The Pro Door-Holder

On our return trip from Oklahoma last week, Hick decreed that he HAD to stop by Bass Pro Shop in Springfield, to get some parts to repair his fishing poles. I was not keen on the idea. I hate riding for five hours, and this would add an hour. Also, he kept fiddling with his phone while driving 75 mph on the interstate, because he was too stubborn to pull off in the parking lot before we left the hotel, to set the Garmin.

I know my way around Springfield, having lived there for three years. I knew right where Bass Pro Shop was. But Hick wanted to go in from the north side of town, when we were coming from Joplin, on the south side. Which would have added more time to the detour. I'm not well-versed on south side geography, but I told him a major expressway. Hick chose to fiddle with his phone at 75 mph.

Anyhoo...once we got there, Hick asked if I was going in. Yes. Because we were an hour behind our regular rest area stop. And my legs were already tired of riding. Hick parked as close as he could without being in the handicap spaces. Of course he never thought of dropping me at the door...

Anyhoo...I hobbled across that lot on my stiffened car-riding knees. Hick held himself to only 10 paces ahead of me. I know I'm really slow, but it doesn't pay to try and speed up. That's when I get a trick-knee semi-collapse. So I putter along.

At the door, just as we were within arm's length, a guy and his gal darted in from the left side. Hick might not have even seen them. He's blind in that eye. But this guy grabbed the door handle just ahead of Hick's grasp, and pulled it open for us. A nice gesture, but not one I was wanting.

"Oh, that's okay! Thanks, but we can get it. Go ahead."

"No, no. I promise I'll keep my six-foot distance away!"

We went on in, me rushing more than I should, trying to explain that it was just my SLOWNESS that was the issue. Not being afraid of this guy breathing on us.