My neighbor Gary is moving to Tennessee to be near his grandkids. The night before the moving truck came, he knocked on my door holding his phone and a yellow legal pad. He had not come to say goodbye. He had come to hand over his guys. "Sit down. You're gonna want to write this." Twenty-two years in that house. He went through them one at a time, and every name came with exactly one sentence. Not a review. A condition. "Mike, garage door. Cash. Don't call before ten, he's up late with the twins." "Dottie does taxes. She's gonna yell at you. Let her. She has never once been wrong." "Hector, sprinklers. If you ever call somebody else for sprinklers, don't call Hector again. He'll know." I asked how Hector would know. Gary just looked at me. Hector would know. "And pay cash. All of them, every time. You start paying a guy with a card, one day he's got a logo on his shirt and a manager, and then he's not your guy. He's a company." Then he said the part I still think about. "When I give you a guy, I'm giving you my name. You do Mike wrong, Mike calls me. In Tennessee." So it was not phone numbers I was writing down. It was Gary co-signing for me, twelve times, in ballpoint. Around midnight I asked who he was going to call down there. He put the pen down. "Nobody yet." Then, after a while: "That's the part nobody warns you about." In the morning he was gone. I had four pages in his handwriting and twelve men who now knew my name. Five weeks later, a Tennessee number. "Hey. You know anybody in Knoxville with a truck?" I did not. But I knew a guy. I called Kevin. Kevin said, "Hold on." Kevin called Tony. Tony has a cousin whose husband lives outside Maryville, about twenty minutes from Gary. The whole thing took eighteen minutes. I paced my kitchen the entire time. I texted Gary a name and a number. Wade. Has a truck. Will want the pizza. Gary sent back a thumbs-up. A minute later: "You're a good guy." I am fairly sure he meant both kinds.