$5 for Gas

My wife and I have lived in what I might describe as a nice upper-middle class community for the past thirty years. I don’t believe there’s another housing area quite like it in this part of Florida. A few hundred homes built in the early 80’s populated by triple that many oak trees; original to the land when the subdivision was first envisioned, and left exactly where they were.

The house next door has been a rental from “day 1,” and a myriad of interesting folks have darkened its threshold. A single woman with a minor child, a Navy recruiter, a blond-haired hippie type under suspicion for the manufacture and distribution of drugs, and … an African-American fella who built wooden pallets in his back yard.

From 6am to 6pm, seven days a week, Melvin and his son would hammer the moments and minutes and hours away, (and any possibility of taking an afternoon nap ran the spectrum from nada to nil). The middle-aged man owned (or rented) a flatbed truck, and as he completed his pallets he would stack them front to back ‘til not a square inch of space remained.

A couple of times my neighbor knocked on my door, and requested help dislodging his truck from the mud. The first time I drove my car into his back yard, surveyed the situation, and realized there was nothing I could do to help him. (Talk about a mechanical David and Goliath).

And then he “kicked it up” a notch.

My doorbell rang.

“Yes, Melvin. Can I help you?”

“Hi Bill. Uh, I wonder if you could loan me $5 for gas.”

“Well, sure Melvin.”

(And I proceeded to retrieve my wallet, and pull out a “5 spot.”)

He thanked me, and retraced his recent steps towards home.

Several days later, my doorbell rang.

I opened the door, and (you guessed it),

“Well, hello Melvin. What can I do for you?”

“Uh, could you loan me $10 for gas?”

There was something very familiar about this scenario; (with one minor alteration). He had doubled the previous amount.

Something was, as they say, “rotten in Denmark.”

I thought, (and almost said) 

“Melvin, you move into a nice neighborhood and shell out $1200 a month for rent, and you can’t come up with a few paltry dollars for gas?”

Well, against my better judgment I left Melvin standing at the door, retrieved my wallet, pulled out the money, and “crossed his palm” with it.

(Again), he thanked me, and set a course for the pallet yard.

And while I wish I could say, “That was the end of it,”

… it wasn’t.

The doorbell rings.

I open the door, and our conversation takes a decidedly different direction.

“Hello, Bill. How are you today?”

“I’m fine, Melvin.”

“Uh, Bill I’m wondering if you could…”

Speaking of “could,” I could just imagine his next five words.

…“loan me $20 for gas.”

And before he could finish his mercenary meanderings, I responded with,

“Melvin, I’m sorry. I can’t be your loan company,” 

… (and was tempted to point towards my ‘No Soliciting’ sign).

To be fair, my wood-banging neighbor had repaid the previous two small loans, (without interest, mind you) in short order, but I could just see this happy circle spiraling into infinity.

Melvin’s grin faded a few decibels, and with this, he struck a familiar path towards home.

A few days later the old flatbed truck, with Melvin in command, pulled out of the driveway for the last time. And though I had prophesied that day would come, I admit I felt rather sorry to see him go;

… If only for the final words I felt compelled to share with him.

By William McDonald, PhD. "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 33. Copyright pending

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