Hick Could Be a Low Fashion Model

Only a handful of you have seen my husband Hick, my sweet baboo, my dedicated, if not exactly proficient, driver of T-Hoe to various appointments I have in the city. Just this morning, he called to tell me that he finally found a mirror to replace the one he broke while backing T-Hoe out of the garage on the first day of my unfortunate hospitalization in May. Uh huh. Three months of driving without a passenger-side mirror is enough! Never mind that instead of the $350 that Hick initially said it would cost, he has found one for $82. No, he didn't find it at the auction. I think he called it "down market" or "back market," but definitely not "black market." That means it's not exactly manufactured and sold as a Chevrolet part. I can't wait to see what it looks like. I'll probably be the only Backroadsian driving a black Tahoe with a cherry-red fold-in passenger-side mirror.

But we're not here today to sing the praises of my sweaving, scavenging, mirror-breaking better half. Nope. We're here to discuss his questionable fashion sense. Whoa! I'm not shaming Hick because he's not GQ material. He can hop into his overalls (though I DO prefer that he not wear them backwards like that one morning when he couldn't figure out why it was so hard to fasten those shoulder straps) and lace up his Jed Clampett boots as long as he leaves his straw hat with the green visor brim behind. My issue is with him dressing a bit younger than his age.

Tuesday, Hick swove drove me to the hospital for some outpatient surgery. I did not fixate on his attire. After all, I was undergoing the knife, and in no mood for nitpicking. Besides, I had to get up at 3:00 a.m. in order for us to leave by 4:00, so Hick could have been wearing a black Hefty trash bag and silver duct tape prom dress for all I noticed.

Once I was checked in, waiting for the doomcryer to announce my name to go back for surgery, the full effect of Hick's ensemble hit me.

Have you seen those Kia car commercials with the fat hamsters? That was my first thought. Hick had dressed himself in a pair of baggy cargo shorts, the color best described as canvas watermelon dusty rose. For a shirt, he had chosen a polo with the hue several shades off from the shorts, more like an overly-ripe tomato red. In his mind, and his one good eye, I think the colors matched. His feet were shod with black New Balance running shoes, showing just a bit of white ankle-sock.

He caught me looking at him. I didn't want to disparage my driver to his face. Not before he got me home, all groggy, able to fend for myself.

"What?"

"Oh. Nothing. You just have some crumbs there on your shirt, by the pocket. You must have spilled some of those Ritz Bits crackers that you tilted your head back to swallow while you were driving."

"That? Oh, that's just dry skin. From my beard." Hick brushed off the flakes, then gave his goatee a scruffing, resulting in more flakes, which he again brushed off his chest.

Sometimes, the idea of surgery is not the true horror that consumes one's waiting-room thoughts.