Handyman

He was a handyman. He drove a rusty old station wagon, a ladder tied to the roof with clothes line. I’d see him around town, parked in front of houses with broken windows or a sagging porch. I had chores for a guy like that so one day I stopped where he was working and said, “Say there, I have a few things that need fixing at my place. What do you charge?” He took off his cap. He looked right at me and spoke softly, “I don’t charge anything. But when I see real need, I stop and help.”