My Truck Has a Mind of Its Own

Some folks say you’ve got to be a little off your rocker to live way out here where the rattlesnakes outnumber the neighbors and the postman delivers on a “maybe” schedule, and I won’t disagree. You have to be either fiercely independent or mildly insane, and I’ve always prided myself on being both.

Now, I’ve never had what you’d call a dependable relationship with modern technology. I’ve threatened my printer with physical harm, and once accused my toaster of working for the enemy. So when I found my truck parked sideways in front of the cafe last Thursday morning, the engine still warm, I naturally assumed the worst.

I’d been inside sipping a cup of black coffee that could melt a spoon, talking to Earl about how calves these days are born lazier than ever, when someone hollered, “Whose truck is that, sittin’ out like a drunk mule?”

I wandered out, curious. Sure enough, there was my old pickup, blocking two spots and part of the sidewalk, looking like it had just stumbled out of a bar fight. Keys still in the ignition, radio playing some honky-tonk tune I couldn’t remember turning on.

“Well, that’s mine,” I said, scratching my head and trying to piece together if I’d parked it like that or if someone was playing a prank.

I looked around. I saw no teenagers giggling behind bushes, no cameras, no signs of a mutiny.

Now, I know what you’re thinking—maybe I’d forgotten. But I hadn’t even driven there that morning. I’d walked. I remember it clearly as yesterday because I stepped in something questionable on the sidewalk just outside the middle school, cursed like a sailor, and hobbled the rest of the way like I had a nail in my boot.

So you tell me—how does a man walk to a cafe, enjoy half a conversation and a cup of tar-like coffee, only to find his truck done followed him there and parked itself like a blind shoat?

I checked for obvious signs–muddy footprints that weren’t mine, a misplaced hat, maybe a half-eaten sandwich in the passenger seat. Nothing. Clean as a whistle, which only made it weirder.

Earl wandered over, looked at the truck, looked at me, and said, “Tom, either someone’s messing with you, or your truck’s got a crush and decided to follow you just to prove a point.”

“Or I’m losing it,” I offered.

He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “Well, yeah, but we already knew that.”

I drove the truck home—carefully, I might add—and parked it with more dignity. The next morning, I chained the keys to a rusty wrench and left them on the workbench. I walked to the shopping center again, but there was no repeat performance.

Still, every so often, I catch the truck sitting there in the driveway, headlights angled just a little too smug, and I wonder. I may be crazy, but I know I didn’t drive myself.

And if I ever catch that truck joyriding again, I’m installing a breathalyzer and requiring it to pass a written test. After that, I’m checking myself into the state mental health facility for a vacation.