Service

The other morning I was filling some gas cans. A big Lincoln Town Car pulled over from an adjacent parking lot, the trunk popped open, and a little white haired lady slowly climbed out. I didn't pay much attention to her until she shyly tugged on my sleeve. She'd been waiting for somebody who knew how to fill a portable gas container, and wondered if I would help her. (Too bad I didn't think about sending a boy home with her to help with whatever project she had. What are the odds she knows how to run the mower if she didn't know how to gas? Probably slim.) I'm betting that her husband is recently deceased. Either that, or like me, she feels guilty going to any full service station (Oregon makes me feel like a real loser...); let alone ours. Our attendee, who is missing an eye, an arm, and most teeth, isn't a real morning person. And no matter what time of day, she uses her good eye to glare away any remaining slothfulness. So, I happily filled the tank for the lady, taught her how to gas her car, finished up paying, and went on my way.
Immediately afterwards I saw a policeman lurking in a hidden turnout along the route. It felt so good to blink my lights and give oncoming traffic significant warning.
Five miles down the road I saw another, and of course repeated my good turn.
Then yet again, less than five more miles down the road, I saw another one!
Ridiculous isn't it. They make me so mad.
"Flash." "Flash." "Flash."
"Flash." "Flash."
I was feeling truly virtuous; noble and patriotic even.
Four good deeds done, in less than one hour!
But in the next town I saw this sign in a man's yard, and realized I was just a swaddled babe.

Just as soon as I figure out what 'BAD-WATER-STOP-SIGN' is, I'm going to grow up to be just like him.