Short Bed Truck
I drive a little red truck.
A beat up, rickety, red truck that sits in my driveway leaking fluids and grease in a plethora of reds and browns, blacks and grays. A toxic rainbow runs from my customary parking-space and into the gutter, deeper and deeper through the storm drain, and into the watershed. I feel badly about this. There is little I can do.
There are several lights on the dash that flash and blink at me incessantly. I have no idea what they mean. Esoteric symbols,some sort of car code that I haven't the faintest clue how to interpret. I am lost and in desperate need of a Ford Motor Company Rosetta Stone. The owners manual would suffice. I have no idea where that happens to be.
The left hand side is scratched and beaten and starting to develop cancerous rust spots that threaten to devour all exposed metal. The thin coat of oxidization slowly expanding into gaping holes. Ominous orange mouths, the color of Texas clay or the filter on a Camel cigarette, foretelling the doom that has already begun to devour the maroon body. I laid the truck over on this side once. A spectacularly unimpressive two car accident during the course of which I mis-steered and ended up with my ear against pavement where my drivers side window should have been. I didn't realize that there was no legal left turn lane. It was my own damn fault. Chalk it up to carelessness.
The engine has begun to emit a plethora of clicks, pings, knocks, clanks, and other sounds which I cannot here begin to describe. The noises do not worry me anymore. I can tell, by any change in severity or volume, if the condition of the engine is deteriorating any further. I will be worried if one day these noises actually stop.
The brakes don't function properly. You have to pump them like a maniac until just enough pressure is built up to slowly come to a stop without locking the back wheels and sliding into the Dr. Pepper truck sitting at the redlight just past the freeway off-ramp. Granted, this can be a bit tricky.
It beats walking at any rate.
A beat up, rickety, red truck that sits in my driveway leaking fluids and grease in a plethora of reds and browns, blacks and grays. A toxic rainbow runs from my customary parking-space and into the gutter, deeper and deeper through the storm drain, and into the watershed. I feel badly about this. There is little I can do.
There are several lights on the dash that flash and blink at me incessantly. I have no idea what they mean. Esoteric symbols,some sort of car code that I haven't the faintest clue how to interpret. I am lost and in desperate need of a Ford Motor Company Rosetta Stone. The owners manual would suffice. I have no idea where that happens to be.
The left hand side is scratched and beaten and starting to develop cancerous rust spots that threaten to devour all exposed metal. The thin coat of oxidization slowly expanding into gaping holes. Ominous orange mouths, the color of Texas clay or the filter on a Camel cigarette, foretelling the doom that has already begun to devour the maroon body. I laid the truck over on this side once. A spectacularly unimpressive two car accident during the course of which I mis-steered and ended up with my ear against pavement where my drivers side window should have been. I didn't realize that there was no legal left turn lane. It was my own damn fault. Chalk it up to carelessness.
The engine has begun to emit a plethora of clicks, pings, knocks, clanks, and other sounds which I cannot here begin to describe. The noises do not worry me anymore. I can tell, by any change in severity or volume, if the condition of the engine is deteriorating any further. I will be worried if one day these noises actually stop.
The brakes don't function properly. You have to pump them like a maniac until just enough pressure is built up to slowly come to a stop without locking the back wheels and sliding into the Dr. Pepper truck sitting at the redlight just past the freeway off-ramp. Granted, this can be a bit tricky.
It beats walking at any rate.
posted by Joshua Skrobarczyk at 6:47 PM
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