People say a trip down Route 66 will change you forever. Even after chucking my plans and trading my apartment in St. Louis for a motel in rural New Mexico, I’m not sure I believed I’d really changed … until today.
This afternoon, for what may have been the first time in my life, I did something for entirely practical reasons.
This afternoon, I bought a truck — a big, noisy pickup truck with three on the tree and rust spots on the hood and a bad bondo job on one fender and no power steering and no power brakes and no air conditioning and no CD player — and put a “FOR SALE” sign on my Firebird.
I’ll probably cry when somebody buys the Firebird. It was, after all, a college graduation gift from my father, who really wanted to buy me a Corvette but couldn’t afford it. I don’t have my father any more. But I have his music. I have one of his album covers tattooed on my ankle. And I have about 30 yards of worn-out shag carpet to haul out of here before tourist season.
Tonight, I also have a “good-lookin’ old bitch” with a 327 under her hood sitting in my driveway, waiting to help me do anything I’ve got any business doing … and probably several things I haven’t got any business doing as well.
Now all I need is a big, goofy dog to ride shotgun. I think I may have found a good candidate. Squeezed in amongst the ads for farriers, Australian shepherd puppies, rodeos, and septic-tank services, I spotted this flier:
I think a pit bull-German shepherd mix would look just fine in my new truck.