to see if the new collection had been delivered. These moments furnished the Velcro of a lifelong relationship between my family and this store; indeed it has suited me for nearly thirty years now. Today, as a man and one of Rusty’s best customers, I look him eyeball to eyeball when he extends his famous welcoming grip. The clothing lines have changed, but that same thread of service has never dithered or soiled.Service at Bernard’s includes a personal shoe shine in the back, as Rusty pulls out his crate of sundry black and brown polish. He daubs the shoe, then gets out a horsehair brush and scrubs each loafer to and fro with the force of a Welsh miner. He takes the black polish and does the soles, careful not to get a speck of polish on the leather, and then buffs the pair with a vintage electric shoe polish machine.Service also means alterations at no charge, an ice-cold bottled Coke or Diet Coke for new customers, a free pocket square with select purchases, and a charge account that discourages a zero sum. This in a dog-eat-dog empire of commerce, where Almighty Dollar is pharaoh. This in a world that has lost its sense of what customer service truly means.For Easter, Rusty gave me a Hart, Shaffner & Marx windowpane sport jacket as a token of appreciation. I was set to pick it up the day before Easter, a Saturday, but I got caught in the hustle of life and couldn’t make it before the store closed. When I got home, I found the jacket hanging on my front door in a suit bag. A little yellow Post-It note attached to the hanger read, “Many thanks. Happy Easter!” and underneath, “He is Risen!”Yeah boy.