by Peter Loewer

It was about 11 in the morning when the Breadman came into the general store and tripping over the Shoe-man—who had spread his catalogs with abandon over all the newspapers—dropped an armload of thin-sliced bread and six packs of Twinkies at the feet of the notions salesman. Who in turn was engaged in a fierce discussion with Curmudgeon.

“What’s the matter Fred,” asked Notions, “Never saw you do that before?”

“Yes,” echoed the Shoe-man, as he began to sort through the Twinkies thus arranging them in a neat stack.

“Well,” answered the Breadman, “I’m a tax-payer like the rest of you but what I just saw made me so mad I already squashed two cakes before I came in here.”

He paused to straighten up the loaves, stepping back from the shelves to take in the full artistic effect of his arrangement.

“I was driving down the road and noticed right away that the DOT had painted new yellow lines down the center and a nice job they did.”

“Always wonder just how they got them exactly in the center of the road,” said the show salesman, sotto voce.

“And,” continued Breadman, “when I got to the four corners and crossed over to our road, I saw that some dang fool had taken his truck and driven back and forth over the fresh paint just to mess it up, and I got mad. It’s so bad in some spots that the bright yellow looks like an army had marched over it and sure as shootin’, it’ll have to be repainted and that’s going to cost me—and all of you—more money in taxes! Just so some dumb cluck can prove to the rest of the world that he’s alive.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Notions.

“Bad,” said Curmudgeon, “but you fellows always think that everything is going to wrack and ruin today and that yesterday was a barrel of roses. Well, let me tell you the only thing different today is we got more fools. Did you ever think of the problems we had with ne’er-do-wells when there weren’t no paved roads but just dirt?” Curmudgeon thumb-pumped his pipe and paused for dramatic effect.

“Why I remember when the road between here and the four corners was just mud and ruts every spring, and Albert, the produce man, use to try and drive through the same ruts every day just so he wouldn’t get stuck being forced into the ditch that lined each side. It was a truly amazing feat but he did it. Day after day his truck wheels made the grooves a bit deeper so that by mid-May he never even had to steer—except at the bad turn just above Papa Rudy’s Restaurant—and could sleep all the way to the store.”

The Breadman looked at Shoe-man.

“Till one night,” continued Curmudgeon, “young Billy Rudy came out and took his old man’s tractor and drove back and forth over those ruts right at the biggest bend in the road. Oh, he was busy a-going back and forth and forth and back . . .”

Shoe-man began straightening up his catalogs.

“. . . and the next morning,” Curmudgeon paused to brush a crumb off his knee, “when Albert drove down the road and fell asleep just after leaving the corners, he never knew nuttin’ until—with a great blast of noise and mud—he drove straight into the ruts made by the tractor. He just couldn’t get the power to go over ‘em and with the steering wheel taken right out of his grasp drove full force into the bank on the other side of the ditch. It took three men, two horses, and old man Rudy driving the tractor to get him out—and Albert wouldn’t eat at Rudy’s for two years, he was so mad.

“So you see,” finished Curmudgeon, “you fellows don’t know what you’re complaining about,” and with a tug at his overall suspenders he walked out the door.

“Oh, well,” said the Shoe-man.

“This is how the day begins,” said Notions.

Breadman said nothing.