The Old Truck

I enjoyed driving around in my father-in-law's little, beat-up pickup truck today as I waited for the brakes to be fixed on my newer, bigger, higher-rising, more-adorned Tacoma.

That little truck was my first vehicle out of college in 1997 and carried me to work at my first "real" job at a newspaper along the South Carolina coast.

It was an "old" 1993 Toyota pickup with a stick-shift and a cassette player.

I remember driving that truck that first day at work -- when I first realized that when I went home, I didn't then have to do any homework.

I remember being on the cusp of being married and being a renter and being excited about the place we could get with a joint income.

I carried a few drunk folks around in the back of it, and I managed to carry in my truck bed a bucket full of crabs from the marshes that somehow managed to stumble into being caught.

I drove it back in a haze to Columbia when I found out my uncle had died under a bridge. The seat didn't lean back. When my herniated disk flared up, it meant I couldn't turn to see the traffic when I changed lanes.

Four years went by, we moved to the Upstate, and along came my first son.

For the first year of his life, my wife drove the truck to work so that I could take the little baby in a car with a back seat.

As bad of a driver as she seems to (unsubstantially) think I am, she managed to dent the crap out of the rear side and all but crush the bumper. That warms my heart.

Then, we made the decision to take on some debt and buy a truck with some seats behind.

For the baby.

And for me. I always wanted a big truck. And with a CD player.

My father-in-law -- smart and successful and business savvy -- bought that thing off me and drives it regularly still. He managed to paint it himself, with a healthy dose of yoeman experimentation that adds to its charm.

I drove it around town today.

I could feel the gears moving in my hand. I had to make sure I didn't pop it into 1st when I meant for it to be in 3rd down a hill. I balanced downshifting with using the brakes in neutral -- (save brake pads or save gas?). I hated the guy who pulled so close behind me on a hill.

My back sat upright. It took me a while to realize that it wouldn't fall apart going 75 mph on the interstate.

No cassettes ... but no need ... because the radio doesn't work anymore.

As I approached a traffic light today, I thought,"This is cool. This was me when I was 23 -- simple, unencumbered, unassuming."

Driving the old truck was nice.

By the end of the day, I decided to take it to my son's soccer practice before picking up my truck. We would ride together. I could tell him a few stories.

He enjoyed hearing them.

But as I continued en route to pick up my truck -- the one I love in its own way -- I found myself ready to return to it.

As simple and unencumbered as everything was -- without the responsibilities that I now realize have come to define me in ways that I would have never known -- I missed my life as I know it now.

Would I want to go back?

Yes. To the freedom. And to the young legs.

But not.

Not to the loneliness and lack of purpose. Not to asking the questions that didn't matter.

It's nice to know:

I could go back to driving my old truck, and I would be happy.

I could go back to being 23, and I would be happy (and better looking).

Or I can be where I am now -- driving around with a nostalgic look less steeped in history. To the empty backseat where both of my boys have spoken and done things that will be enshrined forever in my heart.

I realize I like it where I am, too.

And I like enjoying automatic shift.

Especially now that they have cell phones.