The Territorial

Earl Jenkins wasn’t what you’d call a bright man, but he made up for it with enthusiasm, persistence, and an impressive lack of self-preservation. Folks in town said he was born under a lucky star, mostly because he was still alive after 62 years of bad ideas.

One fine Saturday morning, Earl decided he was tired of looking at the sagging stretch of barbed wire that divided his place from the Miller’s pasture. It leaned like an old drunk at closing time, and every time he saw it, it made him itch to do something productive, which, from Earl, was a warning sign.

Now, Earl had watched his neighbor, Hank Miller, mend fences plenty of times. Hank used fancy words like “tension” and “torque” and carried around a neat little tool belt that made him look professional.

Earl figured he could do the same, except he didn’t own a tool belt, didn’t understand torque, and wasn’t entirely sure where tension went. He did, however, have a plan.

Step one: dig out the old rotten fence posts. Step two: hammer in new ones. Step three: stretch the wire tight as a banjo string. Easy enough, he thought, sipping his coffee and ignoring the warning voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his late wife.

Earl had managed to dig out three posts and break one shovel handle by noon. He repaired the handle with duct tape.

When it came time to tighten the wire, he realized he didn’t have a proper fence stretcher. No problem, he had a pickup truck, a length of chain, and a complete misunderstanding of physics.

He looped the chain around the wire, hooked it to the hitch, and hopped into the cab. “This’ll do it,” he muttered, firing up the engine.

It did do it, just not in the way Earl intended. The truck lurched forward, the wire sang like a plucked string, and before Earl could say “torque,” the corner post shot out of the ground like a missile, sailed a good twenty feet, punching a hole in his rear window.

Earl sat in the cab, heart pounding, watching the last of his dignity drop like busted glass. That’s when Hank Miller pulled up in his ATV.

“Whatcha got going on here, Earl?” Hank asked, with the kind of polite curiosity that people use when they’re trying not to laugh.

“Just testing tension,” Earl said, climbing out and dusting himself off. “Seems I might’ve overachieved.”

Hank surveyed the damage, rubbing his chin. “You know, Earl, there’s an old saying, if you’re gonna be stupid, you better be tough.”

Earl grinned. “Well, I’m still standing, ain’t I?”

Hank chuckled and helped him drag the post out of the passenger seat of the truck. By late afternoon, the two of them had the fence upright again, mostly straight, mostly stable, and held together with more hope than engineering.

When they finished, Earl wiped his brow and admired their work. “You know,” he said, “I’ve learned something today.”

“Yeah?” Hank asked.

Earl nodded solemnly. “Next time, I’m buying the tool belt.”

Hank laughed.

And from that day on, whenever Earl drove past that stretch of fence, he felt a quiet sort of pride, not because it was perfect, but because it was standing. Sometimes that’s enough.

After all, if you’re gonna be stupid, you might as well learn something along the way, and maybe share the laugh before the next bright idea strikes.