Whenever it snows, the guy who lives around the corner shovels my drive and front walk. I don't call him; he just shows up whenever a few inches accumulates. It's senseless to ask him to check the weather forecast before he arrives. He's intent on only one thing, doing a good job, even if the evidence of his hard work has melted away before he's finished.
It's impossible to tell his age, but I guess he's in his mid-fifties. His wife died sometime ago. He can't recall the year, or even the month.
He has a speech impediment that makes it difficult for him to communicate, but I understood well enough when he told me he'd been sad since his friend committed "tuitide." Whenever he's finished, I ask him how much I owe him. The answer's always the same.
"I don't know."
It hasn't snowed for awhile, so I haven't seen him lately. On the last occasion, as always, we settled on a price after he'd finished. I gave him $5 extra and he gave me a "tweddit."
Tall me twazy.