“Sevier County 911, where is your emergency?”

“And I told him that would never work, nuh-uh, but he wouldn’t listen, so I just sat back and watched.”

“911, where is your emergency?”

“He was always like his brother, youknowwhatimean? Just alike. They got it from their momma’s side, their daddy wouldn’t like that.”

The voice was nearly as familiar as my own. I couldn’t be wrong. The wPh2 was hitting right at the back of Eagle Den. I knew just exactly who had accidentally dialed us on their new cell phone this time.

“Richard!” I hollered, much to the dismay of my coworkers who were plugged into the call with me. But he’s about stone deaf so you have to talk loud. I knew the chances of hearing me would be slim, anyway. “RICHARD!!!”

He kept on, talking to whoever about whatever machine they were picking apart. I sighed as I listened, then finally just hung up and called him back. After much fumbling and grumbling on his part, I got him.

“Hello?”

“Richard, it’s Flop.”

“Flop?! Well, what are you a-doin’?”

“Well, I’m at work, and you’ve called us by accident.”

“This dern thing, I don’t know how I did.”

“Well, it sounds like you leaned up against something and mashed it. It’ll call 911 if the 9 is held down for too long.”

“Is that right? Well, I’m okay.”

“I know you are. Just watch it, alright?”

“Alright Flop. Be good.”

Before it was all over, Richard managed to call us twice more that day. I think I finally convinced him to put the phone in a new location, like the bib of his overalls. Or maybe that’s where it was. I can’t remember. I finally threatened to send Charlie Garren after him for a warning on 911 abuse if he wasn’t more careful.

There are people in this world who spend a large portion of their life aggravating other people. I don’t mean getting on their nerves by being hard to get along with, I mean people who derive extreme merriment from picking on other humans. Richard is one of those people.

He was a jolly ol’ feller.

He was the welder for Co-op for I don’t know how many years. That’s how I knew him. I knew his wife first, making her acquaintance in sixth grade math. She was particular. I was scared to death of her. I was (and am) terrible at math, and counting on your fingers was strictly forbidden. I knew she was married, because when I’d stare out the window she’d tease me about daydreaming about her husband’s cattle herd, pastured right across the road from the school. But Richard was much different from Gwin, he was always ready to grin about some mishap. Most of them pertained to him and Gary-I wish I could recall how it was they got naked behind the dumpster that time. It involved Atrazine or hydraulic fluid, one, I can’t remember now.
 He loved to pester me, and was one of the many who would ask me if I was still married nearly every time he ran into me after I wed. He was always saying, “I need to talk to that boy,” and he finally got his opportunity one golden evening in September on the river. I was only a little nervous as he spoke to Johnny…I knew he wouldn’t tell anything too incriminating. Richard retired long before I got married, but he was still a frequent sight at the farm store, never missing an Open House or major event. He could also predictably be found at the Sevier County Fair or any local tractor show. He sure was fond of all his engines, as he should be. They were always spit shined and running like a top by the time he paraded them out. He was also a regular at the funeral home, holding court from an armchair at the back with his cane in front of him, eyeballing everybody who came through the door and hoping to speak to all his old cronies.

I attended Richard’s funeral tonight, along with most of “old Seymour”. For the first time, I didn’t feel out of place in blue jeans and duck boots. (I’d forgotten to pack nice clothes…had I thought I would have worn overalls in his honor). I spent the better part of an hour catching up with several dozen of my former customers, many of whom couldn’t resist gouging me in the ribs and asking if I was still married. I exclaimed to Tuletta as I walked out with her, “I had the best time tonight!” She laughed and said, “If anybody was going to have a good time at the funeral home, it would be you!”

I tell you who would have really enjoyed it: Richard. All his friends telling all his favorite stories, gathered near his spot at the back of the chapel, not missing a thing. I hope Heaven’s got plenty of broke stuff, because he’s gonna need something to keep him busy.