Marcus exited Zup’s and headed to the truck.  as he approached he noticed a spot where a kicked up rock must have taken a chunk of paint off.  The road salt was already helping nature to take its course less than an hour later.  Well, nature was taking its course the way nature did.

And since he knew his nature, he made a stop at the hardware store.  Jack London would have to wait.  After all, the things we value are not measured by the way we speak of them, but our actions regarding them.

He sighed as he drove back, noting that it was clear from the state of the roads and that bridge collapse down in Minneapolis a few years back, that the people responsible for infrastructure clearly didn’t feel the same way; and when they did feel that way you got Amos.

He’d seen Amos in the paint aisle when he was picking out the necessary tools for the job at hand.  They had talked amiably enough, what was the point of being unneighborly after awhile, but somehow it never ceased to amaze Marcus how long it took the man to say so little.  

He’d tried to talk to Marcus about the recent Vikings game, as if there was any sense in feeling pride at the achievements of some millionaires working for some billionaires who happened to be wearing your flag.

It wasn’t that Marcus didn’t like football, in fact he’d seen the game and had been impressed with the drive and focus of the men on the field.  They’d acquitted themselves well and should be proud of themselves.  It was that he just didn’t see the point of being proud of things that were not a result of a choice or effort on your part.

It wasn’t as if he or Amos had been there.  It wasn’t as if he had made the winning touchdown, or completed a pass.  Foolishness.  

No, you’d never see him wearing Purple and Gold for their sake, nor would you see him wearing Green and Gold.  At least, not because of the game.

“So, hey, whatcha doing with the paint there Marcus?”

“Gonna paint the truck.”

“That doesn’t seem like enough, you only got one spray can.”

“It’s enough for what I’m going to paint Amos.”

“But if you paint that area, it won’t match.”

Why people had to be like this, he had no idea.  It seemed perfectly clear to Marcus that since we was likely to be the only owner of the truck, his was the only opinion of the truck that mattered.  And even then, only whether he judged it to work according to his needs.  When it didn’t, he’d obviously get a new truck.  There was no point in telling Amos this of course, it would only encourage him to talk more.

“Probably not, but the truck is black, and I’d rather have it be mismatched and black, than mismatched and rusty.”

Clearly there was some premise that Marcus was missing in Amos’s thinking, but there was no point in guessing the motives of someone, since their actions were beyond his control.

He smiled and found a way out of the conversation quickly and judging by Amos’s expression, he’d felt like they’d had a good conversation.  Well, and good, thought Marcus.  No point in hurting the man, just because they lived their lives differently.

Once he got home, Marcus put away the groceries, cleaned the car and got to sanding.  He was glad of the work and the fact that it gave him a chance to look things over.  There were four nicks in all and he took care of them.  

First sanding, then priming, then painting.  Afterward, there was barely any way to notice at a distance.  Not that you couldn’t tell if you knew where to look.  

Satisfaction and a chicken he’d been roasting in the oven were his reward, as he picked up Call of the Wild and began to read.