that. Don’t forget to fill it with diesel.” He jumped into the Jeep and sped off.
I continued to stand in the spot where I’d gotten out.
The first thought that came to my mind was, I’m so screwed . The second, I’m in deep shit , fit even better.
I took a step toward the truck and then immediately took one back. After ten deep breaths (didn’t work), I opened my shoulder bag and pulled out my antibacterial wipes.
One look at my sorry little package, and I groaned, “I need a Costco-sized box of these.”
Finally, I approached the truck. All the while, I repeated to myself, “For my family. For my family. I can do this. I’ve been through worse.”
The door was open so I stood on the step-up. The inside wasn’t any better than the outside. The truck hadtwo blue seats, which appeared to have been mauled by small rabid animals. For some reason, the floor mats were missing and in their place was a layer of petrified food bits and mud thick as a shag carpet. The steering wheel even had a slimy sheen—oh, gross—as well as a broken-off turning handle. (Maybe if I jabbed something in there it would work?)
I cringed. It was absolutely, positively disgusting.
My chest constricted, so I took a short walk for some air. The cold breeze from the Atlantic brought me some comfort, but it wasn’t enough to keep me from thinking about what I had to do. It was time to focus on the truck. Take stock of it or something. I circled the vehicle and checked the tires. The treads were a bit worn, but they’d hold for the trip. I didn’t know what other things to look for, since my dad and Alex were the ones who took care of this kind of stuff. But there was nothing broken or hanging off to give me any concerns.
Something about the back of the truck caught my eye, though. A thick padlock sealed the door shut. At first I was scared about the contents behind it, but somehow I let it go. I told myself, If it’s dirty, I don’t need to see what’s inside . And I damn well didn’t want to handle what could be inside either. Let it stew in the funk, for all I cared. I didn’t smell narcotics. Matter of fact, I didn’t smell anything at all. What the hell was I carrying? The curious wolf in me urged me to reach out to touch the door, but I stopped myself. Eww. No thanks.
A quick glance at my wristwatch convinced me I’d wasted too much time. I had less than twenty-four hours to make a twelve-hour trip. In a vehicle I wasn’t legally qualified to drive, and without GPS.
The perfect Sunday drive.
When I got back into the truck cabin and shut the door, I faced my next problem.
I didn’t know how to drive a truck.
Well, at least I could start the damn thing. I turned the key in the ignition, and the truck roared to life. Good, one more thing to check off the list.
While the cabin warmed up, I took out my wipes and did what I could with the steering wheel and whatever else I could reach. No one had bothered to clean out the candy wrappers or the empty fast-food bags on the seats. I always carried a plastic bag in my purse for waste, so I just threw everything away.
Soon enough, the cabin was nice and toasty, so it was time for me to grab something, or push something, and make this thing move. It was just like a car, right? I’d driven a stick shift before. But, come to think of it, that was over seven years ago. Still, wasn’t driving like riding a bike? A few minutes and I’ll be good.
It took me a half hour to leave the lot.
The dump truck was cumbersome, and steering it was like driving … a humongous truck. I’d driven my father’s truck before, but that was another story. I had no idea how to make wide turns or avoid the mountain bike I ran over. (I left a note and some money—next to the pieces anyway.)
I had a few blocks to the Expressway and prayed the cops wouldn’t pull me over. I sure as hell would have pulled me over if I saw the driver of a huge dump truck was some chick gripping the wheel like
I continued to stand in the spot where I’d gotten out.
The first thought that came to my mind was, I’m so screwed . The second, I’m in deep shit , fit even better.
I took a step toward the truck and then immediately took one back. After ten deep breaths (didn’t work), I opened my shoulder bag and pulled out my antibacterial wipes.
One look at my sorry little package, and I groaned, “I need a Costco-sized box of these.”
Finally, I approached the truck. All the while, I repeated to myself, “For my family. For my family. I can do this. I’ve been through worse.”
The door was open so I stood on the step-up. The inside wasn’t any better than the outside. The truck hadtwo blue seats, which appeared to have been mauled by small rabid animals. For some reason, the floor mats were missing and in their place was a layer of petrified food bits and mud thick as a shag carpet. The steering wheel even had a slimy sheen—oh, gross—as well as a broken-off turning handle. (Maybe if I jabbed something in there it would work?)
I cringed. It was absolutely, positively disgusting.
My chest constricted, so I took a short walk for some air. The cold breeze from the Atlantic brought me some comfort, but it wasn’t enough to keep me from thinking about what I had to do. It was time to focus on the truck. Take stock of it or something. I circled the vehicle and checked the tires. The treads were a bit worn, but they’d hold for the trip. I didn’t know what other things to look for, since my dad and Alex were the ones who took care of this kind of stuff. But there was nothing broken or hanging off to give me any concerns.
Something about the back of the truck caught my eye, though. A thick padlock sealed the door shut. At first I was scared about the contents behind it, but somehow I let it go. I told myself, If it’s dirty, I don’t need to see what’s inside . And I damn well didn’t want to handle what could be inside either. Let it stew in the funk, for all I cared. I didn’t smell narcotics. Matter of fact, I didn’t smell anything at all. What the hell was I carrying? The curious wolf in me urged me to reach out to touch the door, but I stopped myself. Eww. No thanks.
A quick glance at my wristwatch convinced me I’d wasted too much time. I had less than twenty-four hours to make a twelve-hour trip. In a vehicle I wasn’t legally qualified to drive, and without GPS.
The perfect Sunday drive.
When I got back into the truck cabin and shut the door, I faced my next problem.
I didn’t know how to drive a truck.
Well, at least I could start the damn thing. I turned the key in the ignition, and the truck roared to life. Good, one more thing to check off the list.
While the cabin warmed up, I took out my wipes and did what I could with the steering wheel and whatever else I could reach. No one had bothered to clean out the candy wrappers or the empty fast-food bags on the seats. I always carried a plastic bag in my purse for waste, so I just threw everything away.
Soon enough, the cabin was nice and toasty, so it was time for me to grab something, or push something, and make this thing move. It was just like a car, right? I’d driven a stick shift before. But, come to think of it, that was over seven years ago. Still, wasn’t driving like riding a bike? A few minutes and I’ll be good.
It took me a half hour to leave the lot.
The dump truck was cumbersome, and steering it was like driving … a humongous truck. I’d driven my father’s truck before, but that was another story. I had no idea how to make wide turns or avoid the mountain bike I ran over. (I left a note and some money—next to the pieces anyway.)
I had a few blocks to the Expressway and prayed the cops wouldn’t pull me over. I sure as hell would have pulled me over if I saw the driver of a huge dump truck was some chick gripping the wheel like
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