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I Shook His Hand

Just a good old guy. Lives alone, a couple miles off the main road. Had a wife once. She died. Cancer. It was hard. They had 34 years together. Good years. He gets along alright, though, as you know some people will. Runs a secondhand machinery shop. Rebuilds a lot of them. Treats you square. Drives an old pickup, Chevy, long bed. He'll come through for you, loan you $50 if you're in a spot, tell you it's OK to borrow the compressor, bring it back when you're done with it. He has good, sound advice for his friends, several of them. Sends and receives Christmas cards from her side of the family when it's that time of year. Throws in $10 to the kids. Not really a big sports fan, but enjoys a good ball game on TV now and then. A big guy with some belly hanging over his belt buckle. Strong in his youth from farmwork and still strong at 55, strong hands. A bit of arthritis, but you won't hear him complain. Puts out the flag on the Fourth. Texas guy. Friendly but not in a goofy way. Talks low and slow. See him driving and he'll raise his hand in a short wave. Not afraid of hard work. Born and raised. Can fix just about anything and does a good job, too. Re-roof a house, install a toilet, replace the driveshaft on a tractor, put up range fencing, etc. Lives clean. Just a couple beers while shooting the breeze with his buddies, shooting pool, you know. Takes a pinch of Skoal sometimes. Rinses early, takes his coffee black, reads the newspaper. Pours buttermilk over a big stack of wheatcakes, a hunk of butter melting in the middle. Not quite as good as the ones his wife would make. The same recipe, the same way, but not quite the same. He thinks of her during these quiet moments as the fork dinks into the plate. Rapes children on his lunchbreak at home, in the basement where they are locked up. Soundproofed. Just mauls them. Everything else was too complicated. He swears that each time is the last time. There is some guilt. People still spoke highly of her. But he did manage to kick cigarettes, after all.

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