I Met a Man Who Had No Teeth

I will never forget the short time I spent with him.

I met a man who had no teeth and an interesting walk. His beard was scruffy. His wiry hair exploded out from under his cap. It was a chilly, damp morning and I was driving along a winding Vermont road. He was wearing a disheveled overcoat. He was a short man about 5 feet tall. He looked like he might have just stepped out of the woods to get provisions after a long winter. He was standing in front of an old cemetery. A small, old canvas backpack sat on the ground next to him as he stood to hitchhike.

I’m still not sure why I decided to stop to pick him up.

I’m still not sure why I decided to stop to pick him up. As I pulled over, he walked straight to the front passenger side door with confidence, although his stride was odd, not a limp. It was that of a man who had put many hard miles on his body. I tried to guess his age as he opened the door. It was impossible to tell. He was one of those people who had either led a pretty hard life or aged well. I greeted him as he arranged himself and buckled up. He was very thankful. I told him I was only going as far as the next town which was about 6 miles away. He told me where he wanted to go. It was about 2 miles further. I didn’t tell him at that moment, but I decided I would take him the whole way.

He went on to tell me that he made this trek 4 or 5 times a week. Since it was a Saturday, he had been waiting longer than normal. Usually during the week, he was picked up quickly during the morning commute times. He even had a few people that picked him up regularly during the week. He was on his way to help someone.

At that moment, his cell phone rang. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a phone that was beaten up and old. It worked for him. The call was someone asking him to go somewhere to do some work. I heard him explain that he had already committed to helping a woman today. He would be available on Monday morning. I focused my attention on the road trying not to listen to his conversation. He came across as a hard worker and very thankful for the opportunity to do what the caller was asking.

After he hung up the phone, he told me that it had been a hard winter with very little work. Now work was everywhere but seemed to have conflicting times. It was mostly outdoor yard work. He was helping the woman with small household handyman type projects and cleaning up things after the northern Vermont winter and rainy spring. He used to do construction, but after he was hurt, he couldn’t lift anything heavy or work long hours on his feet. It turned out that he would not be getting paid for the work he was doing for this woman.

He told me that he used to do construction. My first thought was that it must be how he got hurt. I was wrong. Out of the blue he said, “After the gun went off, I was hurt bad, and I can’t lift much anymore.” He hesitated, but before I could say anything, he continued his story. “I was in the wood a little ways when the 12 gauge slipped out of my hands. It hit the ground and went off. The barrel was right next to my leg. I just remember the sound and being on the ground. I couldn’t find my pouch. I put my hand on my hip, and one of my fingers went into my hip bone. Parts were gone. One of the muscles in my leg still isn’t connected to anything, because there isn’t anything to connect it too. They said I was lucky.” I responded, “I’m glad you made it. I never would have guessed.” In my mind I was thinking, “I’m sitting next to a miracle.”

I’m just glad to be alive.

He went on, “I’m just glad to be alive. I’m happy every day. They didn’t know how lucky I was. After I was out of the hospital, I went looking for my pouch. I went back to the spot. It was quite a while after. I knew the spot, though. I got there and looked hard. I found my pouch. I kept my shells in that pouch. It had been on my belt right, on my side, where the blast hit. My shells were still there. Two of ’em were partially destroyed. The primers were barely together.” I said, “Wow.” Assuming I had no idea how shotgun shells worked he explained, “If those primer cores had been damaged any more they would have gone off. There would have been more buck going every which way. There is no way I could have survived.” “When they come to get me, I would have been gone.” “I am lucky to be living. I still have the pouch and the shells.”

I told him that I was so glad to meet him and that I was very glad that I had stopped to pick him up. He said he was glad that I stopped too. I had driven past where I told him I was going, and his story ended just as we arrived at the place he needed to be dropped off.

I met a man with no teeth and an interesting walk.

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