On Monday morning, my father left a snarky message asking if I’d borrowed his truck. Since it is the sort of truck that rolls down hills and vanishes, I didn’t worry too much about it. But, in fact, it had been stolen.
Why anyone would steal a piece of shit Mazda truck from 1980, I cannot imagine, but my mother was convinced it was stolen to be crashed into storefronts, for looting. Naturally.
My father has owned that truck for many many years. He loves that it stalls at stoplights. That you have to tinker with the clutch, and the accelerator to keep the thing moving. That the gas gauge sits perpetually at E. He has rebuilt the engine. He has replaced any number of broken windows. He has crowded those sad brakes with attention.
Yesterday the police found his truck, two miles from my parents’ house, perfectly intact. And they are beyond delighted. A miracle. A blessing. The return of the prodigal clunker.
Isn’t there more joy in the compound complex? More reward? More maintenance, more work, yes, but in the end, that truck has his blood mixed in with the grease and the bearings, and it purrs for him. Between stalls and vanishings.