The Man Who Wore a Tie

There was a man when I was a boy, named Curtis Lyle, who wore a necktie every day of his life, even when he was mucking out horse stalls. He said it made him “feel respectable.”

He was a wiry fellow with long wrists, pale hands like uncooked biscuit dough, and hair so perfectly combed it looked shellacked. Curtis wasn’t born with a tie on–he’d grown up barefoot like everyone else–but somewhere along the way, he got it in his head that life was a performance, and he was the leading man.

He’d smile too big, talk like he was reading off cue cards, and always end a conversation with a wink that felt more like a twitch.

My Dad used to say, “Curtis could sell ketchup popsicles to a woman in white gloves, but he’d forget to mention they stain.”

Now contrast that with Buck Harmon, who showed up daily–as himself–overalls with one strap busted, boots older than statehood, and a voice like gravel rattling in a tin pail. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it meant something. You could trust Buck to watch your dog, the kid, or your wallet, and he’d treat all three the same—gently and with purpose.

One summer, there was a need for someone to run the feed store. Curtis and Buck both applied.

Everybody figured Buck was a shoo-in—he knew animals, could fix anything with a motor or a hinge, and once helped birth a calf with nothing but a piece of twine and a hymnal. Besides, he already worked there.

But wouldn’t you know it, they gave the job to Curtis. Why? Because Curtis wore a tie.

He showed up to the interview with a briefcase full of air, smiled like a toothpaste ad, and talked about “branding opportunities” and “community engagement.” Buck showed up with a notebook and a thermos of coffee, laid out a solid plan, and even offered to repaint the place.

But the owners said Curtis had a “vision.” Vision, my eye.

Within a month, Curtis had rearranged everything in the store so no one could find a thing. He replaced the big scoop bins with sleek little baggies of feed that cost twice as much and held half as many calories.

He tried charging ol’ man Petty for leaving boot-prints on the welcome mat. Buck just kept shaking his head, like he was watching someone try to teach a chicken algebra.

Eventually, the store stopped getting much business. Folks started driving 90 miles to the co-op in Arcata so they didn’t have to be smiled at and sold scented hay cubes. Curtis lasted six months before he “pursued other opportunities,” which was his way of saying he got run off.

Later, I asked Buck why he didn’t fuss when he lost out on the job–he sipped his coffee and said, “A man’s character is like a fence–it don’t have to be fancy, just sturdy. If it holds up, folks notice. Eventually.”

And he was right. A year later, they asked Buck to take over. He never changed much–except adding a bench by the door where folks could sit and gossip about Curtis.

Play-actors might get the spotlight for a spell, but when the curtain falls, the honest ones are still standing, sweeping the stage, making things work. And they don’t need a tie to do it.