I promise this is it. This is all of it.
I know how all y’all just LOVE the truck storyline. Honestly-I can tell from the blog stats.
But I gotta do this, OK?
When last we left my miserable truck story I had, for some reason, treated Miss Carol and me to a new truck, something I’ve not had for twenty-one years (I started driving Big Black when I was 4). Apprehension was my constant kissing cousin keeping me up at night and tugging at me all day long.
Change can be tough and I wasn’t totally sure I’d done the right thing kicking Big Black to the curb and taking up totally heterosexual relations with MR.GREEN.
To make matters worse I almost immediately sold Big Black to a kinda douchey guy but backed out at the last minute. I just couldn’t do it. I just wasn’t ready. The separation anxiety was killin’ me.
So the douchey guy bought Mighty Whitey instead. (I wasn’t NEARLY as attached to the Suburban as I was to my Big Black)
Did I just share that?
Mighty Whitey’s gone and soon so will be Big Black. An old friend of mine’s gonna buy him, put bench seats in the bed of the truck, hang an awning from the ladder rack and park him over on the beach in Carova.
Yup. Big Black’s gonna end his days transporting people back and forth to the beach, being a party barge and resting during the winters and staring at the ocean.
I can handle that, I think.
it’s goodbye, my old friend.
Spring struck like a thunderclap this year. Seems like it went from 45 degrees and cloudy and windy to 90 and balmy in the space of day or two.
And with the warmer temps the tourons came streaming in, an endless line of sillily packed cars packed chock-a-block full of spring breakiness. Used to be, touron season was the 100 days war between Memorial Day and Labor Day when they’d all finally leave.
Not no more.
Thanks to the City’s ever vigilant efforts the tourons flock back as soon as it’s warm enough to squeeze sun-challenged pudginess into shorts and bathing suits. And black socks. And bad hawaiian shirts. And neon everything, from t-shirts to sunglasses.
And while I yearn for the warmer weather and summertime I also gird myself, facing it with not a little dread. Gone is the relative solitude of winter. Gone are the empty beaches and keening wind. Another touron season is bearing down on us. Another year of noisy new neighbors every weekend reminding you that THEY’RE ON VACATION.
Which can be cool, sorta.
‘Cept it gets old after a couple a weeks and at times you find yourself longing for October.
So we grins and we bears it, right?
Knowing shit could be worse, right?
Embracing our self-indulgent lifestyle Miss Carol and me decided long ago not to have any kids of our own. Miss Carol is one of twelve and I have a brother and two sisters. We have countless nephews and nieces. Well maybe not countless, but lots and lots and we always have a crowd on weekends and holidays and this weekend was no exception. Miss Carol’s mom and dad and one of her brothers and his wife and five kids and two other couples, friends of ours that had been planning on spending Easter separately and alone, joined us on Sunday.
I was surprised how much I enjoyed it.
There was a time, not too long ago, when a bunch of people in our house was kinda irritating. I know it sounds terrible but I treasured my private space and lonely rituals and protected it and them bitterly and jealously. After the initial glow of seeing friends and family I’d fairly quickly retreat into the dark little piece of crap I was rapidly becoming, waiting impatiently for them to leave.
Fortunately for me Miss Carol cared very little for my sensitivities and fragile male ego and just kept on planning large family and friend gatherings, forcing me to be a part and not become THAT man. You know, THAT man, the one wandering aimlessly in the grease stained trench coat, dumpster diving in ratty tennis shoes, and mumbling to himself and the hubcap he clutches to his chest like a life ring.
Because of Miss Carol’s relentless socialness I’ve gradually somehow, some kinda way gotten way better. And now I truly enjoy the crowded truckload of kids, mess, noise, laughter and fun that backs up beeping to our house on weekends and holidays.
Ya know how sometimes you just sit, your mouth dry wondering where the next word’ll come from, the next phrase, the next whatever.
And ya sit, blowing spit bubbles while your mind races not connecting, gears stripped and smoking.
And you think.
Why do I put myself through this? For what?
Why not ease off the clutch and let it go. it ain’t goin’ anywhere anyway.
But you persist, like herpes.
‘Cause it’s in you like somethin’ that’ll never get out and you’re stuck.
Writin’s harder than I ever thought. I envisioned a cool existence sitting tap-tapping away in air conditioned comfort, far from the travails and hardship of construction.
Instead it’s different but just as tough, in a different way. And it saps you, which is a huge surprise.