The Reporter Becomes The Story

Mrs. HM is guilty of eavesdropping at the Gas Station Chicken Store again. Only THIS time, she overheard herself. Maybe somebody in line was mentally getting a blog post ready. Good luck, somebody in line! I'm going to scoop your story!

 

I sat in T-Hoe for a few minutes, gathering up my correct 44 oz Diet Coke change, and sorting through my winners to cash in for new scratchers. When I eased out, slowly stretching my sore knee before attempting to walk around the corner, a guy at the gas pumps hollered to me!

 

"Those roads are something, huh!"

 

Well. Short of my sister the ex-mayor's wife sending him to stalk me and embarrass me about the condition of T-Hoe's muddy flanks... I figured it must be somebody from our enclave.

 

"They sure are!"

 

I have no idea who that guy was. He was pumping gas into a white van. Not a white raper van. A more modern white van, with black trim, and more angular lines. He was tall. With a bald head. Almost shaved-Telly-Savalas-bald. In jeans and a white t-shirt with some kind of company name on the back, faded. I felt I had done my part to respond, and hobbled inside.

 

As I was putting the lid on my magical elixir, I saw the ersatz Kojak at the counter, paying for gas, and getting a draw ticket. He took the red tear-off tickets that are handed out for a gas drawing, and stepped back to put them in the drawing box.

 

"You know we have a bridge out, and the road is closed."

 

"Bridge out?"

 

"The one over on the back side."

 

"Oh. Farmer H mentioned that to me, but I don't go out that way."

 

"I called the county, and told them how much traffic we have on our road, with people using it for a detour. I asked if they'd haul us two loads of gravel, to help with the potholes. They said no."

 

"Well, it doesn't hurt to ask! We have more potholes in front of our BARn field than anywhere else on the road. I don't know HOW we got so many!" [not from the cut-through traffic, because we're on a side road dead end]

 

"Hey, when it was packed down with the snow, wasn't it just like driving on blacktop?"

 

"YES! That was great!"

 

"Well. Except for the guy who took out that pole and cut our electric."

 

"You know who that was, don't you?"

 

"Probably that kid."

 

"It was the LAWYER'S kid! He turned 18 that day, and then slammed into the pole. Not a good birthday." 

 

[I had to clarify the KID part, because I think he meant our next door neighbor Copper Jack's human daddy's grandson, who has been in hot water for driving too fast, and put on blast by his grandma, so everybody is supposed to tattle on him to her on Facebook if we see him going too fast.]

 

"Yeah. At least they got it fixed."

 

"At least his dad is a lawyer!"

 

Heh, heh. That was the end of our little reunion, me and a guy whose identity I still don't know. Farmer H told me his name, upon description, and what he does. But it means nothing to me. He's just a friendly bald buy who lives out here and would probably stop to help me if T-Hoe broke down along the road to town.