JUST HOP ON IN
At a house set back from a recent work site, a $30,000 pickup had been parked, but for nearly two days no one was seen making use of it. Then I heard the shutting of its door at this very quiet location and watched a man drive back to the garage, about three stones’ throws from his house. From the truck emerged a grossly fat, shirtless fellow with a stomach hanging halfway to China, and wobbling breasts. He climbed onto his riding lawn mower, hollered a bit of foul language in that the machine was not running quite right, yet tended to his chore, looking like an albino circus elephant trained to operate a Shriner’s minibike. When his mowing was finished, he drove his fancy truck the short distance back to his house.
How someone so repulsively lazy can afford a $30,000 truck remains a wonderment to me. How is it I’m working my butt nearly to the bone every day and driving a little, 15-year-old pickup with 208,000 miles on it, while this jiggling vat of fat is driving this big, shiny new pickup that’s never going to tote anything in bulk but beer and chips?
My “toy” truck has plenty of peccadilloes that come with vehicular age: The windshield wipers come on whenever they feel like it. It has no interior lamps because they wouldn’t shut off, so I tore them out. More and more rust has been forming. The clear coat has been peeling away from the black paint in such a way as to suggest the truck needs an appointment with a dermatologist. The fuel gauge doesn’t work, so I just fill up the tank every 150 miles. Half the dash lights don’t work, but I don’t drive much in the dark anyway. The passenger seat and floorboard are so jam-packed with tools and crap that there can be no giving rides to hitchhikers anymore. The truck sputters when it’s first started, but smooths out by the time it’s out of our driveway.
Would I trade this beaten-up truck for the shiny new, big red one? Probably; but not caring much for red vehicles, except for fire trucks, I might want to have it repainted. On second thought, why bother? I’d be gleefully scratching it up right off the bat with scaffolding and stuff.
A newer, bigger truck is not needed here, however. The old one gets me where I have to go and valiantly suffers the heavy burdens constantly imposed on it. I dare not put more than a quarter-yard of sand in it at a time, or an eighth of a yard if it is already loaded with heavy things, but that’s all right.
The lack of interior lights means I can leave the doors open as long as I please without concern for draining the battery. The windshield wipers’ coming on sometimes when it’s sunny and dry is the truck’s way of saying hi, and to shut them off, you just turn the wiper switch on high and turn it back to off again. If someone bumped and scratched my truck in a parking lot, I wouldn’t give a hoot. This truck likely wouldn’t do well anymore at high speed, but in our locality the speed limit is 55, which is fine. The need to fill the gas tank every 150 miles isn’t an inconvenience because the trips to the gas station/grocery nearby often coincide with my whisky runs, so I can purchase gasoline and scotch together at 7 a.m. without feeling like a complete lush. “Oh, while I’m here for gas, I might as well save a trip for later,” is the approach.
May the obese fellow enjoy his truck, even while riding in it when he ought to be walking. His heart is going to pay for that laziness someday, maybe even before his big, spotless steed is paid off.
At a house set back from a recent work site, a $30,000 pickup had been parked, but for nearly two days no one was seen making use of it. Then I heard the shutting of its door at this very quiet location and watched a man drive back to the garage, about three stones’ throws from his house. From the truck emerged a grossly fat, shirtless fellow with a stomach hanging halfway to China, and wobbling breasts. He climbed onto his riding lawn mower, hollered a bit of foul language in that the machine was not running quite right, yet tended to his chore, looking like an albino circus elephant trained to operate a Shriner’s minibike. When his mowing was finished, he drove his fancy truck the short distance back to his house.
How someone so repulsively lazy can afford a $30,000 truck remains a wonderment to me. How is it I’m working my butt nearly to the bone every day and driving a little, 15-year-old pickup with 208,000 miles on it, while this jiggling vat of fat is driving this big, shiny new pickup that’s never going to tote anything in bulk but beer and chips?
My “toy” truck has plenty of peccadilloes that come with vehicular age: The windshield wipers come on whenever they feel like it. It has no interior lamps because they wouldn’t shut off, so I tore them out. More and more rust has been forming. The clear coat has been peeling away from the black paint in such a way as to suggest the truck needs an appointment with a dermatologist. The fuel gauge doesn’t work, so I just fill up the tank every 150 miles. Half the dash lights don’t work, but I don’t drive much in the dark anyway. The passenger seat and floorboard are so jam-packed with tools and crap that there can be no giving rides to hitchhikers anymore. The truck sputters when it’s first started, but smooths out by the time it’s out of our driveway.
Would I trade this beaten-up truck for the shiny new, big red one? Probably; but not caring much for red vehicles, except for fire trucks, I might want to have it repainted. On second thought, why bother? I’d be gleefully scratching it up right off the bat with scaffolding and stuff.
A newer, bigger truck is not needed here, however. The old one gets me where I have to go and valiantly suffers the heavy burdens constantly imposed on it. I dare not put more than a quarter-yard of sand in it at a time, or an eighth of a yard if it is already loaded with heavy things, but that’s all right.
The lack of interior lights means I can leave the doors open as long as I please without concern for draining the battery. The windshield wipers’ coming on sometimes when it’s sunny and dry is the truck’s way of saying hi, and to shut them off, you just turn the wiper switch on high and turn it back to off again. If someone bumped and scratched my truck in a parking lot, I wouldn’t give a hoot. This truck likely wouldn’t do well anymore at high speed, but in our locality the speed limit is 55, which is fine. The need to fill the gas tank every 150 miles isn’t an inconvenience because the trips to the gas station/grocery nearby often coincide with my whisky runs, so I can purchase gasoline and scotch together at 7 a.m. without feeling like a complete lush. “Oh, while I’m here for gas, I might as well save a trip for later,” is the approach.
May the obese fellow enjoy his truck, even while riding in it when he ought to be walking. His heart is going to pay for that laziness someday, maybe even before his big, spotless steed is paid off.