I am the local man. The man on the street, the cop on the beat, the guy who picks up your garbage, the engineer who pulls the horn on the train when it passes.
The local weatherman, the local sports fan, the local greeter at the big store, the cashier who makes small talk about the things you buy, "Looks like someone's having tacos tonight."
When you call the local cab I'm the guy who shows up. When a teacher helps a kid tie his shoes, that's my fingers on the strings. The barber, that's me. The surgeon who puts in your artificial hip, look right in my face.
I grade your roads, I bale your hay, I pick lettuce at $50 an hour, I plow the fields, I pore asphalt in potholes, I pick up couches and big screen TVs for the rent-to-own place when you default on your contract, I'm there to drive your bus, pull your teeth, mow your yard, and flip burgers.
Yeah, that's me shoveling snow, delivering mail, punching steers, slicing meat, changing tires, and baking donuts.
I'm the local man -- the man who tips his hat and says, "Thank you, come again." I haven't got a problem with it. Why would I? It's a living.