I have finally figured out why I'm suffering the jitterbugs, why I'm shaking and irritable, why my skin is crawling and my mouth is as dry as the grits in a Pennsylvania restaurant.
My delirium tremens surely must be the result of pickup-truck withdrawal.
I am a beans-and-franks pickup-truck kind of guy. I have owned seven since 1983. I have driven compact trucks, medium trucks and large ones. I have camped in them, carried canoes, fishing rods, bicycles, lumber, firewood and many bad-smelling items.
In my fleet of trucks I have sweated and bled, spilled coffee and mustard. I threw up at least once. The pine sap I inevitably got in my hair always ended up on the seats. Everglades swamp gunked up the floor mats, though one time I was so muddy, head-to-toe muddy after wade-fishing in Tampa Bay, that I stripped off my clothes and drove home in my truck naked.
Now the good times are over.
• • •
"You going to trade in that truck?'' asked the salesman, sounding incredulous, as all salesman must do during the moment of truth, especially now that gas costs four bucks a gallon.
I said I guessed I would trade in my favorite vehicle of all time.
"Well, there's no market for trucks right now. I'll give you $11,000.''
That was $3,000 below Kelley Blue Book values.
I explained he would have to make a better offer or lose me as a customer.
"Everybody is trading in trucks and SUVs right now,'' he said with a smirk. "We can't get rid of them.''
I drove away in my gas-guzzler. He called me on my cell phone to haggle. After a few more phone-call negotiations he said he would come up with another two grand if I came back in.
My new vehicle is a Honda Civic Coupe. The whole car might fit in the bed of the Toyota Tacoma I used to own. Of course, my beloved truck got 18 miles per gallon.
My new Honda will get 36 mpg if I shift the manual transmission smoothly, avoid jack-rabbit starts and go easy on the air conditioner.
I did the smart thing. But when I hear that Bob Seger song, Like a Rock, I want to cry.
• • •
In my truck, I never worried about the smell of body odor, though some citified passengers always wanted to open the windows. My philosophy: A manly-man in a truck, doing honest work, marks his territory with honest B.O.
I used to drive through deep puddles, past alligators on unpaved Everglades roads, with impunity. The gators, who knew what was good for them, leapt out of the way. A man in his pickup was passing!
After an eventful morning on the bay I used to throw trout and redfish in my truck bed; the other day, after a rigourous workout, I tossed my sweaty gym clothes and sneakers into the trunk of my new car. For hours the summer sun beat down upon my little Honda, cooking the foul clothing like a potato farmer's compost. Later, when I popped the trunk, the horrific smell almost knocked me down.
In my truck, I rolled my big tires right over the highest curbs. In my Honda I am terrified of curbs. My new vehicle couldn't climb a pan of corn bread without denting the low-rise plastic bumper.
Speaking of bumpers, I guess the days when I could slap an "Eat More Possum'' sticker on my vehicle are over. Vulgar stickers are a truck thing. I even feel foolish wearing my baseball cap backwards; pretty soon I'll be wearing one of those Bluetooth city-boy devices in my ear.
I am Harrison Ford no longer. I feel more like Mr. Bean.
• • •
My wife says, "Aww. Your new car is really cute.'' Both my daughters tell me I have done the responsible, grownup thing. Al Gore, pat our dad on the back.
My son, who drives one of his landscape company's pickups, is largely silent on the matter.
"What color is it?'' he finally brings himself to ask, after I have broken the news in my best funeral director's voice.
I long to tell him I have purchased my first black vehicle ever. Black vehicles are cool, after all, dangerous, bad. Manly.
Alas, there were no black Honda Civics available on the lot.
My girly new car is gray. It matches my mood.
Jeff Klinkenberg can be reached at klink@sptimes.com or (727) 893-8727.
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