Hick came home Tuesday with an injury. He was whiny and petulant that I did not notice. Like a just-engaged woman flashing her left hand around, Hick milled about the kitchen after carrying in three bags of groceries, waving his right arm.
"You ain't gonna say nothin'?"
"About what? I just came in. Let me set down my purse."
"My arm! Don't you see it?"
"Uh. You have a bandaid?"
"The swelling! It's all puffed up! See?"
"Well... maybe. What happened to you?"
"I went to move the ladder we'd been using over at the house, and a DRILL FELL ON ME! It really hurt. I thought it was broke!"
"You should have gone to the emergency room. Like Old Buddy, heh, heh, every time he doesn't feel good."
"It's HIS FAULT! He left the drill on top of the ladder! I've told him a hundred times not to leave things on the ladder! This is what happens. After a half hour, it quit hurting so bad. So I don't need no doctor."
I saw the bandaid. And I guess a few lumps. I almost felt sorry for Hick. Until we started talking about Cheap House a couple hours later.
More to come...
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