I want to run through the hall in my high school
I wanna scream at the top of my lungs,
I just found out there's no such thing as a real world
Just a lie you've got to rise above.
If you haven't heard this song by John Mayer yet, and like good acoustic guitar work, go get his new album. I was flabbergasted that somebody on the new music scene is actually writing songs in a major key...
As work now picks up, going from 0 to 60 in a matter of hours, I've been spending a lot of time on the road for one reason or another.
In my 1997 Ford F-250 Heavy Duty Extended Cab with the matching-work-shell on the back. I call it mine, the corporation owns it (one out of the mighty fleet of two), but I'm the one who drives it everyday.
You really don't drive a truck like this, you sorta let it take you where it wants to go. It wont fit in many multi-level garages due to height, it squeezes the life out of your average parking space due to width and length. Drive-thru's are always fun. And a friend of mine refers to it as "that bloody battleship."
But. If you like sitting up in the clouds as you sail down the expressway, if you like an intimidating vehicle which causes the little import cars to get out of the way, if you don't mind burning up a good deal of our strategic reserves during the course of a week in its' twin gas tanks, then this is the ride for you.
It's broken in enough now that I've taken to putting a little foam stadium seat cushion under my butt, the drivers seat having succombed to murderous pressure from same.
The 'crew' seat, a terribly uncomfortable affair behind the twin front seats, has dissapeared from casual view. Piled up with the things that I seldom use but might need any minute. Carhardt overalls, a heavy coat, a stack of paperwork which looks important, a fishing tackle box filled with odds and ends, two or three maps, a Crescent wrench, a box of garbage bags, another box with a broken door closer, a brand new utility knife never opened, two spools of monofilament (and I just bought the same exact spools last week), one of Stu's old flannel shirts and assorted magazines and catalogs.
Right now I've got about a third of a cord of fine cherry firewood riding around in the bed of the truck, seasoning nicely under the metal shell. Hey, you never know when you might need an emergency fire. And it smells so good when I open the back to get at the bed.
This truck is my steed for the mile and a quarter run to Stu's house, or the cross country run to places unknown. It suffers grevious collisions with errant light poles placed in the many blind spots of my vision without complaint. It has taken on the header above my garage door and lost. It once had a proud roof rack that is now bent as a result of that pugilism. It just keeps on, ahem, truckin'.
I feel bad that I don't wash it any more than I do, it is, after all, a work truck. We bought it in beige in order to give the illusion that it really is clean, even though it has an inch of dust on it. It was the pride of the fleet when new, now it is semi-retired behind the colossal vessel of a box truck that Stu weilds so handily, with its' large company logo painted on the box.
The old F-250 never got the compliment of a company logo.
And who am I to call it old? Not even 5 years gone and I'm sounding like it has one tire in the grave. Not a chance.
This truck suits me. It is instantly recognizable around town. People honk and wave as Outfoxed weaves through traffic, casually bumping Toyota's aside and looking for all the world like the captain of a cruise ship standing idly on the bridge at full steam. "Bah. Deez smaller boats. When will dey learn to stay out of de channel when I am at sail?"
I'm going to drive this truck until it absolutely cannot go another mile, then I will do the honorable thing. I will take it by the reins and lead it out into the woods. There will be a small ceremony, and a shot will be fired. A tearful Outfoxed will emerge, dragging a front seat behind him, the saddle of my faithful ride. You know I'm not looking forward to that day.
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