neither of them really did anything with him.
A year ago I retired him though. A few problems with his front foot and add that to his age, I decided it was back to just pasture time for ol’ Tomahawk. Now, Rooster on the other hand, dang if that boy hasn’t even let me get a leg over him yet. But I won’t give up. Somedays I just pray he doesn’t knock me on my behind just trying to walk him on the lead line.
Tabitha cranes her neck to look through the back window. The truck’s an old 1972 Ford F 150. It was red once, but now it’s more a chalky-pink, and it was falling to pieces when Jessie gave it to me, but it gets me around.
“I always wanted to fool around in the back of a truck.” She looks back at me with a sly smile. “Those feed bags look like they might be comfortable laying on your back. Too bad mountain man isn’t here to give us a little beard action. I hear that’s the way to go.” She bobs her eyebrows with a giggle, and looks back at her phone.
I ignore the sexual reference. I’m not a prude but it still makes me blush. “Who’s texting you?”
“Oh, no one. I’ve got a few clients asking for things. I need to get home and work anyway. I’m on twenty-four hours a day. Sober or not.”
The light flips to green and the engine warning light flickers glowing red as I accelerate. This old truck has carried me well for a couple years, but he’s due for some TLC. Ol’ Clifford sputters a bit but then the engine light goes dark and we hum forward.
Tabitha’s apartment is around the next corner by RR 2, just at the edge of town. I pull into her lot and settle the pickup in front of her door.
“Okay, you sure you don’t want to stay?”
“Sure.” I smile. I’m sleepy and the chickens don’t care how late I stay up. They still want to be fed at five a.m. along with the other four legged creatures otherwise they all get cranky.
“Just come in for a minute, I want to show you my new website. Pleeeeease? It’s kind of a big deal and I want to show you.” She bats her eyelashes and I relent.
“Fine. Half hour at the most.”
An hour later, I say goodbye, and make it back to crank the old truck into reverse already regretting how late I’ve stayed up and how early I need to drag myself out of bed.
T en minutes later and a couple miles down RR 2 I’m wishing I’d gone ahead and spent the night.
“Goddamn it!” I bang my palms on the steering wheel, staring down the black dirt road.
The truck had started some weird flappity-flap noise about a mile back, then it sputtered and died. Thank God I had enough coast left to pull to the side of the road.
And now that I’m looking out the window at the way I’m stopped, ol’ Clifford is leaning halfway into the ditch. I hope the truck doesn’t topple over and land us upside down in the ditch water. That would be a perfect end to the evening.
I tap my forehead with my fingers. Glancing to my right, the moon glints off the screen of my cell phone which I’d just dug out of my purse. I’m not a big cell phone girl, and more often than not when I do pull it out to use it, it’s dead or dying. This is the first time I’ve ever needed to use it in an emergency and I curse myself for being so disorganized. I press hard on the power button one more time thinking applying more pressure might change something but there’s more life at a funeral parlor.
“You let me down, Clifford,” I mumble as I rub my forehead.
This truck was at the farm with Jessie when I got there. She made sure I got my license then gave it to me, and it’s a behemoth. Usually when it gives me trouble, I just talk nice to it, rub the dashboard and it putters along. But if you’re going to talk nice to a truck then it needs a name in my opinion. So, eventually I just started calling it Clifford, the big, red truck.
I’m looking back and forth in either direction, trying to work out if it is
A year ago I retired him though. A few problems with his front foot and add that to his age, I decided it was back to just pasture time for ol’ Tomahawk. Now, Rooster on the other hand, dang if that boy hasn’t even let me get a leg over him yet. But I won’t give up. Somedays I just pray he doesn’t knock me on my behind just trying to walk him on the lead line.
Tabitha cranes her neck to look through the back window. The truck’s an old 1972 Ford F 150. It was red once, but now it’s more a chalky-pink, and it was falling to pieces when Jessie gave it to me, but it gets me around.
“I always wanted to fool around in the back of a truck.” She looks back at me with a sly smile. “Those feed bags look like they might be comfortable laying on your back. Too bad mountain man isn’t here to give us a little beard action. I hear that’s the way to go.” She bobs her eyebrows with a giggle, and looks back at her phone.
I ignore the sexual reference. I’m not a prude but it still makes me blush. “Who’s texting you?”
“Oh, no one. I’ve got a few clients asking for things. I need to get home and work anyway. I’m on twenty-four hours a day. Sober or not.”
The light flips to green and the engine warning light flickers glowing red as I accelerate. This old truck has carried me well for a couple years, but he’s due for some TLC. Ol’ Clifford sputters a bit but then the engine light goes dark and we hum forward.
Tabitha’s apartment is around the next corner by RR 2, just at the edge of town. I pull into her lot and settle the pickup in front of her door.
“Okay, you sure you don’t want to stay?”
“Sure.” I smile. I’m sleepy and the chickens don’t care how late I stay up. They still want to be fed at five a.m. along with the other four legged creatures otherwise they all get cranky.
“Just come in for a minute, I want to show you my new website. Pleeeeease? It’s kind of a big deal and I want to show you.” She bats her eyelashes and I relent.
“Fine. Half hour at the most.”
An hour later, I say goodbye, and make it back to crank the old truck into reverse already regretting how late I’ve stayed up and how early I need to drag myself out of bed.
T en minutes later and a couple miles down RR 2 I’m wishing I’d gone ahead and spent the night.
“Goddamn it!” I bang my palms on the steering wheel, staring down the black dirt road.
The truck had started some weird flappity-flap noise about a mile back, then it sputtered and died. Thank God I had enough coast left to pull to the side of the road.
And now that I’m looking out the window at the way I’m stopped, ol’ Clifford is leaning halfway into the ditch. I hope the truck doesn’t topple over and land us upside down in the ditch water. That would be a perfect end to the evening.
I tap my forehead with my fingers. Glancing to my right, the moon glints off the screen of my cell phone which I’d just dug out of my purse. I’m not a big cell phone girl, and more often than not when I do pull it out to use it, it’s dead or dying. This is the first time I’ve ever needed to use it in an emergency and I curse myself for being so disorganized. I press hard on the power button one more time thinking applying more pressure might change something but there’s more life at a funeral parlor.
“You let me down, Clifford,” I mumble as I rub my forehead.
This truck was at the farm with Jessie when I got there. She made sure I got my license then gave it to me, and it’s a behemoth. Usually when it gives me trouble, I just talk nice to it, rub the dashboard and it putters along. But if you’re going to talk nice to a truck then it needs a name in my opinion. So, eventually I just started calling it Clifford, the big, red truck.
I’m looking back and forth in either direction, trying to work out if it is
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