Friends, Followers, and the One Who Shows Up Anyway

By Mark Morgan

www.markmorganbooks.com

I reckon we’re livin’ in the only time in history where a man can have five hundred friends and still have to scoot his own couch.

You hear folks brag about it, too.“Got five hundred friends,” they’ll say, like they’ve just won the county fair blue ribbon for socializin’.

Now I ain’t sayin’ that’s not somethin’. Five hundred’s a heap of folks. That’s about how many people you’ll see driftin’ through Main Street if there’s a sale goin’ on and the weather ain’t hotter than a stolen tamale.

But I been thinkin’ on it, sittin’ on my porch swing the other evenin’, listenin’ to it squeak like a rusty hinge and watchin’ the dust hang in the air long after a truck passed — the kind of thinkin’ you only do when nobody’s rushin’ you.

I got one neighbor.

That neighbor don’t comment much. Matter of fact, he don’t comment at all. He just shows up. If my fence is leanin’ lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut, he’s there. If a storm drops a limb, he’s got a chainsaw before I’ve even figured out where I laid my gloves.

Now here’s where modern life sneaks in.

Inside my house, I got another “friend.”Name’s whatever it came with, but I just call him Buddy.

Buddy’s a robot vacuum.

Buddy don’t eat. Don’t talk. Don’t complain. He bumps into the same chair leg every day like he’s tryin’ to prove a point. But Buddy’s loyal. He’ll circle my feet like a hound dog dreamin’ on the floorboards, hummin’ to himself, cleanin’ crumbs from a cast-iron skillet meal I probably shouldn’t have had seconds of.

Buddy never asks for gas money.Buddy never needs help movin’.Buddy’s fine as frog hair split four ways.

Truth be told, Buddy’s been inside my house more than most of my five hundred friends.

But when the rain comes down sideways and a calf gets stuck in the mud, Buddy don’t leave his dock.

That’s when the neighbor shows up.

Boots sinkin’. Rope strainin’. Both of us workin’ like a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest. Nobody takin’ pictures. Nobody postin’ updates. Just grunts, mud, and the kind of teamwork that don’t need explainin’.

Later on, after it’s done, we’ll sit on the porch. Won’t say much. Watch the Scott County hills darken up. Listen to the screen door thwack shut behind us. Maybe talk about nothin’. Maybe talk about everything.

Buddy’ll still be inside, bumpin’ that chair leg.

And my phone’ll still be buzzin’, remindin’ me I got five hundred friends who hope I’m doin’ well.

Moral of the Story:

A robot might clean your floor, and five hundred folks might like your picture — but when life gets muddy, it still takes a real person in real boots to pull you through.