The Poor Man

The porch had a hole large enough to drop a foot into without fear of scraping your ankle, and the dog sleeping on it was making a good job of playing dead.

The man’s wife answered the door wearing a dress that was made out of the same material that they used to make flour sacks out of. It had been a long time since she’d seen the inside of a beauty parlor, if she had ever done so.

She escorted me and my double armload of TV into the front room, where the naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling was trying vainly to illuminate the scene.

The TV was an inexpensive model, with a cabinet that looked like masonite with a fake wood veneer on it. It sported a hole in the side that looked like it could accommodate a size nine shoe, and may have done so at some time. The bill was the biggest I had ever seen for TV repair.

I put it in the place reserved, and I was making a few unnecessary adjustments when the poor man came in from the fields. Even as a callow teenager, I was struck by the appearance of this stereotypical dirt farmer. He was wearing bib overalls which looked like they been remodeled with a shotgun, or perhaps battery acid. I don’t remember whether he was bare chested or if he had a T-shirt, but I remember the hat.

It was a straw cowboy hat, and it was not new. The brim was shredded in two places, and a hole in the crown provided unneeded ventilation. It went with the rest of his attire, as did the house, the family, and the surrounding land.

"Shore looks a lot better than the last time I saw it," he remarked to me.

"It needed a lot of work," I answered. A glance at the bill had told me that we had nearly replaced all the tubes in it, including the picture tube, and several other components as well.

"How much is it?", he asked me. I couldn’t speak. I just handed him the bill. He looked at it expressionless for a few seconds. "Boy, that’s a lot of money," he said to his wife, waving the bill at her. "But it shore looks good, don’t it, Ma?" She didn’t answer, but nodded her agreement.

"Guess I better pay you," he said, as he dug in his front pocket. His large rough hand came out clutching a roll of bills that was about the size and shape of a ham sandwich. He peeled off a $100 dollar bill, which revealed several more just like it underneath, fished out a $50 bill, and searched in vain for something smaller.

"You got a twenty on you, Ma?", he said to his wife. She dug through the front pocket of her apron, brought out a wad not quite the size of the one her husband carried, pulled a $20 bill from it, and handed it over.

"There you go, young feller, that’s OK, keep the change." And I went on my way, wiser than when I’d arrived.