The pothole in the handicap parking space had expanded to stock pot size when the spring rains came. The water mixed with the red Texas dirt at the bottom of the hole, and became a soupy mess that made me think of chile con carne. While I smoked, I watched old lady jewelry customers climb out of Oldsmobile’s and Buicks and narrowly avoid broken hips and stained pant suits.

Aunt Cheryl refused to fill the hole or pay to repave the parking lot because the city promised to pay for it five years ago, on account of the water main they busted being the reason the parking lot is cracked and buckled in the first place. And the land lord wouldn't pay for it either, because he refused to pay for most repairs, including the leaky roof that made the ceiling sag in the tool room. The landlord was a sorry bastard that looked like Kenny Loggins in tiny white tennis shorts. He was considered to be a crook by most, but those same folks agreed that he was not as crooked as his daddy, a man universally despised by everyone that knew him. It was also said that the landlord's daddy's coffin had been pissed on by half of ..East Texas.., ‘cause the folks he ripped off in life took their satisfaction when he died. But I wander....

I noticed it for the first time during my after lunch cigarette break. The handicap pothole was full of concrete chunks. Actually half of the pothole was filled in with concrete chunks, piled willy nilly, sharp points aimed at the sky. The right side was empty, and looked deeper by comparison.

"Cheryl? Are you filling in the pothole?"

"No, but I saw that. I wonder who did it. I can tell you one thing...it sure as shit wasn't the landlord or the city."

"Well that's just weird. But really nice. We have a mystery samaritan!"

The samaritan brought more concrete chunks the following week, working under the cover of night. The pothole had been transformed from a chili pot to a miniature mountain that the college boys in 4x4's were afraid to drive over. People preferred to park with the ass-end of their automobile hanging out on Main Street rather than drive over the repaired hole.

"Cheryl, did you notice that they finished filling in the pothole? It looks a little haphazard."

"Yeah, I'm hoping that the samaritan isn't finished yet. Who do you think it is?"

"I thought about it, and I suspect it might be Chuck. He's over road & bridge crew now, and it seems like something he would do."

"You think so? I think that if anybody is filling our pothole anonymously, it would be Larry."

A week later, I noticed the parking lot as soon as Eric dropped me off at work.

"Holy shit! The samaritan finished the job. Look at that! Shit is perfect!"

I jumped out of the car to inspect it. The hunks of concrete were level, invisible, hidden under a dense layer of small rocks and tar, even with the surrounding pavement. I felt bad for doubting the samaritan. He was clearly a man that took pride in a job well done.

Cheryl was also impressed with the quality of the work, and further convinced that Larry had done it.

"I'm gonna ask him the next time we see him, and I bet you money it was that man."

It took two days of waiting before Larry made his appearance. He pulled his battered Blazer, the one with bullet proof seats, into the refurbished handicap spot, and shuffled into the building.

"Hey everbody! How ya'll been doin'?"

We greeted him, allowed that we'd all been pretty good, and asked him the same. He told us about the hotel, said they were moving him from days to nights, said his kids were growing so fast, and he'd taken up riding motorcycles for fun again. And he was pretty close to being finished with the rifle he'd been working on, building it from a Mauser action manufactured by Winchester, and was planning on buying himself a nice long distance scope. He believed it was gonna be a mighty fine shooting gun, and pulled a paper target from his shirt pocket and pointed at the 1 ½ inch shot group. I took my opportunity when he paused for breath.

"Cheryl, did you ask Larry about the hole?"

"No," she said. "Larry, did you fill in our hole?"

"What hole," Larry asked, avoiding eye contact.

"The hole in my parking lot."

"What about it?"

"Did...you...fill...it...Larry?"

Larry looked at me, attempted the face of an innocent school boy. "Whoever filled that hole in did a good job. They took their time and did things right. Have you seen that hole? It looks like it's been professionally filled."

"I know that Larry," Aunt Cheryl said. "Was it you that did such a good job filling in that hole Larry?"

Larry threw back his head and belly laughed at the saggy ceiling, slapped his thigh in celebration.

"I bet ya'll were going crazy, trying to figure out who was filling in your pot hole. I'd come by every couple of days, in the evenings. I just did a little bit at a time!"

He laughed more and tears streamed down his cheeks. "I wish I coulda been a fly on the wall and heard ya'll trying to figure it out. ‘Who in the world?...Who is filling that hole in?’ I bet it was so funny! Ya know why I did it? Back in the late eighties when I still had my liquor store, I had a big ole pothole like that. One day I came to work and noticed somebody had put bricks in my hole. And every night, they’d add a little more, and it was drivin’ me crazy tryin’ to figure out who was doin’ it. Finally, this guy dropped by, started asking me questions about my hole. I knew something was up, so I asked him, ‘Did you fill my hole?’ He started laughin’, and said he drove a truck, delivering bricks. At the end of the night, he’d have left over broken bricks, so he found a place to put ‘em, my hole. So, when I noticed your hole, and then my neighbor had his drive-way re-rocked and I realized that they put a dangerous amount of rock on that drive-way. I didn’t want my neighbor to skid, so I found a hole and put his extra rocks in it. See ya’ll later!”