Sam's Job

My fan belt goes to pieces just south of
Lufkin. The first garage I see is in a beat-up,
rusty sheet iron building. Any old port
in a storm. I pull into their lot, walk in the front

door. To the left is a desk equipped with
a bald guy wearing a khaki shirt. The name
 "RICK" embroidered above the pocket. RICK's
talking on the phone. He glances up, nods at me. I

look toward the back of the waiting room, discover
two seen-better-days green couches leaking
stuffing at their seams. The couch on the left
is occupied by an old tan and white hound

dog. She raises her head to examine me, unfolds
herself, walks stiffly up front to say howdy. RICK's
still talking on the phone. I hunker down to
meet the dog. She looks at me with friendly eyes,

gently nudges my leg with her nose. I reach out
to scratch her ear. Oh, she likes that, leans
into my hand. The dog and I are having
a big old time when I hear RICK hang

up. I stand. "Fan belt's busted. When can
you get to it?" "What kind of car you got?" I
give RICK the specs. "If you can wait about
an hour, we can most likely fix her up." "Well,

I can't go any further till it's done. I'll just be camping
out on your couch ." "Now, don't you let that dog
bother you too much. Sam figures that she runs things
around here. " By this time, Sam's returned

to her nap. I plunk down on the other couch, pick
up yesterday's Lufkin Daily News. A few minutes
later, another customer comes in. Sam looks
up, goes to greet the newcomer, gets petted a

little. On the way back to her spot, she
detours by where I'm sitting so I can
scratch her ears again. Sam climbs back up on
her couch, stretches out, puts her head down, starts

snoring. In the next hour that pattern is repeated
a half dozen times. Sam greets everybody
that comes in, always circles by me to get
her ears scratched. Eventually, RICK

hollers, "You're good to go." I unfold myself
from the couch, circle by where Sam is dozing.
I scratch her ear, settle my bill, get in my car,
head on down the road.