So we’re getting our own truck. It’s an older truck, not exactly the Wanderlodge I had in my imagination when I thought about our first truck. We’ve kind of had our own truck before, but it was leased, and never really ours to do with what we pleased. George was an owner-operator in the sense that he “owned” the payments and “operated” wherever they sent him. This one is ours. The payments we make on it actually go toward the truck, and we’re not going to owe a happy little balloon payment at the end. It’s ours and we can go where we want with it and paint it any color and re-do the interior like a tiki shack if we want. I’ve already contacted DeathTrap Kustoms to order a Sasquatch hood ornament.
It’s a proud and terrifying feeling to buy a truck outright. We have the benefit of a lot of excellent guidance and a good company to run for, so the money part shouldn’t be too hateful. This truck is also set up for flatbed, so we’ll be doing an entirely different thing. I have a distinct feeling I’m about to learn how to throw straps. No big — I can throw a softball, pretty sure I can throw a strap.
I’ve already gutted and re-designed the interior in my head. She has a name and I love her. I will pet her, and polish her and clean her, until I’m tired of polishing chrome. Fortunately, this isn’t a very flashy truck, so there’s not much chrome to polish, but George has other ideas.
“I’m going to put chrome on the chrome, baby.”
“That sounds counterproductive. And expensive.”
“I’m going to chrome out the whole dash, and get a big skull shift knob.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of nice, puffy leather. And Pergo.”
“I want the mudflaps with the girls on them. I’m going all the way.”
“Evidently. And alone.”
We’ve spent hours having these design conversations. We’ve converted this truck into everything from a library to a strip club in our imaginations.
“I’m going to put plexiglass on the floor, with lights underneath it, that flash and match the CB lights. We’ll put a pole in the middle and you can dance for me.”
“We won’t get invited to Touch-A-Truck anymore.”
“Nah. We’ll tell the kids it’s an exercise pole. It’s good exercise, isn’t it?”
“You’re asking me this as if I have personal knowledge of the top side of a stripper pole.”
“I didn’t realize it was a touchy subject.”
“Yes, it’s good exercise.”
As fun as these conversations are, I’m sure the joy will wear off eventually and the dreams of having to sell my hair to the wig people to buy a radiator will come back. Don’t laugh, it’s a horrible recurring nightmare I have of being stuck in Memphis and having to sell my hair for a radiator. And this dream doesn’t have a happy ending like the special Christmas story where the wife sells her hair for a pocket watch chain and the husband sells his pocket watch for a hair comb, it ends with me being bald-headed and sad.
So yay for our own truck!
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