You Don't Mess With A Man's Truck

I turned the key and...a horrible clicking sound occurred and...nothing.

“Shit!” I said and tried again. Same thing. “Double shit!”

I had broken my husband’s truck.

His precious truck that I promised to take care of when he was deployed.

And now it wouldn’t start.

I tried again.

Nothing.

“Please, please, please,” I pleaded. “Please.”

Still nothing.

I don’t speak truck. I didn’t know what was wrong, though I had an idea. The battery was probably dead. See, I don’t drive trucks. Big vehicles frighten me. I’d hit people and things in big vehicles. I know my limits. It’s why I have a small car. I thought I would be okay with simply starting Tom’s truck once a week. But no. I was mistaken.

“By the powers invested in me, I command you to start,” I tried one last time.

Nothing.

Stupid truck.

I jumped out of it and started muttering to myself like a lunatic. I talk to myself when I’m stressed. While I was doing this a man walked past with his dog. I suppose I looked crazed because he went, “Can I help with something?”

“Oh. The truck won’t start. My husband is deployed and I think I broke it.”

He sucked in his breath. “You don’t want to mess with a man’s truck.”

I KNOW! I didn’t MEAN to mess with a man’s truck. It was supposed to stay happy and content, dammit.

I had to tell Tom. I suppose I could have kept quiet because how would he know? But I cannot lie to my husband. Plus, he asks me weekly how his truck is doing as though it were another one of his children.

So I told him the truth.

“You broke my truck!” he said. His tone was joking, but I could see the worry in his eyes.

“I didn’t!” I promised. “I’ll fix it. Somehow.” I contemplated flashing my breasts at him to distract him.

I asked the neighbor to jump it and still nothing. The clicking noise continued. Why wouldn’t it just START? Why must vehicles be so complicated?

I always seem to have issues with them when Tom goes.

When he was in Korea, my car liked to die on me. But I could have it jumped and it would come back to me.

The truck refused. It was like it was saying, “I’m off on vacation. Peace.”

Then Tom began saying, “I’ll just get a new truck.”

We cannot afford a new truck! I know he practically drools all over himself when he sees a newer model but no, no, and no. If I were Tom Cruise I would have presented him with a brand new one complete with one of those gigantic red bows on the top. As it is, I am (basically) sane and not Tom Cruise so I had to figure out a way to fix his current (all paid for) truck.

I had a friend’s husband come and take the battery out. I figured I could take it to a car place and have it checked. So I did that. Truck batteries, by the way, are heavy. I struggled carrying it in. The second I got through the doors a man rushed over to help because I suppose it looked like I could keel over any moment and knock over the display of oil. He took the battery and hooked it up to see if it was dead.

“Uh,” he said after a few minutes. “It’s dead. It’s not coming back.”

“RIP,” I joked and he blinked at me.

I picked out a new battery, paid for that, and the man kindly took it out to my car for me.

Then I had the friend’s husband come back to the house and replace the battery. After he finished with that he told me to start the truck.

“Please,” I mumbled as I climbed into the driver’s seat. “Start.” I turned the key and…VAROOM VAROOM…the truck was back!

“Oh, you stubborn witch,” I said softly. Of course the truck is a woman.

So basically I learned that vehicles must be driven. My friend has already offered to drive the stupid thing around the neighborhood. I’ll also continue to start it every couple of days. If all goes well, Tom should be home in two months.

I can keep it alive for two months, right?