Monday, June 7, 1982
My truck breaks down. I hitchhike. An old pickup stops. It's a junkyard composite with blue hood, red fender. There are raw wounds in the seat. The floor is bare metal, as is the dash. For some reason, there's a toothbrush poking out of the ashtray.
The driver is thirtyish, short haired, clean shaven. Younger than the truck. He says, "Where you going?"
"Chevron station."
"What for?"
"Fan belt."
He nods. I climb in and slam the door.
The young man says, “You didn’t have to slam the door.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Everybody thinks you have to slam the door, but you don’t.”
“Ah.”
“I knew you were going to slam it. Everybody thinks it’s such an old truck, they have to slam the door.”
“Sorry.”
“I saw it coming before it happened.”
“Listen - no offense - I always slam doors."
"Just because it’s old, it ain’t a piece of junk.”
"It's my bad habit. Honest. In my own truck I always slam it.”
"You have to respect a truck, or she won't work for you."
"Sorry."
"That fan belt. Is it for your truck?"
"Yes."
"See? I told you."
(Note: This happened just as I describe it here. I wrote it down in my journal the same day. But I seem to vaguely recall a similar scene in a movie sometime. Was this guy acting out some role on me?)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment