Some dude named Fred is driving my truck right now.
Somewhere, in the Valley of the Sun, Fred is bumping around in the Mean Green Machine, probably selling crank to the homeless at downtown parks or cramming a couple dozen illegals from Juarez into the cab, throwing a blanket over them and ferrying the bunch over the border.
He’s probably filling it with cheap gas from a Circle K or – gasp! – a 7-Eleven and not a Diamond Shamrock or Union 76 station, which the Mean Green Machine slurps up like a cherryade slushy from Sonic.
I knew this day would come after Wife broached the subject of selling the Mean Green Machine a few months back, far from earshot of truck (or is it intake manifold-shot?). There were tears, a tantrum and threats of driving the truck off a cliff before seeing some pear-shaped lump haul it off the compound, his stubby arms reaching out and molesting the steering wheel as I launched a series of sobs that could be heard in Apache Junction.
And it seems the Mean Green Machine had the same feelings.
We put my four-wheeled pal on trucktrader.com and I designed a for sale sign that same evening, which read: “For sale” (it very clear 2.5-point wingding font) “Green truck with a hundred gazillion miles on it, turns fuel into wildlife-killing sludge and a suspension that was a left over from the Fred Flintstone days. Price – if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
Wouldn’t you know it, Fred (no relation to Flintstone) called the next morning.
That meant my afternoon would be chewed up with cleaning the Mean Green Machine, to make it presentable to prospective buyers. So I sprayed dog shit-smelling Lysol (available at your local grocer) in the cab and layered the windows with pigeon cum to make it more attractive.
While starting up my ol’ pal, however, I noticed the service engine light come on. That will not help it sell, I said. Little did I know it was the truck’s way of telling me it wasn’t ready to go. Then, to drive its wishes homes, as I scrubbed the inside windows, I spritzed some Windex on the rear view mirror and it came a-tumbling down.
“I know, sweetie,” I told the Mean Green Machine, “I don’t want you to go either.”
I pet the gray dash to ease her quivering fuel injectors. She calmed some.
“But we’ll find you a good home. Someplace where they’ll take care of you and let you flex your muscles on the open road from time to time.”
The ol’ gal settled a bit more.
“When the freeloader comes,” I said between sorrowful sniffs, “I’ll be sure to tell it of your supreme sacrifice. I’ll tell our munchkin how you gave up your spot on the right side of the garage to a sporty little Honda with baby-seat capabilities. And you know what the freeloader will say? ‘Daddy, I hope I meet the Mean Green Machine one day to say thank you.”
And as Fred drove off with my ol’ pal – the same friend who took me to Rosarita Beach, Lake Tahoe, Butte Montana and all stops in between swiftly and safely – a small puff of black smoke escaped the exhaust pipe that wafted through the air and formed the words: “Fly low and avoid the radar, friend.”
“You do the same, Mean Green. You do the same.”
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2 comments:
At least we spared her the pain and anguish of being traded in for another truck some day in the future... Right? She'll never have to know that heartache.
Ah yes, your old green truck. I remember as a receptionist at Mailer's I would see you drive into the parking lot and if it was later than 8:15 I knew I would be greeted by a swearing-laced diatribe about SoCal drivers and how death and destruction needed to rain down on them all. But she stopped-and-started through all that traffic to get you there. Good times!!
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