Tom loves his truck.
Sometimes I wonder if he loves it more than me.
Sometimes I’ll catch him staring at it when he’s supposed to be mowing the lawn. It’s like he’s thinking, “Look at that beauty. All shiny and red.”
He takes excellent care of his truck. He washes it all the time and winces when he sees someone drive by in a filthy truck.
“How can a guy let his truck look like that?” he’ll moan.
If he can keep his truck neat, then why can’t he get his dirty clothes in the hamper? This is what I want to know. I’ve asked him and he winks and says, “It’s fun to see you frazzled.”
I don’t know what to think about that.
Tom freaks out if the neighborhood children get too close to his truck. He’s yelled at one for daring to touch it. Tom also freaks out if he feels I’m abusing it. Apparently I slam my door too hard. I did this a few times and Tom will suck in his breath and go,
“What has my truck done to you?”
“Excuse me?” I’m always confused.
“You don’t need to slam the door like that,” Tom will lecture. Once he actually showed me the proper way to close the door.
“Lightly, yet firmly,” Tom said, pushing the door. “Do you see what I’m doing here? Lightly...yet....firmly....”
I rarely pay attention. Maybe I like to see Tom frazzled too. Maybe this means we have a sick relationship. I don’t know.
We have antelope that wander the neighborhood. Tom once scared a bunch off because he was worried they were getting too close to his truck.
“Shoo! Shoo!” he yelled, waving his arms in the air.
I never wanted to know how he’d react if something did happen to his truck. I mean, awhile back, someone backed into it and you’d have thought that he lost one his balls or something. Thankfully it got fixed because Tom made sure the guy gave his insurance information—he would never let someone escape after harming his baby.
Well, this is what happened on Saturday when we went out:
See, what happened is we went to Dennys and the parking lot was full being that it was a Saturday morning. Who can resist a breakfast from Dennys? There were people walking around and this one guy was getting into his vehicle next to the empty spot Tom was backing into. Suddenly, the guy got out of his vehicle (maybe to admire the truck, men admire Tom’s truck all the time) and Tom was worried that he’d accidentally hit him. So he turned the wheel a bit to give the guy more room.
He was so busy concentrating on doing this that he didn’t realize that he had backed far enough.
He didn’t realize that until the whole truck shuddered.
“What was that?” Tom demanded as we rocked for a few seconds.
“Erm...you may have hit the pole back there,” I said this gently as though I were preparing a person for awful news.
Tom looked sick. “My truck!” And then he was trying to get out of his seat but he forgot he still had his seatbelt on so he struggled for a few seconds.
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. It was so funny to see this grown man thrashing in his seat.
I actually got out first. Tom was still trying to pull free as I stepped onto the ground. I cautiously went around to the back and this is when I saw the dent.
“Is there damage?” Tom called, finally free. He marched over, he jaw set tightly.
I leaped in front of it. “No damage at all!” I lied.
Tom stared at me in disbelief. “No damage? But the truck shook…”
I shrugged. “We got lucky, I suppose.”
I knew he’d eventually find out. But I just wanted to enjoy my breakfast. I knew if Tom noticed the ding that he’d—
“Wait a minute. Wait. What’s that?” Tom was craning his neck around me.
“Bird poo! Those damn birds. Scientists really need to teach them how to use a communal bird toilet or something,” I rambled.
Tom gently pushed me aside. “That’s a dent.” He looked a little pale as he ran his finger around it. “That’s a dent.”
I was worried he was going to hyperventilate, actually.
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “Really.”
“That’s a dent on my truck.” Tom was still a pasty white color.
“How about we go eat?” I suggested, pulling on his arm.
I got the kids out and pulled a dazed Tom towards the entrance. I kept hearing him mutter, “dent” and “truck.”
When we settled down at a booth Tom distractedly perused the menu.
When the waiter asked us what we wanted to drink Tom went, “Truck.”
The waiter furrowed his brow. “Huh?”
“We’ll both have cherry cokes,” I said in a rushed tone.
As I was deciding between the French toast or the omelet, I heard Tom say, “Why did I move aside for that guy?”
I looked up with a start. “Erm, you moved so you wouldn’t hit him and go to jail.”
“But if I didn’t move, I wouldn’t have been as distracted and I wouldn’t have hit the pole,” Tom moaned, putting his head into his hands.
“Tom. Darling. I’m starting to question your sanity now. You moved so you wouldn’t hit and kill the poor man,” I reminded him.
Tom lifted his head up and nodded. “Right,” he said. “Right.”
He wasn’t quite there when we got our food. He still ate but he seemed lost in thought.
“This omelet is delicious,” I gushed.
“Dent and truck,” Tom basically answered.
“And aren’t these pancake puppies scrumptious?” I continued.
“Truck and dent.”
So yes. It wasn’t the best meal ever.
Tom has made peace with it now. Sort of. If he glances at the dent he sort of tenses up and goes pale again. But other than that, I think he’s okay.