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Day 167: Get some rest, old friend.
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I'm picking up my new car tomorrow. While I am ridiculously thrilled about this, today I think it's appropriate to acknowledge that an extraordinary relationship is ending.
I've been driving this truck for over nine years: one full quarter of my life. I bought it in Iowa in June of 1999 for 50, and it has run like an absolute champ ever since.
I've moved nine times in this truck.
I've driven it to eight different jobs. I drove it to three years of law school, and I drove it to take the bar exam, and I drove it to be sworn into the state bar by the Tennessee Supreme Court.
For Thanksgiving 2006, I drove it to Little Rock, and then flew to Houston. That trip turned out to be the last time I would hear my mother's laugh.
I've driven it from Ames to Memphis; Memphis to Ames and back, to pick up a dog; to Pass Christian, Mississippi; to New Orleans; to Murray, Kentucky; to Nashville. (I generally avoided long road trips in it because they make the truck nervous.)
I've gone on dates in it. I've had sex in it. (Yes, in the cab. Don't ask.) I've slept in it on a country road in Mississippi because I'd been awake for two days and couldn't keep my eyes open for another thirty seconds.
I drove it to my wedding, and I drove it to my divorce hearing.
When my beloved dog got terribly sick and I had to have her put to sleep, I took her to the vet for the last time in this truck, and I never cleaned her little nose-prints off the passenger-side window.
I've washed the truck twice.
At a bar, I locked the keys in it while it was running one frigid, sleety night, and the owner stayed in the bar with me for three hours after they closed as we waited on AAA to come unlock it. (In case you're wondering: About a quarter-tank.)
It's an unmistakeable, retina-searing shade of blue. If I forget where I'm parked, I only need line-of-sight with about one square inch of the truck to find it.
I've driven it in 107-degree heat, and 6-degree cold. I've driven it in six inches of snow and a foot of mud. I've driven it with the cab jammed so full of helium balloons that I had to put my face against the windshield to see where I was going.
Three good friends who took rides in the truck have since died.
I've driven it to baseball games, football games, basketball games, hockey games, kickball games, poker games, bocce games, and one roller derby match. I've gone to see easily 200 movies in it. (I'm pretty sure the first was Eyes Wide Shut.)
There are a bunch of people I consider close friends who have never known me to drive anything other than this truck. Since I bought it, only two people other than me have driven it, once each.
The truck was a major character in the first movie I made, in 2003.
After Friday, I'll have my 2008 Mini Cooper, and the truck can sit and go happily to seed. My neighbor and I have agreed on an out-of-the-way spot where I can park it, and I'll probably drive it three or four times a year, when someone needs to move something.
It wasn't perfect. It's got no air conditioning, for one thing, and the Memphis summers are brutal. But that never really seemed like a hardship to me; instead, an air-conditioned car seems like a luxury. And the truck's got such character that it's hard to begrudge it something like that.
I paid 50 for it, or .68 for every day I've had it. I'd have to drive the Mini for 78 years to get that kind of return.
So: Get some rest, Basil. You've earned it.
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