The Gas Man

I am told I looked like 
my mother.

I was raised in a very small community. There were less than 700 people, and most were emigrants from Europe. My family was from Sweden. Our neighbor was from Greece. Italians, Scottish, Mexican were all woven into the fabric of our community.

There was a handful of women, who simply came out of nowhere. They were just there—polished, dyed, and beautiful. 

It was a railroad town and a place for miners who worked at the lime plant to make a home. Railroaders slept in hotels, or if they were lucky, they had a woman (polished, dyed, and beautiful) with a house on this end of the line, too. 

I always thought Main St. was wonderful. There were three blocks of businesses. At one end was a telephone office, George's Grocery, and a movie theater. A gas station, Smoke House Bar, a cafe with a lounge, and then Grady's Bar were in the middle. At the western edge of downtown, we had a small mercantile, an ice cream shop, a drug store, a jewelry, and a dilapidated hotel.

Highway 30 went through town, and at the far western corner lay a small community with houses boasting chicken coops, large gardens, and a field of alfalfa. That is where Joyce lived. She worked in our church with young people partnering with Nina. Nina was just a good person. We all loved her.

Joyce on the other hand, was polished, dyed, and beautiful. She had glorious wavy red hair that matched her eyes, and her nails were always perfectly polished.

Joyce was married to George. She had been a clerk in George's grocery. After they married, Joyce's sole job was to take care of George. He may have been, well, boring. That is what I thought, but who knows. They married late in life. George had always been a bachelor and was probably naive. He had money, and Joyce was willing to try on married life. They had been married for several years when I came to know her. I was a sophomore in high school.

Years passed, and I left for college. George and Joyce faded from memory.

My mother was a skilled gossip/storyteller. She loved a good story. I looked forward to coming home for the holidays because she always had a tale to spin. She made me laugh, and that was a good thing

When I came home for spring break, my mother was ready with the story.

It had been a frigid winter, and water pipes buried 6-8 feet deep froze in the ground. Trenches with husbands digging a ditch appeared all over town. Of course, everyone suffered. 

It was Saturday when Joyce's furnace quit. Good faithful George called the gas man, and he was to arrive on Monday. Joyce and George huddled in front of the fireplace and ate hot soup, probably in cans from the grocery store. Poor George was not at all aware that Joyce was dissatisfied, or that is what he told the guys at the grocery when quizzed about the incident. In small towns, everyone felt entitled to know everyone's business.

Monday was a hard long day for George and the cold weekend did not help.  Joyce was home alone, cold, lonely, but most of all, bored

That was when the gasman, dressed in his gasman uniform, arrived. It was lust at first glance. That was a piece of gossip my mom could not resist. And she said, "He did not leave."

The punchline was perfect...one of my mother's best. 

When the gasman cometh, lock up your wives!!!

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