Hans Ostrom’s “Hick” is a close, uncomfortable portrait of a man who has always felt like a secondary presence. He grew up “in a region named Not Really,” believing others deserved to speak first. As an adult, he rushes through restaurant meals, walks too slowly in cities, and feels oppressed by elegance and luxury. He studies entitled people with fascination but doubts that his own life could matter. The speaker knows this person intimately—maybe recognizes something of himself—and notes how fear makes him cling to worn-out possessions, as if everything might be confiscated. The ending turns wryly harsh: the too-wide grin, too-intense stare, and hanging back embarrass the speaker, who calls him an “Oaf.” The mood is both tender and self-punishing, alive to the shame of being an outsider.
Hick — Summary
He grew up assuming others had a right to speak before he spoke. He grew up in a region named Not Really.
He eats too fast in restaurants, walks too slowly in cities, does his own repairs. Elegance makes him claustrophobic; opulence, morose.
The entitled fascinate him. He watches them. Shown evidence who he is and what he does might matter, he doubts it.
I know him: he hangs on to worn-out things too long, for at his house of fears, someone’s always about to break in and confiscate it all.
The grin—too broad. The stare— too intense. He embarrasses me. There he is—hanging back, watching. Oaf.