Earle

introduces himself,

steps through my open door, shakes my hand.

His grip, to me, feels like a solid red brick.

I say, “Hi! My name’s Ken!”

He’s here to install

a new-no-tub-stand-up-shower

in my bathroom

so I don’t need to fear turning ’round

in an 18 inch wide tub

with nothing to grab onto but a shower curtain

while I flip onto and over the near-by commode.

Earle’s maybe in his 60’s or a tough-lived 50.

He calls me, “Sir.”

I’m a galvanized Yankee living in The South.

Nancy and I have been coming down here

to the Cape Fear for nearly 25 years

for Christmas vacations,

Summer stays by the sea

and now, permanent residents of

this old Confederate, fortified seaport,

but I am still not acclimatized, even after all these years

to being called “Sir” by my peers.

A teen aged bus boy, sure.

An early 30’s sales lady at Belks…

Well, OK. Maybe I’ll get used to it.

But Earle?

He’s a multi-skilled, multi-tasking,

focused, non-stop, gentleman craftsman

who completes a job in a day

I couldn’t come near to finishing

in a month of Sundays…

Plummer, sheet-rocker, safety-bar installer…

I bet if he had to install a water proof electric light fixture

in my new shower

he could do that too.

Yet, it’s always “Sir”.

Like a period at the end of every sentence.

Sure!

This is “The South” where “Bless her heart”

can also be a vicious gossip line

and a driver waits while I totter the cross walk

at the WalMart

and waves back, smiling, patient,

when I finally make it to the curb, safely

and wave my “Thank-you”.

Yet he wears his red MAGA hat

so I know if he knew what I think of as true

he’s just as soon run me over,

back-up and do it again to be sure.

Yet, as natural as breathing air,

he waits and smiles and waves.

Earle is Black,

so I get it that there’s a 500 year history

behind his “Sir”.

that doesn’t apply to Miss May-ella

or to the EMT in the middle of the A-Fib incident

I had last week…

But still.

Damned if it isn’t everywhere and everyone.

Black, Brown, White, no matter.

Even the Chinese lady who owns the Asian-Fusion take out!

There is a razor-edged, contradictory, atmospheric gentility here

as automatic as a tipped straw hat from a total stranger

on a warm, Summer goin’ to church Sabbath morning.

Did I mention I grew up in the Bronx,

as did my Father?

(My Mother was a Brooklyn girl so she grew up, softer)

Maybe my bone deep, skeptical yet collegial

wise-assed inclination to respond to anything comes my way

is the New York equivalent of,

just as natural and well-meant

as “Sir” is in the South.

Maybe if I got to know Earle…

Became a friend to his family…

Went to his church…

Maybe he’d, someday,

after 50years or so,

drop the sir and call me Ken.

But I doubt it.

Doesn’t matter, anyway,

since by then we’d both be as dead

as pulled pork at the

Bar-Be-Que.