Ball Joints

So, the other day I was cleaning up our truck because it has become a life-sucking money pit and we were going to look for a new car and would be potentially trading it in. I wanted it to look nice and shiny on the outside to help hide its evil inner soul. The mechanic gave us a subtle hint as to the fate of the truck the last time we took it in. We took it in because it was spewing a chocolate milk colored substance all over the driveway and I didn’t remember filling the chocolate milk reservoir under the hood. To quote the mechanic, “I’d git this thang fixed up real good this time and than sell it as fast as you can, cause it ‘aint gonna give you nothin’ but heartache (misspellings added).” And of course we didn’t “Sell it as fast as we can,” and of course it went back to the mechanic. We are now subleasing our backyard for sheep grazing in an attempt to pay the repair bills.


Anyway, as I was giving the truck what I hoped was its final scrub, I found myself having a conversation with the truck, it went something like this.

Me: You know, it didn’t have to end up like this.

Truck: (silence)

Me: It’s just... you really let yourself go

Truck: (silence)

Me: I mean, we gave you every advantage we could afford. We even rode our bikes to work and school for five years to keep your mileage down.

Truck: And how do you think that made me feel, seeing the other cars getting to go out and experience the world while I just sat there covered in oak sap? You heard the mechanic; the rust came from not being used.

Me: We didn’t know! We thought it was good for you. But that’s not even the point. Look at yourself lately… lower ball joints? Really? And the mechanic said the upper ball joints aren’t far behind. I mean, that’s just basic hygiene.

Truck: Sometimes I wonder, what’s the point? Why bother?

Me: Don’t talk like that; we had some good times too!

Truck: Oh yeah, like what?

Me: What about the everglades? You got to carry the canoe.

Truck: That thing’s a piece of crap!

Me: HEY! I know it’s not pretty, but it’s reliable. Unlike….

Truck: What?

Me: Nothing. There were all those trips to the beach. Those were fun, right?

Truck: You mean the ones where you wouldn’t pay the three bucks to drive on the beach? Man, I’ve got 4 wheel drive. I was made for that stuff. But like you would even know. How many times did you even put me in 4 wheel drive? Three? Four?

Me: You’re right. Maybe we could have taken a little better care of… (Trails off as I notice power steering fluid dripping off a gasket on the front steering arm, which I already replaced once)

Truck: You were saying?

Me: Nothing. We’re done here. I’m gonna vacuum and we’re done.

Truck: What did I say? Oh, come on. I’ll do better.

Me: (silence)

Truck: I’ll get better gas mileage.

Me: (silence)

Truck: I’m paid for. Can’t beat that. Come on! No payments… That’s nice, right?

The truck’s pleadings were soon drowned out by the roar of my shop vac. Which, on a side note, has enough suction to pick up a 10 pound boat anchor. No, really it does. I know from experience. You’ve gotta be careful where you aim it because you may unintentionally shop vac stuff you don’t want to.

To our dismay we came home with the truck, but there is always next weekend. I hope it dies a slow painful death in a scrap yard, slowly having its last usable parts ripped from its core until there is nothing left but a shell of its former self. Or not, whatever.