Work Truck

W o r k T r u c k

When it was time to sell the Dodge I considered washing it but a cold front was blowing in and I didn’t want to risk freezing the hydrant.

I thought about straightening the right rear corner of the bed, bent when I backed into a dozer track or a log deck, I forget which, but decided that tackling the job with my customary body repair tools— a hi-lift jack, a comealong and an assortment of sledgehammers, prybars and wood blocks— would just make it worse.

So I jammed the taillight into its mangled socket, cinched it down with a couple self-tapping screws, and wiped off the winter’s roadfilm with a musty sweatshirt I discovered behind the seat.

It’s a work truck for Chrissakes, I muttered, as I parked it by the mailbox and duct-taped a chartreuse, hand scrawled, For Sale sign in the driver’s window. Why try to doctor it up?

Walking back to the shop, I hoped If I ever fell prey to an undertaker He’d do the same for me: Dress me in my woods clothes, with my hands in the open, exposing every stitch, scar and raw hangnail. And don’t bother straightening the warped, aching finger I always threatened to amputate, but never did.