Menards on a summer Tuesday morning. Three men all looking for the right fastener. I wasn’t sure what I needed.

A farmer was already there when I walked up. You could tell he was the old farming type. Not the John Deere hat — anybody can buy a trucker hat. The hands. The way he stood. He wasn’t searching for anything. He knew exactly what he needed and where it was. All he was deciding was how many.

Then the other one came barreling in behind me. Heavy boots, yellow leather. Timberlands. Brand new, never saw a speck of dirt. Not like the farmer’s. His phone was pressed hard against his ear, finishing a call he wanted everyone within earshot to hear.

“He said 3/4 and told me I was wrong! Like I’m wrong about structural engineering. Yeah. No, I know. Tell Martha I said hi. Bye.” He hung up and made a beeline for the shelf I was standing in front of.

Unprompted, he turned to the farmer. “You’re gonna want the galvanized.” He pointed at the bolts.

The farmer looked at him like he was speaking Spanish, one eyebrow raised. “You reckon so?”

Boots gave him a look like he was ready to throw a right hook. “Well, I know for a fence you want galvanized. Don’t want no rust in two years, do you?” He winked, big deal that he was, hooking both thumbs through the belt loops of his Wranglers. “People never count the cost, do they?” He turned to me with that last part. I shrugged.

“What do you know anyway.” He eyed my long, shoulder-length blonde hair. “Hair looks like shit,” he said, pointing at my ponytail. “You need a haircut.”

The farmer looked at me, shook his head, and reached past the galvanized for exactly what he came for.

As he shuffled off toward the registers, a young guy came down the aisle in a clean green uniform shirt, name embroidered above the pocket: Gene. I think he was the one who’d parked next to me — an SUV, a Tahoe or a Suburban.

“Y’all know if these’ll work for deck railings?” He held up a stainless steel bolt. “Not sure how many I’s gonna need.”

Boots lit up. A captive audience, one that couldn’t say no.

He explained deck railings slow and in detail, the way you would to a kid. Think kindergartener. “That’s how you keep it up to code. Hey — you.” He snapped his fingers at a kid in a Menards vest. “Grab him those three-inch lags you got in the back.” The clerk, maybe twenty, farm-raised and strong, did as he was told.

He came back with two boxes and put them in Gene’s hands. Gene hadn’t asked for lags. He’d been holding stainless.

Boots looked around, satisfied everyone had kowtowed — me, the farmer, Gene standing there with two boxes of bolts he probably didn’t need.

And then he said it. To all of us, to none of us, to the air between the shelves.

“You know, some people think I’m an asshole. I’m not. I just say whatever’s on my heart because I’m always right.” Then he laughed.

Gene laughed too. A bit too quick. The laugh of a man placing a bet, knowing the odds aren’t in his favor, risking it anyway.

The farmer set his box back on the shelf and turned to Gene.

“Don’t do what he told you.” Quiet. Soft. The way you’d gentle an unruly animal. “Lags into the post face’ll pull loose the first time somebody leans on that railing. You want them through-bolted. Carriage bolt, washer, nut on the back side.”

Gene blinked, thumbs flying across his phone.

The farmer picked his box back up and moved deliberately toward the registers. Stopped. Looked back at the loudmouth, thumbs still hooked in his belt loops.

“He’s half right, you know,” he said, patting my shoulder like an old friend. “Half right. That’s how people end up on the ground.”

Then he shuffled toward the exit.

So did I. Not on purpose. I’d forgotten what I came for, and left with the one thing I hadn’t: an air filter for the AC, under my arm.