The Pickup Truck
I was recently robbed—though I did lay it up for them like an Easter Bunny. Not the Easter Bunny, but one of his school. An egg grab of laptop, work things, and a checkbook—who carries a checkbook these days, but you never know, the 80-year-old man in me was ready to fire off a check.
People—30 minutes is the same as two hours on a dark street outside of a bar, snack and a glass the same as a five-course meal. Happens that fast. In vain, I ran around the block—searching for a glimpse of the thief. Where are you. They couldn’t have gotten that far. I didn’t have a weapon on me. A well-aimed brick, though.
The best part of being robbed was that my insurance paid for a rental, no more than $50 a day, until the window could be fixed. I already knew I wanted a Toyota or a Camry—something with a hand crank parking brake. That way I could pull 180 driving maneuvers behind the nearby Houston Community College off I-610. I love driving. Sometimes.
If I had my druthers, or money, I would hire a driver so I could work in the back—but I do have a thing for technical driving. Practicing driving backwards. Practicing driving backwards quickly. Practicing driving backwards quickly, while turning. And of course, hand crank 180’s at 40 miles per hour. I’d always wanted to try the PIT maneuver, but that involves two cars and one of them colliding into the other from behind at a 45-degree angle.
“The Jeep,” Sam motioned towards a silver Jeep Wrangler. Sexy. I was surprised this was an option, it was practically new. I would look very good in this Jeep. The lot only contained give-or-take sixteen spaces, most of them empty or filled with what I guessed were cars that belonged to employees.
“Oh, the Jeep needs an oil change,” Sam remembered aloud.
We both scanned left to the next car over. A charcoal Toyota Tundra.
“There is the truck?” He looked back at me questioningly. He was thinking: Girl Truck Can she do it?
“Let’s do that.” I said. My heart thumped. Yes, that will do.
We went through the motions on Sam’s iPad, “and no drinking and drugs, or smoking inside the vehicle.” He added under his breath, “unless you’re with me.”
He sold me on the if anything happens insurance, $24 a day. “You could bring it back just the steering wheel and be able to walk away, no cost.”
All said and done I climbed up into what felt like a new suit of armor. Key in the ignition, I fired it up. The cab was lightweight, clean, high off the ground, I had a superior view of other cars. It also smelled like a Pall Mall had been dropped into the air conditioning a few renters back—better email Sam so he doesn’t think I was smoking in there without him.
Pulling onto the feeder and I needed some music for this new ride. Country music felt appropriate, in fact, I was subtly--craving it. I needed some twang and I needed it now. Flipping to Spotify, I selected the Hot Country playlist, turned the volume slightly, more, and more. Ah, they have capped the volume, so that renters won’t accidentally blow out the speakers—smart. Couldn’t get it above mid-volume, even with the car dial turned all the way up.
First song. No. Second song. Not that one. No. Next. Dang, country music was hard to find until I tried to remember… what was that song I had liked before? Yes, Dirt Road Anthem by Jason Aldean. Found it and clicked “radio,” so an aggregated playlist would form—and we were chillin’ on a dirt road.
The next morning, I realized I just needed to turn up the volume on my iPhone—and then I could crank it. I didn’t veer from Dirt Road Anthem for the first few drives, especially crooning “Chillin’ on a dirt road, laid back swervin’ like I’m George Jones, smoke rollin’ out the window, an Ice cold beer sitting in the coNnsoOle., memory lane…” Damn. Feels good.
Everything about the truck made me happy. I had to hop up in there. It made me feel small, but safe. It was this beautiful charcoal gray and the front windows were tinted—so I could sing. Clicking the button on the fob to hear it unlock—that sound, so meaty—hearing it rumble to get started up when I turned the key. The truck was turning into this insane confidence booster / aphrodisiac.
I got latched on this other song called Hooked by Dylan Scott, and—I mean where is this six-foot guy in jeans and a dirty button-up. Cold Beer. Gosh, this feels… so wholesome.
Whenever parking, ideally, I looked for spaces with a few empty ones on either side so people, myself included, could admire the truck. I in turn looked at other trucks admiringly, in parking lots and on the road. Hello. Cool. Do you see mine?
In that week I found three different reasons to visit The Home Depot—this or that, “Oh, I’ll go,” I’d offer.
Almost as if the truck was just driving me there to see it’s friends, maybe it’s mom. The last visit to the Home Depot I actually bought some caulk because turns out one of the hand sinks was falling off of the wall. “No worries, I’ll go grab some caulk at Home Depot, be right back.”
Gabriel, one of our chefs, in turn rolled his eyes, he also owns a truck so I would subtly chat with him about trucks, and of course whenever I was going to Home Depot ask him in case he thought we needed anything else from there.
As I began to shove the caulk through the hole I had cut, it felt good, I’m going to caulk this sink myself.
“You have a caulk gun?” Eric observed. Eric is always there to help, he fills in where needed, often fixing, cleaning things, as well as runs our dish station. I had seen the caulk guns next to the caulk but figured, we probably have one, and don’t you just use the pump to shove it through?
“Don’t you just squeeze it through?” It was kind of laborsome.
“It’s easier with the gun,” he took it out of my hands, offering to take over the job.
I was cleared to move onto something else so—perfect—I wrote a label “Do not lean on sink,” taped it there and let Eric do his magic.
And then the day finally came that I needed to drop off the truck. I was a little bummed. It had been a good ride. This truck had brought me so much happiness. I could throw lumber in the bed and transport it somewhere if I wanted? All the things. And so, I turned over the keys and as I got back into my car the country music didn’t sound the same. I switched back to EDM. And cold beer—you know, I’d rather a glass of Brunello?