The Little Red Truck

It was November of 1989 and I hadn’t had a martini for four months. The whole world was feeling bright and new, and the pile of shit I’d been driving all those drunken years, a beat-up Honda Civic, simply wouldn’t do. I myself wasn’t responsible for all the dents and scratches, mind you...my (soon-to-be) ex-husband did a lot of the damage. He never caught on to the trick about not driving drunk. I had the good sense to do my heaviest drinking alone at home. I’d been alone at home for years before I sobered up, and thank God for that. It probably saved my life and that of many others. They say in AA that the alcoholic is like a tornado whirling through the lives of others leaving destruction in his wake.

Coincidentally the very day I quit the booze, my catering business tripled in volume. What’s that, if not a kind of miracle...some sign from somewhere that I was doing the right thing. I was telling this to a gal at a meeting and she said ‘Jeez, just when you need a rest!’ The real fact is that it’s great to be extremely busy in early sobriety. You stay out of all kinds of trouble that way. Too busy to date/shop/socialize/over-eat/ or wallow in self-pity. I do remember though being at a meeting and crying out ‘Why is it so hard to BE ME? I’m embarrassed to even think about it now.

So I needed a new vehicle, and it had to carry lots of food and the big paintings I’d started making. I must have seen a pickup truck in the neighborhood that looked like my perfect solution. Toyota was the way to go from what people said, and back then they were about eight grand. Can you imagine? Tack on a thousand for one thing and a thousand for another (don’t ask me what), and I got it out the door for ten grand, including air conditioning. My first brand-new vehicle, and it was shiny ruby red!

One of nature’s meanest tricks is that we, as humans, can get used to just about anything. If you drive an old car every time you go somewhere you never know if you’ll actually arrive. It becomes part of the reality of your existence. There’s a heightened anxiety in getting to work or to the market or to visit a friend. You’ve always got your Auto Club card right at hand, and you even get to know some of the tow truck drivers by name. You hate this added complication, but you live with it and work around it, like walking with a cane. When you finally get a brand new car you’re surprised how simple and expansive life becomes. All of a sudden you can go anywhere! Even out-of-town trips are possible! My little red truck was just the right size. It was really no bigger than a regular car, only the back was wide open...a perfectly practical vehicle for this caterer/painter/schlepper of bulky objects. I helped friends move endless times and had to ultimately put the kybosh on that particular favor when I became the go-to gal for all kinds of people needing to move shit. I was “Maud with the truck”.

I have to tell you, I drove and drove, and I got older, and the truck got older, and 22 years with 180,000 miles happened pretty darn fast. It was like a successful marriage. My truck always showed up for me no matter what. It got less shiny as I got less shiny, but we were totally dedicated to each other.

When I would go to New York to visit Dad I would lend the truck to my friend Terry, who was without a car. She was a brilliant woman, with all kinds of talents...singing, writing, acting, but no talent for earning money. I think she just hated numbers. I understand the trauma of numbers. I myself can add up a column of numbers (with a calculator) and wind up with a different sum at least ten times. Avoidance of numbers becomes a kind of career in itself...a lousy one where you can never earn a buck.

The day of my departure Terry would come pick up the truck, drive me to the airport, and then use it for the week or two I was away. Then she’d come get me when I returned, and I’d take her home, and I’ll tell you, there was something so comforting about getting back in the driver’s seat of my little red buddy. Terry always returned it in perfect shape, if a bit improved. Once she’d gotten seat covers for the fraying grey material. Oh, those seats… they had blueberry stains on them from a time I’d made a cobbler for a job and carried it with me in front. Why did I think that was a good idea? On the return from one of those New York trips, Terry announced ‘If you ever wanted to sell this I’d buy it from you.’ This planted a seed in my mind. Maybe I could say goodbye. Maybe I could get something shinier. I could still have visitation rights. So Terry bought the truck. I cried a little when I handed over the keys.

The beauty was though that I saw it around the neighborhood. ‘There’s my truck!’ I’d think. She drove it for 5 years and sold it to a guy for three hundred dollars. She came over to tell me in person. She knew I still cared.

All of these memories are floating around in my head now. I got the news last week that Terry had died. She was only 77. She died a day after her birthday. She went to take a nap and never woke up. It seems like it must be a mistake. How could this have happened? Where did she go? Where is the little red truck? Where is my husband? My parents? My martinis? Death is God’s worst idea. I hate to say goodbye.