I was on the way to town Thursday when I saw Hick at Mailbox Row, elbow deep in EmBee. I stopped at the end of our gravel road to put on my seat belt. Hick climbed back in SilverRedO and turned in beside me. Of course this is where we must have a conversation, not at home with him in his recliner, and me on the short couch.
"I just came from Mick the Mechanic's. I was talking to him about working on my truck while I can't drive after my back surgery. What time do you go to town?"
"Um. What time is it NOW? 4:00?"
"Yeah. I guess so. When will you go tomorrow?"
"I usually get out of here a little earlier. Maybe 2:30."
"Oh. Well. You can give me a ride home tomorrow. I'll leave my truck at Mick's. Just call me when you're ready to come home, and you can pick me up."
"You usually don't get home until 5:00 on Fridays."
"Yeah. That's what I'd like to do."
"That's kind of late for me to wait to go to town."
"Well. Whenever. Just call me, and it will take about 15 minutes for me to get there."
Am I evil for mentally seeking a curb to run over, or wishing for a downpour and big trucks to follow on our 4-mile trip home?
I guess I can adjust my schedule to suit Hick's needs. It's not like they stop selling scratchers at a certain time. Besides, this will be the last time Hick gets to shoot the bull and chew the fat with his cronies for a while. His surgery is Monday.