265 lines
8.7 KiB
Plaintext
265 lines
8.7 KiB
Plaintext
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Dad's Pickup
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Copyright 1991, Andrew P. Varga
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Since before I can remember, Dad had this truck. He'd
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bought it used the year I was two, I think. He was
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forever proud of his truck, because of how powerful the
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engine was.
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The year I turned eleven, he built a big box out of
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second hand plywood that covered the bed. "To stop it
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from rusting and to keep the rain and snow off the stuff
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inside," he said. This `topper-box' even had a door in
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the back, with hinges at the top.
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Dad was also a collector of sorts. He collected the
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`It might be useful some day' kind of stuff, and kept it
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in his truck. At least that's what he always told Mom
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whenever she asked him about cleaning it out.
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Once I stood on the trailer hitch and, unlatching the
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door of the topper-box, peered inside. Of what I could
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see there were the following items:
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Tires;
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One looked badly worn, two others had big chunks of
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tread missing. These were still on the rims.
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A small horse trough;
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Dad got it at an auction once when we all were
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talking about getting a pony for us kids to ride.
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But it wouldn't hold water, so my parents stalled on
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the pony until Dad someday got it fixed.
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Two mammoth tackle boxes;
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Both were overflowing. In fact, I never saw either
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of them outside the truck, ever.
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Two dead car batteries;
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Maybe it was three.
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Five fishing rods;
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Three had the little metal loop-things broken off the
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tips. One was missing its reel.
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Tools;
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Probably more that Dan Hawkins at the corner Standard
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station owned.
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A bird feeder;
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The glass was broken out, but the pieces were still
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in the bed.
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The rusted remains of my first bicycle;
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Dad had accidentally backed over it the first and, I
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swear, only time I had ever left it in the driveway.
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A chainsaw;
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It was partially, okay, mostly disassembled.
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Empty pop bottles;
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Too many to count, they were both in and out of their
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cartons.
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And leaves and candy wrappers and the like.
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The stuff inside often changed. Dad added to it from
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time to time, and some of the smaller things disappeared.
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The bed was rusted through in places.
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Inside the cab was no better. The only clear spot
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was the part of the seat directly in front of the steering
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wheel.
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The deep metal dashboard held the mail. Years worth
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of sale catalogs, bills, empty checkbooks, and magazines.
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With some burned out turn signal or brake light bulbs, at
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least a dozen bottle openers, old hoses, clamps, and Lord
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knows how many pens, pencils, and keys - all tossed on at
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random.
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The seat carried more mail (the important stuff I
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suppose), an electric drill with the cord cut off, pliers,
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screwdrivers, three or four worn left-hand work gloves
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(The `rights' always seemed to be in the house.), a
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winter hat; the kind with big fake fur ear flaps that
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snapped together on top, a bent coat hanger or two, a
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couple of rolls of electrical tape, and a big old overcoat
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with the pockets worn through.
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The floor was covered with, among other things, a
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massive toolbox that was so full the top refused to close,
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numerous oil-stained rags (our old socks and undershorts
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mostly), pop bottles, empty Pall Mall packs and a few
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Lucky Strike tins, a couple of Ball jars of vegetables
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that never made it inside from Grandma's house, and a
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monstrous tangled wad that consisted mostly of jumper
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cables, odd lengths of rope, TV antenna wire - and the
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cord to the electric drill.
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I once peeked inside the glove box, just out of
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curiosity. It was completely empty, except for a magazine
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that had a picture of a woman on the front. Best I can
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remember, she wasn't wearing much.
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Every Saturday morning, Dad would `run errands'.
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He'd often take me with him. And we'd usually stop
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somewhere for candy or sodas along the way.
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Needless to say, that one Saturday morning brightened
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immensely when Dad asked, "Want to ride with me to the
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hardware store?" I blurted an enthusiastic "Sure!" And
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off we went.
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Sometimes, as I started to get in, stuff would come
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rolling out on the ground when I'd open the passenger side
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door. After Dad would reach across and clear a spot for
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me, I'd have to quickly toss it back in and scramble up on
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the seat, slamming the door before it all rolled out
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again.
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I always enjoyed riding in Dad's truck. Papers
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shuffled, keys tinkled, and tools and bottles clanked and
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rattled at odd moments. It was like being inside a
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rolling music box! And I'd often get to watch through the
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cracked mirror just outside my window to see something
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that had found a hole in the truck's bed go rolling down
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the road for a ways, trying to follow us I imagined.
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Also, the clutch had been slipping for some time.
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Dad would just race the engine and let his foot slip off
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the pedal, the truck would eventually start to move.
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I think Dad had to replace some tool that he couldn't
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find that day, so he could fix the washing machine again.
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(With a family of six, what do you expect?) He probably
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already had at least two of the right tool in the back.
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Truth is, once anything went into Dad's truck, it rarely
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came out again, on purpose anyway.
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I had decided to wait in the truck at the hardware
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store. It was too much work getting in and out. Of
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course, if the hardware store had sold candy, that would
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have been a different matter.
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As Dad got back in the truck, with new tool in hand,
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I looked in my mirror. The outside mirror on Dad's side
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had been missing since before I can remember. The one at
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the top of the windshield was useless, on account of the
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topper-box.
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"Dad," I said. "There's somebody behind us."
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Racing the engine, he let go of the clutch pedal and
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the truck started moving backward.
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"Its okay," he replied. "We can get by them."
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"But they're getting closer," I warned.
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"We'll miss 'em," he reassured me.
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Just then the driver of the other truck started
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beeping his horn.
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"I think we're gonna hit them." I mumbled, tucking
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myself beneath the dash as best I could.
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"No we won't, Son," Dad replied as the truck picked
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up speed.
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Ka - LUNK!
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I was instantly and, I feared at the time,
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permanently buried beneath catalogs, newspapers, cards,
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letters, and junk.
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Feeling movement above me, I carefully raised my
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head. Dad was shoveling away the debris with his hands.
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"Are you all right?" he asked.
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"Sure. I'm fine." I caught my breath as he cleared a
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place for me on the seat.
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Later, as we were returning home, Dad turned.
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"Pretty fast way to clean off the dash, wasn't it?"
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"Sure was," I smiled.
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Dad finally sold that old truck, a couple of years
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before he passed away. It had become a home for lost mice
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by then anyway.
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About a year ago, I bought an old truck of my own. I
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haven't tried to wash or wax it yet, Lord knows you can't
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wax rust.
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But I keep the inside as clean as a whistle.
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Well okay, sort of.
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