---

Every small town has its rhythms, and my summers in the 10th grade were set to the beat of my father’s volunteerism. Or, more accurately, my volunteerism, which was politely mandated. My job was to be the community’s teenage handyman for the elderly. For a whopping five dollars a pop, I’d push wiry grass over unruly lawns or perform tasks that would make most teenagers balk—like discreetly disposing of slop jars. It was less about the money and more about staying out of trouble and, I suppose, learning a thing or two about character.

One of the more memorable characters was an old gentleman named G. Alexander. He was a fixture in our community, a man of few words but clear intentions. He drove what I’m convinced was one of the first Toyota pickups to ever hit our county roads. It was a sight to behold: a brilliant, almost-lime green with a body so thin and insubstantial it seemed more concept than car. Closing the door was an act of faith. It didn’t think with American steel solidity; it clicked and rattled, like shutting a giant Pringles can. You half-expected it to crack under your palm.

On a blistering summer day, this iconic truck rumbled into our driveway. Mr. Alexander needed help walking his pasture’s electric fence to ensure it was all working. It seemed a simple, if not slightly odd, task. I climbed into the passenger seat, the door giving its characteristic tinny sigh as I closed it.

We arrived at his property, and he laid out the simple rules. “Don’t touch the wire,” he grunted, his eyes serious. “Won’t kill ya, but you’ll wish it had for a second or two.” Message received.

We started at the corner post behind his house and began our slow, methodical trek. The sun beat down, and the only sounds were the crunch of our boots on dry grass and the distant, lazy buzz of insects. We’d covered about a hundred yards when he paused.

“You keep goin’,” he said, turning his back to me and waving a hand dismissively. “Nature calls.”

I nodded, a respectful young man, and continued my solemn duty. I walked carefully, checking the insulators and making sure the wire was taut and free of grass that could short it out. The pastoral silence was absolute.

And then it was shattered.

A blood-chilling, guttural scream ripped through the afternoon calm. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated shock and pain. Before I could even process it, the scream morphed into a torrent of the most creative, blistering, and impressively sustained cursing I had ever heard—and growing up in the country, I’d heard a few. It was a symphony of anguish and profanity, each word more inventive than the last, echoing across the pasture.

I spun around. There stood Mr. Alexander, facing the fence, doing a little panicked jig. The situation became perfectly, painfully clear. The man had peed on the electric fence.

Whether it was a tragic miscalculation of distance or a moment of forgetfulness brought on by a full bladder, I’ll never know. I didn’t ask. The look on his face when he finally trudged over to me was answer enough—a potent mixture of agony, fury, and profound embarrassment.

Without a single word, he jerked his head toward the truck. The work day was over. We walked back in a silence so heavy you could feel it. The ride home in that little green Pringles-can-on-wheels was utterly silent, the air thick with everything that was left unsaid. He dropped me off with a stiff nod, and I never got another call to push a mower or walk a fence for Mr. Alexander again. I think the humiliation ran deeper than the jolt.

I’ve seen those TV shows and internet videos where experts, surrounded by oscilloscopes and graphs, “prove” you can’t get shocked that way. They talk about streams of water not being continuous conductors and the physics of it all.

I’d just like to say, on behalf of me and the late Mr. Alexander, who certainly knew better than any laboratory: the theory is sound, but the practice… well, the practice hurts like hell. And sometimes, the proof is in the painful, and very loud, experience.