New Truck, People

Do I talk about driving too much? I hope not, because I might.  But, when I have to drive, it leaves me alone, staring out the window, with nothing to do but tap my foot, twiddle my thumbs, call friends, listen to important stuff, bask in silence, see interesting people, and, well, think.

This morning it was misty and dark out when I turned out of our long, gravelly driveway. The tree lines were varied in their colors of mist, and I couldn’t find the switch for the lights at first. I was driving a new truck: my grandpa’s truck, actually. So its not new, unless you call receiving a ’92 Ford from your Grandpa when he passes away, “getting a new truck.”

Those first moments in a new-to-you vehicle are initially perplexing. “Where’s the seat-thingy, the lights? How does the radi—WHOA! That’s how that works. Hmmm…So the gas tank is where on this thing? Monkey. I can’t find the handle on the door. I guess I’m stuck ‘til I figure it all out.”

Then you start “driving.” If its low to the ground and accelerates  like a beast, you’re already having too much fun. If it is a boat and you can’t tell where you are in the middle of a mass of metal, you’re really having too much fun. Its like growing a new appendage on your body or breathing unknown elemental gasses in Chemistry lab.

This morning everything was hazy: even all the windows and mirrors on the truck I was driving for the first time. I couldn’t see. I blasted the air, found the wipers, rolled down the window and wiped my mirror all in quick succession while I motored down the highway. I merged into traffic, leaning out my window waving my arm, probably like a lunatic. I even felt a weird feeling not being aware of how big I actually was, afraid to “trip over my own feet.” The truck blared its engine at me and I yelled back, “Yeah. Good to meet you, too!” I was starting to get a little offended by his behavior in general. (Yes, he's a guy.)

But I didn’t pull over and park the truck and throw the keys into Puget Sound, frustrated. I knew I would get used to it, figure it out, get to know it. There wasn’t any desire to give up, only to overcome, and maybe laugh at myself a little, too. Maybe I didn’t even think of doing that because of the worth I place upon a vehicle monetarily. Maybe I did not because the truck really isn’t mine. I didn’t choose it. It chose me and I feel sentimentally attached. Who knows? But I still have the keys. (Maybe I didn’t want to have to explain it to my dad.)

Are people worth more than pickup trucks? (Sure, the offenses are a little more painful. But why?) Can we do what it takes to learn to get along the people that come to us, even outside of our choosing them first? Do we give up too easily? Hey, maybe trucks are worth more than people, if you don’t even know who and what you are. It’s something to think about.