The truck was nothing short of immaculate. We sat in silence, appreciating that new vehicle scent while we ran our fingers carefully over the soft padded dashboard and heated leather seats. When we did speak, it was in short whispers and high energy sighs.
We treated those first moments alone in the truck with extreme reverence. This was our ultimate dream, from the solid brown interior to the steel blue finish that swallowed up the sun, and rivaled the sky above. I looked down at the plush carpeted floorboard; vowing from that moment on to make clean shoes a priority before entering the sanctum of this dream machine.
I was quietly devising a plan to purchase the crème de la crème of car mats when that shaky, multicolored pickup passed by. ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” wiped out all serenity while tattooed, hearty arms waved from every available orifice of the truck. One of the occupants emitted a sharp wolf whistle, while another shouted out, “Cool wheels!” as the rusty vessel shot by.
“That can’t be safe for the road,” I declared. “It is nothing short of a bucket of rust and it wouldn’t hurt to turn the volume down, either. What do you want to bet the music is coming from an 8-track?”
With extreme care, I reached over and pushed the stereo power button on. Clear, smooth music surrounded us and I settled down into the plush seat, thanking God and the Universe for the means to purchase such a fine specimen of industrial technology.
Without warning, the ancient truck sailed by once again, a different tune playing this time. I was suddenly reminded of the television show, “The Beverly Hillbillies” and I laughed out loud.
“Imagine having the audacity to put something like that on the road,” I said, curling up my nose at the thought. We drove home slowly, making sure to avoid all dips in the highway, wayward pebbles, and the other vehicles around us. We drove our magnificent, $30,000 purchase into our garage and locked all of the doors; something we had never done before. I slept soundly that evening, with the exception of an occasional image of that old clown truck barreling on down the road, the greatest of rock tunes hovering in its wake.
I pulled into the Rite-Aid parking lot the next day, this time driving my white Impala. In stealth mode, the dilapidated truck pulled up beside me, spitting and sputtering and plagued with pre-ignition.
I climbed out of the car quickly, my head to the ground. “Hey,” the driver called out. “Aren’t you the lady in the new Chevy pickup I saw yesterday?” I nodded my head, looking up at him briefly.
“What color do they call that truck, anyway? What fancy name did Chevy give it?”
“Colorado Blue,” I responded. The driver laughed. “You know, this old jalopy was new once upon a time, too. I babied her for about two months and then I just gave up! The outside is a royal mess, but the engine is a beauty. The most important thing is what lies under the hood. You can’t ride on a paint job.”
I smiled at the gentleman and offered him my hand. We exchanged names and talked about the weather, his grandchildren, and my dog. As we parted ways, the gentleman tapped his head with an index finger and said, “Remember, dear lady! It’s what’s inside that matters.”
I haven’t seen the gentleman since that day in front of Rite Aid but I am quite sure I have spotted his truck a few times, dashing around a corner or gassing up at Daigle Oil. Our new pickup is holding up well; still that gorgeous hue with all of that luxurious leather inside. As for the performance of the Colorado Blue Chevy, so far so good, and that is a very important thing. After all, it’s what lies under the hood that counts.
Belinda Ouellette lives in Connor TWP with her husband and their Goldendoodle, Barney Rubble. You may contact Belinda at dbwouellette@maine.rr.com
