My Chevy truck had been with me since 1989. She’d worn a little haggard, but was paid for. She was mine.
My good wife named her Doris. Seemed a strange name for a truck. But Doris was dependable and never gave bad luck.
I could load her up with gravel, in the summer haul the hay. We’d hauled more loads of firewood than I ever cared to say.
Her seats were torn and sunken in, right where I set my rear. Old Doris needed TLC. That never was more clear.
One August afternoon when the sun was beating down. I was thirsty as a cactus so I drove on into town.
I must have been an eye-blink from a soda fountain stool, when Mosey Moe came driving in his BMW.
Mosey always figured he was better than the rest. When Mosey opened up his mouth your patience was a test.
He waved, then gave a belly laugh, “Your truck looks all worn out.” I half smiled then admitted, “She’s had better days, no doubt.”
Well, Doris got her feelings hurt. Her engine wouldn’t start. So the Mrs. towed us home. I swear it almost broke my heart.
We started with a tune-up and then we sprayed the engine clean. We were gonna change our Doris to a well-maintained machine.
I drove to Harlan’s Wrecking Yard and found a matching seat. I talked him down on tires and rims—a deal you couldn’t beat.
We sanded, blasted, filled the holes, and pounded out the dents. A coat of paint, a new windshield and blew out all the vents.
Old Doris was a beauty. You could hear her motor purr. The rhythm sounded like we’d hired an auto connoisseur.
It must have been a week or two while driving down the road, I saw a broke-down Beamer with its driver, Mosey Moe.
So, I asked ole Mosey if he might just need a tow today? He looked down at his loafers, didn’t have a word to say.
I hooked my weathered tow rope to his BMW. Then Doris pulled to town and dragged down Main a few times, too.
Doris held her hood up high when she dropped ‘em off in town. Ain’t it kinda funny how Karma turns the tables ‘round.
— Bryce Angell
