LITMIR.BIZ

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tried to look serious. “What seems to be the problem?”

      Loper heaved a sigh and looked up at the sky. “Slim, if I knew the problem, I’d fix it. It won’t start.”

      “I don’t reckon you bothered to check the gas tank. These motors run better when they’ve got gas.”

      Loper stared at him. “Am I stupid? Do I look stupid?”

      “Well, now, that’s a matter of opinion, I reckon, but the truth is that sometimes you don’t check the gas.”

      “Once. I did that once, and it was so long ago, nobody remembers it. Nobody but you, that is. Half the time, you can’t remember which boot goes on which foot, but you’ll never forget the one time I forgot to check the gas.”

      “You’ve done it many times, Loper. You just slam-bang your way into these deals and then throw a little fit when the thing won’t start. If you ask me, that’s pretty childish, a grown man yelling and carrying on. And kicking the poor machine. How’d you like to be a garden tiller and have some yahoo kick you first thing in the morning?”

      Loper studied him for a long moment. “You know, Slim, if somebody didn’t know better, he might think you’re some kind of hotshot mechanic.”

      Slim raised his chin. “I’ve made a few turns with a wrench, and if I do say so myself, I’ve bailed you out of more than one mess.”

      “Oh, you have, huh?”

      “Yes sir, I sure have, and the reason is that you’ve got no more patience than a teenage boy during a full moon.”

      “Is that so?”

      “That’s so. We’ve got raccoons on this ranch that would make better mechanics than you.”

      A wicked smile slithered across Loper’s mouth. “What are you saying? Are we drifting toward some kind of friendly wager?”

      “Not friendly.”

      “How much?”

      Slim hitched up his jeans. “Five bucks says I’ll have this tiller throwing up dirt in thirty minutes. You just run along and find some little job to keep you out of my hair, and I’ll do the rest.”

      “By grabs, I’ll take that bet.” Loper waved good-bye and started walking toward the corrals. “See you in half an hour.”

      “Good deal. And bring cash. We don’t take checks or credit cards.” When Loper had gone, Slim gave me a wink. “Heh. He never checks the gas. Watch this, pooch.”

      He unscrewed the lid of the gas tank and poked a finger into the opening. His smile faded. When he brought it out, the finger was dripping gasoline. He wiped it on his jeans and said, “I’ll be derned. He checked the gas. I guess we’ll go straight into Plan B.”

      He took the starter rope in his hand and gave it a pull. Again and again. Minutes passed. The motor turned over but didn’t start.

      Twenty minutes later, Slim had shucked off his hat and shirt. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose and his face had turned a dangerous shade of red. He stretched a kink out of his back and started screaming at the tiller.

      “Contrary machine! Moron! Dadgum frazzling modern contraption!” Then, before my very eyes, he kicked the tiller. “All right, by netties, you asked for this. I’m fixing to give you open-carburetor surgery, and if you die on the operating table, I’ll personally haul you to the junk yard.”

      With that, he stomped into the machine shed and stomped back outside with a handful of wrenches and other tools. He bent over the machine and was about to begin the surgery, when Sally May walked up. I guess she’d heard all the screaming and wondered what was going on.

      She stood there for a moment, looking over Slim’s shoulder. “It won’t start?” Slim was too mad to speak. “Didn’t we have this problem last year?” Slim grunted and went on working. “What was the problem last year? Oh, some little valve or gizmo on the gas line. Somebody had shut off the valve.”

      Slim’s head drifted up. He cut his eyes from side to side. “That ain’t it, Sally May, I already checked.”

      She smiled and shrugged and went back down to the house. Slim watched her leave. When she reached the yard gate and was too far away to see what he was doing, he slipped his fingers under the carburetor and turned a little valve. Then he reeled his watch out of his pocket and checked the time.

      A smile spread across his mouth and he yelled, “Loper! Come get your tiller!” Then he looked down at me and chuckled. “Heh. Clean living and patience have triumphed again, pooch.”

      Loper arrived moments later. Slim pointed to the machine and said, “Give ’er a twirl and see what she says.”

      Loper stepped up to the machine and pulled on the starter rope. It chugged on the first pull, and started running on the second. Loper scowled, shook his head, muttered, pulled out his wallet, and shut off the machine.

      He handed five bucks over to Slim. “Here. May it bring you misery. What did you do?”

      “Oh, not much. Overhauled the carburetor, blew out the lines, changed out the piston rings, replaced the head gasket. Thanks, Loper. We sure appreciate your business.”

      Slim flashed a grin and stuffed the money into his pocket.

      Loper was silent for a moment. “Slim, suppose you’ve got two men standing side by side. How can you tell which is the boss and which is the hired hand?”

      “Well, let’s see. The hired hand’s handsomer and looks quite a bit smarter?”

      Loper shook his head. “Nope. The boss is the one who goes to town on an errand, and the hired hand’s the one who plows the garden.”

      Slim’s smile died. “Now hold on . . .”

      Loper patted him on the shoulder. “I don’t know how you started that thing, buddy, but it was some kind of crooked deal. Never cheat the boss, Slim. Have a great day.”

      Then, whistling a tune, Loper hiked over to his pickup and drove away.

      Chapter Two: The Sharing of Pain

      That left me and Slim standing there alone. Slim’s face had settled into a wad of sour lines. I could see that this was turning into a Sharing the Pain situation, so I switched my tail over to Slow Taps, and even tried to squeeze up a few tears.

      I mean, this was a sad time, right? Slim had succeeded in his mission of starting the stubborn machine, yet Loper had . . . to be honest, my attention had wandered and I wasn’t really sure what had happened, but of this I was sure: Slim’s fortunes had taken a dive and he looked unhappy, very unhappy.

      Every unhappy master needs an unhappy dog. That’s the whole concept behind the Sharing of Pain. By George, if Slim’s mood had just fallen into the Toilet of Life, the least I could do . . .

      By the way, were you aware that we have a song for The Sharing of Pain? We do, and I happen to know it. Here’s how it goes.

      The Sharing of Pain

      The sharing of pain is always a strain.

      It causes a huge emotional drain.

      You’ve got to look bleak.

      It’s not for the weak.

      This little racket pays off even better than gold,

      If you’re bold . . . enough.

      You start with a face that mirrors the boss.

      Then

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