Regular readers might remember a story I wrote a few years back about my old, faithful 1977 Ford F-100 pickup truck that I reluctantly sold to my across-the-street neighbor in a panic, after holding on to it for almost 25 years.
Hardly a morning breaks where I do not catch the rusting, silver and red heap out of the corner of my eye as I survey the day from the porch of my house.
Those with keen memories may recall that I paid $4778.25 cents for the vehicle back when Elvis was wheezing his last few breaths. Now the truck spends a great deal of idle curbside repose as my neighbor, Skootch Johanson, keeps the rust at bay and adds his own little style flourishes to my old ride.
Since that transaction I have gone through an awful lot of vehicles, including only one actual brand-new car and a lot of used ones over the intervening years.
I have been thinking about buying a new vehicle for a few years now. Almost every day I have seen one I briefly consider: minis, maxis, hybrids, Japanese, Korean, German.
The whole situation boiled over my back burner last summer when, while on a family vacation, I rented a Ford Flex.
You have probably seen these on the road yourself: great window-covered shoe boxes with odd corrugated details. I liked the whole idea. It was a strange new ride, minimally advertised and seldom observed. I thought about it for a long time until one day when I should have been doing something else, I dropped in on the local Ford dealer. In the showroom I met a very young salesman in a sensible sport coat and tie. I described my interest in the Flex and we looked at a couple of samples. I was completely smitten. I thought and thought about it but couldn't quite pull the trigger. A new Flex costs ten times as much as the 1977 pick up of my undying nostalgia.
The young salesman poked around in his files for a used model that might better fit my budget but it was always the wrong color or not properly equipped.
At the end of each visit, I’d hear myself say:
"You will find it Steve, " – his name is Steve – "I trust you will, and in the mean time I'll come down and see you from time to time. Call me if you find what I want."
Meanwhile, deep in my subconscious, an idea was slowly forming. The Flex obsession didn't exactly lift, rather it sort of percolated on a back burner in my mind. Now and then I'd find myself driving by the dealership and I'd glance over the lots to see if there were any new Flexes in stock.
Occasionally, when I was supposed to be doing something else of pressing importance, I'd find myself in Steve's office shooting the breeze. We had nothing in common except my money, he wanted it and I couldn't think of a good reason to leave it in the bank.
The pages of the calendar peeled away and next thing I knew it was Summer, and the lure of the outdoors is upon me. The rooftops and side yards in our neck-of-the-woods are bubbling with the rhythmic noise of home improvement. Bang bang. Whir whir: usually while I am trying to catch up on sleep. We have had our annual argument/discussion/fantasy about renovating the garage and how it is full of just about anything except one of the four –count `em four – cars we park on the street for passing motorists to whack with shocking frequency.
“I am going to clean it out this summer, I swear!” I swore, simultaneously celebrating the tenth annual broken vow to clean the garage pageant. I also vowed, to myself this time, that I was really going to do it. I was going to put on a blindfold and empty every last crumb of crap out of the swayback structure and into the nearest landfill. So there.
How was I going to do that? I needed to buy a truck. That’s the idea! Stop the presses! Call Steve!
Nothing had ever appeared so clear to me. Within 24 hours I was sitting at Steve’s desk, signing a sheaf of papers and some guy with his name on his shirt was driving a brand new red pick-up truck up from New Jersey.
I picked her up by Thursday with a weekend off in front of me, a plastic bed liner behind me, I cruised the city, six-months of free Satellite radio filling the cab and the air-conditioner keeping things chilled.
I went to the dump a couple of times and bought some shingles for the carpenter to replace the rotten ones. I was pretty much glowing all over the place.
This may come as a surprise but, I will not share the price I paid for this truck. I realize if I keep this new one as long as I kept the old one, I’ll be close to 80 years-old and whatever they are selling then will have sticker price rivaling the price I paid for the freshly painted rickety house on rusty Hinge Road.
You know the house I mean, the one with the shiny, red truck out front.
Vroom! Vroom, suckers!
