Column: Tales from Exit 22

It’s a frugal community.

Some might call Two Bits cheap, but frugal is a gentler, kinder word to describe the small city.

Being stingy wasn’t a conscious choice. People didn’t wake up one morning deciding to pinch pennies. It was forced upon them. Circumstances, location, the economy, the times and luck conspired against them. Two Bits is too hot. It’s too cold. It’s too wet. It’s too dry. Several years ago, it was so dry, they had to close two lanes at the swimming pool.

Every resident learned the principle, “Make do or do without.” Auto repair with duct tape is a class taught in junior high. If you should visit someone in Two Bits and see a cat’s litter box, don’t assume your hosts have a cat. It might be for company. Kids are accustomed to a Tooth Fairy who leaves coupons under their pillows for 25 cents off a loaf of bread.

The mayor of Two Bits, Bjorn Liar, is willing to let the rest of the world go buy. His campaign slogan was, “Tightwad! Tightwad! Sitting on the fence, trying to make a dollar out of 15 cents.” He won in a landslide.

Pat Pending, the inventor of the wood-burning microwave oven, buys pants so big that he and his wife are able to wear them at the same time. It’s called pants-pooling. He lowered his showerhead to save on water.

Nora Lender Bee could make five gallons of chicken soup and still have the chicken. One member of her family goes to a movie and then uses hand shadows to present it to the rest. She hangs floss on the line to dry. Whenever she shops for clothes, she asks, “Does this come in anything cheap?” She uses magic markers to write “Old Navy” on plain T-shirts. Nora’s favorite game show is “The Price Is Too Much.”

Ish McNish, who won’t spend a week or pay attention, needs the Jaws of Life to open his wallet. He puts an IOU instead of cheese in a mousetrap. When the restaurant check comes, Ish reaches for his wallet. It has a note in it that reads, “Remember to say, ‘Thank you’ to whoever picks up the tab.”

The church is an important part of the community. It goes nearly broke each year and each year, money appears miraculously. Last year, the money didn’t come when it generally does. The church needed repairs. A wobbly ceiling fan made parishioners so nervous that no one sat in a pew under the fan. Pastor Ammunition (call me “Ammo”) begged and pleaded for money. He did everything short of resorting to blackmail. He could have done that. He knew things. Asking for money was a wasted effort. The church stopped having potluck suppers because no one brought anything but ketchup packets, except for Martha and her husband, Stewart. They chipped the hardened globs of used toothpaste from the sink and offered them as mints.

Ammo’s predicament reminded me of Flip Wilson’s skit in which he portrayed Brother LeRoy. Brother LeRoy was leading Sunday services at the Church of What’s Happenin’ Now. The collection plates were passed and came back empty. The plates were passed again. They returned empty. Brother LeRoy beseeched the congregation, “I know that you want this church to progress. This church must progress.” No response. Brother LeRoy shouted, “Before this church can progress it has to crawl, this church has got to crawl.” The congregation became excited and yelled back, “Make it crawl, reverend. Make it crawl!” Brother LeRoy continued, “After this church has crawled, it’s got to pick itself up and walk, this church has got to walk!” The people shouted, “Make it walk, reverend. Make it walk!” “And after this church has walked, this church has got to get up and run, this church has got to run.” The people were worked into a frenzy and they hollered in response, “Make it run, reverend. Make it run!” Then Brother LeRoy said, “Now, brothers and sisters, in order for this church to run, it’s going need money, it’s going take money for this church to run!” The people cried, “Let it crawl, reverend. Let it crawl!”

At a service in Two Bits, Ammo made an impassioned plea for money and passed his hat, requesting an offering for repairs. The hat returned as empty as it had left.

The pastor didn’t flinch. Ammo raised his hat to Heaven and said, “I thank You, Lord, that I got my hat back.”

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.