The Story of Pat
Everybody in the neighbourhood knows Pat. He's the guy at the four-way stop who waves you through even when it's dead obvious it's his turn — he'll sit there flashing his lights and grinning until you give up and go, because as far as Pat's concerned, he's got nowhere to be that can't wait, and you look like you might.
He's been making sawdust since the seventies. Ask him how long a project will take and he'll say "about two pots of coffee." Ask him what it costs and he'll ask what you think is fair. There he sits and there he spins on that old shop stool, waiting for glue to dry, waiting for somebody to come by — and when somebody does, they usually leave with a cutting board.
And if you stay long enough, he'll tell you his favourite story: the one about the knock at the door, where a fella opens it up and there's nothing on the step but two shoes. Then another knock — two shoes and two feet. Then another… Nobody in fifty years has ever heard how it ends. The grandkids fall asleep, the coffee runs out, or Pat remembers something he left clamped in the garage. The ending, like most of Pat's best work, is still in progress.