Truck Trauma

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Just as snow started to fall, my truck decided to go on strike. Normally, my truck is a hardy soul, starting up despite snow,

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minus-thirty-degree temperatures and even more snow,

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but this time, it just wasn’t cooperating. After a failed attempt at jump-starting the battery, I called in the professionals. By now, there were several inches of snow on the ground and a tricky glaze of ice beneath that. I’d already done a YouTube-worthy how-did-I-end-up-lying-on-my-back-in-the-snow? fall just minutes before the tow truck approached…and slid right past my driveway.

Once the driver managed to get the truck close to the garage, he climbed out.

“Careful,” I called to him. “It’s slippery.”

Giving my hard-won advice a dismissive nod, he took two steps before his feet flew up in front of him and he hit the ground.

After ascertaining that he hadn’t damaged any of his parts necessary for truck diagnostics, he attempted to jump-start it. The truck, contrary beast that it is, started right up. My celebratory cheer was barely out of my mouth before the truck died again.

“The battery’s toast,” the driver stated.

Replacing the battery is doable, I thought, hopeful again.

“Or it could be the alternator, too.”

That sounded more expensive.

Keeping the hood up and the cables connected to the battery, he drove my truck onto the flatbed.

“Hey, it runs if the cables stay connected. Couldn’t I just drive it the twelve miles to the shop this way?” I asked.

“No.”

“Sure? It’d save me the tow fee. I’ll lean out the window so I can see around the open hood. You could just yell if there’s something in my way.”

He laughed that nervous laugh that says, “I don’t know if you’re joking or slightly crazy, but I’m backing away slowly (and carefully, so I don’t fall again) now.”

I gave him pecan caramel rolls as a thank-you-and-I’m-sorry-you-fell-in-my-driveway offering and watched as my stalwart truck was carried away–the first time in almost thirteen years and over a hundred and eighty thousand miles that it’s had to be towed. As I wait to hear the diagnosis, I’m tucked up at home, writing and trying not to imagine the worst.

I do love that truck–non-matching topper, big dent in the side, back seat that smells like dogs, and all.