There was an old man sitting outside the dusty bar. He sat in a plastic lawn chair. There was a dog with him. The dog was either asleep or dead.

He was whittling a stick for no reason—the old man, not the dog. This is what old men did before TikTok.

A truck with out-of-state plates arrived in the parking lot. An electric vehicle. One of those steel truck-looking things. The kind that looks like a stainless residential refrigerator.

The motorist stepped out. There were kids in his backseat. A wife on the passenger side. Luggage and cardboard boxes loaded in the back.

“Excuse me,” said the motorist, who was thumbing away on his phone. “My GPS isn’t working. Do you know where I can find a ChargePoint station?”

“A WHAT-station?” said the old man.

“To charge my truck.”

The old man lifted his Coke-bottle glasses. “THAT’S a truck?”

“It’s about to die.”

“Sure hate to see what that thing looks like alive.”

“It needs to be charged. I need a NEMA 14-50 or a standard public J1772 Level 2 station.”

“Run that by me again.”

“A V4 Supercharger, or a V3 charger, with a CCS-to-NACS adapter?”

“Do what?”

The young man finally ignored the old man. Soon, he was walking in circles, searching for cell signal in the parking lot.

“What brings you to these parts?” said the old guy.

“I just moved here. I’m opening the new data center in town.”

“Oh.”

“What’s this town like? What kind of people live here?”

“Well,” said the old man. “What were folks like back where you come from?”

The traveler laughed. “Honestly, the people were awful.”

“Really?”

“Yes. That’s actually why I moved. People were selfish, complained all the time, dishonest, and always gossiping. Nobody minded their own business. Nobody EVER helped their neighbor. Everyone was ALWAYS talking politics or looking for something to be angry about. We couldn’t get out of that place fast enough.”

The old man nodded sagely. “Well, I’m sorry to say you’re gonna find the same kinda folks here.”

The young man was annoyed. He climbed into his big triangle and drove away.

A few hours later, the old man was still outside the rundown bar. Still whittling. Still spitting. The possibly deceased dog was still there, too.

A vehicle pulled into the gravel parking lot.

“Excuse me,” said the motorist, stepping out of the car. It was a young woman in city clothes. “My GPS isn’t working. I’m lost.”

“Lot of that going around.”

“Which way is the highway?”

The old man pointed south.

“What brings you to these parts?” the oldster asked.

“I was hired for the new manager job at the Dollar General opening in town. Have you lived here long?”

“Since Truman.”

“What are the people like?”

Spit. “Well, young lady, what were folks like back where you come from?”

“Oh, people were great. Everyone was so nice. They were friendly, honest, and giving. If ever you needed help, someone always offered a hand. Nobody argued, or bickered, or found fault with each other. I hated to leave that place. I loved those people.”

The old man smiled.

“Well,” he replied. “I’m happy to say, you’ll find the same kinda folks here.”

And with that, the dog finally moved.