Mrs. HM Takes A Page From The Pony's Playbook

This is a case of life imitating artful dodginess. Perhaps you recall how The Pony has a penchant for not really caring about helping others. It's not that he's selfish and entitled. More like he just doesn't THINK of it. And when steered pointedly towards it, he digs in his hooves with mild defiance.

Perhaps it's in The Pony's DNA.

Monday, I left the Mansion for the first time in four days, to mail the Sprint bill. Of course I am not one to let a perfectly good trip to town go to waste. I pulled onto the parking lot of the Gas Station Chicken Store, T-Hoe nearly steering himself. I parked by the moat that separates the GSCS from Farmer H's pharmacy, CeilingReds.

There were a couple cars parked by the sign that used to advertise chicken. A couple more at the gas pumps. And as I was walking in, a car parked by the FREE AIR hose.

Once inside, I proceeded all by my lonesome to the soda fountain for my magical elixir. By the time I got to the cashier, another lady was standing over by the restrooms. The homemade sign on the main door has proclaimed RESTROOMS OUT OF ORDER ever since the Stay-At-Home-Down started. I think they still work. This is just a way to close them to customers so the TOILET PAPER doesn't get stolen. People are ANIMALS, I tell you!

I waited back a respectful 6-foot distance while the cashier tried to help that lady.

"Oh, I'm not here to buy anything. I have a tire that's almost flat. I was hoping somebody might be in here that could help me. I had a tire explode on me one time when I was putting air in, and I'm afraid."

I felt for her. I really did. I know what it's like to have a leaky tire that needs attention. But here's the thing. I did not want to be all up in that lady's 6 feet, walking out with her and standing over a tire. Besides, if she had a tire explode before, how could I be sure that she was not some crazed dry-rot-tire driver, who didn't take care of her vehicle. Maybe she hadn't been out for months. I was not feeling volunteery. Even though my ample rumpus was itching to expose itself to passersby.

"If you give me minute, I can come out and look at if for you," said the cashier. She's a good egg.

"Oh, I don't want you to have to do that. I thought maybe Man Owner would be here."

"He was. I'm not sure what time they left today. But I'll come out. Let me finish up."

Cashier set about ringing up my 44 oz Diet Coke and scratchers (didn't win a thing!). Then the gas of the little lady who walked in wearing a mask with a screaming mouth on it. I took my long-awaited treasures out to T-Hoe, feeling like a heel.

Still. Even Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can't save everybody. I'm sure a man came in sooner or later, to pay for gas, and helped Old Miz Dry Rot.