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Blue Ford Truck

by Michelle Valois

From Blue Collar Blues, a work in progress
Also by Michelle Valois: Blue Hands Black Coffee  | Blue Money 

 
  Fall 2013 Fiction, Memoir & Poetry Anthology  |  Contents  |  Authors  |  echapbook.com

 

“What did I know, what did I know
  of love's austere and lonely offices?”
 —  Robert Hayden

 

Fenders round, some rust; manual transmission; gearbox on the steering wheel; ashtray filled with smoked-down Camels — how ashamed I was that Friday night when you picked me up at the high school dance in your new used truck, and my friends and I climbed onto the hard metal bed, and you drove us home.

Some friend’s parent would have driven me to the dance, a deal I had brokered on the telephone that afternoon, while you were at work; some friend’s parent in a four-door sedan with a back seat roomy enough for three teenage girls.

Were you ready for bed at 10:00 but stayed awake because I had promised you would pick us up? Or did our taxi service interrupt some Friday night television show, a sit-com or Battle-of-the-Bulge re-run? Or had you, perhaps, fallen asleep in your recliner, the one with the grease stains that never washed off from the machine shop where you worked ten-hour shifts, and had you woken up just in time to drive to school and park your truck under a street lamp that glorified and magnified my shame?

Blue Ford truck, fenders round, some rust — take me home.

 

end of story

 

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