The Little Red Truck

a short story written in 1998

Every morning you could find her pacing the streets, up and down, across and back, softly treading the pavement and listening to the early sounds of the day--a bird waking up the babies in its nest, or an errant alarm clock sounding warnings to its sleeping bedside neighbor. She smiled to herself at the thought of a groaning, grumpy person fumbling in the half-light of dawn to find the big snooze button that would interrupt the tortuous sounds signaling another day. She had already been up long before the sun, long before the birds, even before her own alarm clock was jolted from its own digital slumber.

Only one of the morning sounds did she dread, that of newspapers flung through the air, crashing and sliding to their rest somewhere in the driveways or near the front doors of the houses she had already passed. The paper delivery man. Here he comes. The rushing sound of a truck engine speeding up behind her made her wince. Would he throw it in front of her this time, or in back of her? A sudden whoosh of paper slicing the air not more than a foot shy of the back of her head answered the question. She heard the driver cackle as he drove on to the next house, tapping the brake of his little red truck briefly, left arm jutting out the window, then on to the next, and the next, and the next. But this time, the truck's rear lights blinked at her slowly... quickly... slowly... as if in morse code. "That was odd," she said out loud and to no one in particular.

The next morning she started earlier. It promised to be a hot day, and she preferred to walk in the cool shadows of the dawn. Along the third street of her journey, she spied the little red truck parked alongside a creepy, dank, unfriendly looking house. This must be where he lives, the evil newspaper delivery guy. She patted the truck on its hood and said softly, "You poor thing." Continuing up the sidewalk, fingers tracing along its side, suddenly the bed of the truck lifted and plopped itself in front of her, not allowing her to pass. I'm losing my mind, she thought!

Her eyes held shut tightly, she backed up--slowly guiding herself along the smooth silky surface of the truck, returning to its front, where she opened her eyes and looked. Again, it was parked properly, all four tires on the street as before. She squatted in front of the grill, peered deeply into one headlight, then the other.

Then the truck spoke, the front grills separating and moving in a manner similar to a person's lips. "Please lady, I know you understand me. Please can you help me find another life? I'm a young truck. I have so much power, so much potential. All I do is drive up and down the wrong side of the street with this goofball, or occasionally to the liquor store or McDonald's or Arby's or Burger King and back. I want to do something more meaningful. You're the only one who can help me."

She found herself five minutes later, stunned, sitting on the asphalt, legs stretched out in front of her, staring at the now-silent truck.

Her dreams that night were fitful, but oddly enough one dream mapped out for her a different route for her walk. She was pleased to venture out in a different direction the next day, fearful of another encounter with the mysterious truck. Halfway through the walk, she again found her way blocked by another little red truck, whose owner had parked it partially in the street, partially on the tiny sidewalk. This truck was different through: much older, banged up and dented everywhere, covered in dirt, one tire nearly bald and almost flat, squeezed against the curb and suffering.

"Boy, what happened to you?" she mentioned as she passed. The truck wheezed and coughed in black smoke its reply, "Oh please help me. I can't take it any more. He just keeps making me work and work and work. I pull vehicles out of the mud and snow drifts. I carry refrigerators and washers and dryers all over town. Every time someone moves, I have to help carry their smelly heavy old junk in 17 consecutive loads from point A to point B. Then in the summer, he loads me up with new sod or sand and gravel or lava rock or endless bags of crushed aluminum cans. I'm old and tired. I want to retire and sit in a driveway somewhere. I know you can hear me. Please nice lady?"

She sat on the curb, head in hands, wondering how difficult it might be to locate the phone number of the State Hospital for the Insane.

That night her dreams brought her a recipe. She awoke, ready to hit the streets earlier than ever before.

First, she traipsed over to the canal, where she cut off long stalks from the willow bushes with her trusty little pocket knife, sat down and pulled off the leaves one by one, then twisted the naked branches into a wreath that fit the crown of her head perfectly. Next was a short journey to the children's park, and with a few quick slashes and a little digging she obtained the blue plastic bridle from a kid's spring-loaded bouncy horse. And finally, she visited a graveled parking lot, where she pocketed 17 small, smooth, round river rocks.

Her odd conglomeration of possessions in tow, she made her way to the old red truck. The headlights came on when she arrived, dim but blinking with all the excitement of a little old man who had just spied a brand new Sports Illustrated magazine on a park bench.

She bent down near the grill, whispered a secret message to the truck, placed the willow crown on her head and slipped the plastic bridle onto the truck's front bumper. Her hands waved in a circle above her head, once, twice, three times, then she turned and hurried away.

Good, she was early enough! Again she whispered her secret magical words to the pretty brand new little red truck, crown of willows still intact on her head, and laid out the rocks one at a time in the shape of a triangle in front of the truck. Waving her hands, she exclaimed "One two three!" and closed her eyes for exactly three minutes.

When she opened her eyes, the rocks were gone. The shiny new truck sat silently in front of her, a blue plastic bridle stuck on its bumper. She went home and slept all day long, not dreaming once.

The next morning on her walk, she heard the delivery truck behind her. Swooshhhh, thwaapppp, shoooshhhhh went the newspapers sliding into home plate.

The pretty little red truck barreled up behind her, but she didn't stop or flinch this time. It sputtered, coughed, belched out a bit of black smoke and came to a rest behind her. She heard the driver cursing, turning the engine, and was almost certain there was the sound of a old man's giggle from inside the truck's deepest parts. She reached the end of the block, and turned the corner safely without a newspaper landing anywhere near her. The truck rattled on, lurching, belching, giggling.

Later that day, she came upon the old truck, heaving, pulling, RPMs sounding wildly as it struggled to remove a beige Pontiac that apparently made a right turn instead of a left and landed, embarrassed, smack dab in a muddy ditch. She watched and cheered silently until the car emerged safely. She winked at the grungy old truck, with the heart and soul of a brand new shiny little red truck, and went on her merry way. She heard a little toot from its horn. It sounded so happy, and so was she.

-- The End --

Dazed and Confused: An Obit

March 17, 2042
The Denver Post

Debbie / Deb / Deborah (take your pick, she answered to anything) grew up as a bewildered little girl, famous in a family full of obsessive-compulsive talkers as the one who "wouldn't say shit if she had a mouthful." Over time she learned to cuss a blue streak. In fact, "shit" was her favorite curse word.

As a freshman in high school, Debbie found herself in a beginning typing class with her perfect, personable, straight-A-student older brother. This marked the first time in her life she discovered something she could do that her brother simply could not manage. A light bulb went off, and thus sprang forth Deb's illustrious career as a word processor, secretary, administrative assistant or office manager... pretty much any kind of job where it was vitally important that you crank out shit on a keyboard, and do it fast. Oh yeah, 112 wpm, no errors. You heard right.

In 1976, while cruising 16th Street in downtown Denver, Deb met and fell in love with a shaggy-haired salmon and crab fisherman from Alaska. This handsome young man with the exotic far-away life promised to love her forever, but instead broke her heart into a million tiny pieces. She then embarked on a years-long mission to determine how many other men she could lure into treating her even more badly than her first love. Not surprisingly, it was a rousing success. During those years, Deb enjoyed plenty of rum-n-Cokes with tequila shots, dug smoking pot while eating Doritos with M&Ms on the side, and especially loved dancing to music by Donna Summer, the Bee Gees, and Earth Wind & Fire. (Hey, it was the seventies.)

Growing weary of life in the fast lane, she eventually chose the grown-up approach to life and bought a townhome while simultaneously adopting an emotionally unstable, hairy black puppy. Along the way--in between typing faster and faster and moving into the corps of elite PC drones--Deb traded up to a sorry looking fixer-upper home and adopted another nutty, hairy black dog, seemingly cementing her future as a lonely spinster surrounded by quirky dogs and loads of dog hair.

In her mid-forties, a calm, quiet man from the internet appeared in her life, a fellow with freckles and strawberry blonde hair who didn't treat her badly and really liked her dog. This turn of events left her confused, bewildered, even frightened a little bit. So she married him, and they lived out the rest of their lives lovingly pestering one another while traveling, adopting more dogs (each one nuttier than the last), and purchasing one last fixer-upper home.

Deborah Ann enjoyed reading, loved to write silly stories and poetry, and spent much time contemplating the "what-ifs" of a dazed and confused life. After much consideration, she finally set an important goal for her golden years: to outlive her father, who died four days shy of his 85th birthday.

Born during a blizzard on March 1, Debbie died on a warm, sunny day, March 14, aged 85 years and 14 days. Her last words were rumored to be, "Holy shit, I did it."