The WarWagon

Someone sang a song a while back that said something like if my truck was a horse I would shoot it. If my truck were a horse the ASPCA would come and shoot it and haul me off in chains and lock me away forever. You see my truck is a WORK truck. Not one of those work trucks that people in clean clothes ride around in worrying about spilling their non fat café late on the interior. My truck is a work truck that comes home with 4,000 pounds of junk piled on it that came from deep in the woods where I had to knock over small trees and smash through heavy undergrowth. I only worry about spilling things that might eat through the floor and cause me to fall out in the interstate. Those sissy work trucks whose owners will not allow food to be eaten inside amuse me. I worry about something eating me whilei drive. If I get a few more layers of dirt in the passenger’s floorboard I am going to plant tomatoes down there to feed whatever lives under the seat. Worried about scratches? Not me, the WarWagon is covered in a protective layer of grease and mud. Dents and dings –HA – there may be a straight body panel somewhere in it. Maybe the left front fender well is unscathed, but it would take too long to clean out the two tons of Carolina red clay to see if I am right. Upset over things sliding around in the bed – not in my truck. It is currently covered in a layer of burnt transmission fluid from being used as a workbench recently; keeping the fluid from leaking out on the ground is a dam of dirt, rock, and vines. Somewhere in all that mess is a jack I found for a friends car and about 40 feet of chain. The duct tape covered window looks right at home on the back of the cab – I wasn’t upset that it broke; I was amazed that it went that long without getting smashed. I am constantly having people coming up to me and asking where I got the crane that is in the back of the truck – it has been a long time since anyone came up and told me it was beautiful – the truck or the crane. Last time I had tires put on it the guy had to dig through a ton of mud to get to the lug nuts. I can park anywhere without worrying about it getting damaged, although there hasn’t been a Mercedes parked next to it in a while. As a matter of fact when I come out of a store now there is a circle of empty spots around it. It looks like a quarantine area. I imagine that when I leave, a team of Haz-Mat workers come out and clean up. It doesn’t leak – much. I feel that I am doing my part to seal parking lots all across America. My parking spot at the apartment is so slick that the American Olympic curling team sublets it to train on in the summer months. Three tourists came by thinking it was the La Brea tar–pits, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that they were on the wrong coast. I just took their $20 admission fee and let them wander around. Some trucks are not allowed to get dirty. My truck thrives on mud and dirt. It is not uncommon to see it come down the road with a small tree sticking out of something. I tell everyone I am decorating for Christmas. My landlord got mad last weekend because someone had washed a car and left the hose running - I wasn’t even questioned. It gets washed when it rains. And it even has a security system – when the door is opened a stream of empty water bottles and stray tools fall to the ground altering me to unauthorized entry. Not that anyone in their right mind would enter it. A few weeks ago I came out and found a hand sticking out of a pile of Deer Park bottles, poor kid didn’t stand a chance, he wrote out his will in ketchup packets on the pack of a pizza box – very touching. Only one person broke into it and survived. He had to have tetanus and distemper shots, I still haven’t found his fingers – or whatever ate them.