Of Trucks and Men

Of Trucks and Men

Without fail, anywhere we went, we’d see one.

Short bed Chevy.

Ford Supercrew.

Tricked out truck with polished chrome, Yosemite Sam mud flaps and a six foot antenna threatening the belly of an interstate overpass.

He’d point out each one, his discriminating eye absorbing the pros and cons of every make and model.

“See, that one’s a short wheel base, regular cab, the last of that body style, about a 1997,” explained my husband. “See the hood on that one? Bad hinges on that model. Every last truck like that will have a crimp across the middle because the hinges are no good.” He talked like I understood, like I knew an overhead cam from a fuel injector.

“They came out with that model when I was in high school. Gets about five miles to the gallon. Oh, man, look at that one. Now THAT’s a truck.” At this point his eyes always glazed over, a boy’s Christmas face frozen in pure idolatry before the department store window.

Truck fever isn’t pretty. It basically permeates every waking moment, every conversation. We’d start out talking about the kids, work, the budget, but ultimately the discussion always turned to towing capacity and extended cabs. Then there’s the song and dance about how every man needs a truck.

It seems the need to haul things, to tow things, to administer horse power in such a way that your masculinity is essentially validated by traveling by truck is inexplicably tied to the Y chromosome. While we needed another vehicle about like we needed multiple sore toes, somehow we decided that a used truck was something of a necessity. Last weekend, we found ourselves at the Woolwine Ford dealership in Collins.

“Can I help you?” Ricky the salesman asked. My spouse salivated. He stood within a sea of new Fords, trade-ins and the palpable magnetism of four-wheel drive.

“We’re looking for a truck,” he stammered. “Not new. Very affordable. “ He looked, momentarily, as if his legs would give out from under him.

“I think I can help you out with that,” Ricky assured us. He retreated to his office and reemerged with a computer printout. Meanwhile, my better half locked headlamps with a ruby red Ford XLT, a 2000 model that I would swear winked at him. It had high miles, but higher appeal. Little flickering red hearts surfaced where his pupils used to be.

“ What about this one?” Ricky studied his papers and indicated the item met our criteria. We walked the perimeter of the specimen, examined the engine, sat behind the wheel. We mentioned the fact that we think the world of his boss, Richard Woolwine whose Aunt Tommie we claim as our own. We shared our story of buying one of our favorite cars, a Mercury Grand Marquis, from that very lot years before. Some might have accused us of brown-nosing. Truthfully, I felt certain that if we left that lot without a truck, my husband might spontaneously disintegrate on the spot.

Ricky got the keys and we took it for a test drive. I witnessed pure pleasure that day. The clouds turned dark, the sky drizzled rain, but the mood in the cab of that F150 XLT reached something akin to unadulterated ecstasy. The odometer had close to a bazillion miles, but the ride was tight, the engine sound and the glistening exterior belied the age of eight years. If ever there was a taker, that truck was it.

I love car salesmen who get right to the point. Not long ago, Tony at Vardaman Honda sold us our minivan with the finesse of a retail wizard and the ease of a good friend. Ricky did the same with that truck. We appreciate that. In less than two hours, we became the proud owners of a pre-owned Ford that might as well have been a gilded chassis fit for a king. Who knew a truck could sprout wings and fly?

The man got his truck and all was well with chromosomes, machismo and trailer hitches. Only now, the 16-year-old son developed a sudden and irrepressible itch for a fishing boat.

Aluminum.

Sixteen foot.

25 horsepower.

Just the thing for that truck to pull.

The tackle box quivers in the toolbox with each mention of “Evinrude” and “Mercury.” What I soon discovered is that with truck ownership comes the mysterious need for men to bond on lakes and rivers, compelled to seek the satisfaction found in baiting bass from watercraft—watercraft that preferably includes trolling motor, live well and depth finder, of course.

Of trucks and men, there is no end to the male patterned boldness found riding the roads in the comfortable cab of their dreams.