Earl: A Truck's Lament

Note: This is listed as "fiction" but all stories about Earl are real.

They called me Earl. Not “the truck,” not, “the old Tacoma,” but Earl. That name was chosen because it was a fitting name for an old, retired man. And, it was the name of the ghost that haunted the Lincoln General Store. A good name, if a bit stereotypical. 

I rolled off the line in 2011. Black paint shining, 4.0 liter V6 rumbling like fresh thunder. I had an owner for a few years, who used me lightly, and then, in 2015, I was sold to Glynn. From the first time Glynn shut my door, hauled a bedload of wood, and pulled a trailer, I knew the kind of life I was in for. Work? Oh, we worked. We hauled wood. We towed trailers. We went cross country - twice - with a camper. We pulled logs; we were the counterweight on a tree Glynn was felling. That line attached to my front bumper would pull the tree right over onto my cab.  Glynn never cleaned me. Not properly. He said the mud was character, the scratches were evidence of a job well done, and the rust was earned.

Ten years of rust. Winters in salt, summers in dirt and rain. He’d kick my tires like he was checking a horse’s teeth. My frame and rocker panels groaned more than he did — and that’s saying something, given that Glynn is a slightly overweight retiree. “Was a furniture man, 'till my chest fell in my drawers,” he’d quip.

And then came Wyatt.

Wyatt learned how to drive in me, and he was different. The kid had respect. When Glynn handed him my keys, it was like being adopted by someone who reads to their dog. Wyatt’s father performed over $2,000 in maintenance to me, got me in tip-top shape, even if my end was already in sight. 

He called me Earl, too. But softer, not as harsh this time. He didn’t treat me like a beast of burden—he drove me like he had somewhere to be, but that destination wouldn’t disappear if he was late. Put 15,000 miles on me in one year. Took me for long, late-night drives just to clear his head. Would sit in my cab and ponder life’s deepest theological questions. Once sat in my cab and cried for three hours. I didn’t ask why. Trucks don’t pry. I just let him sit. 

But I was tired. More than tired — I was rotted through. I was nearing 275,000 miles. My rocker panels and cab corners were practically gone. Inspection time came, with bad news: “too far gone.” The words hit harder than a tailgate on a downhill slope. 

I saw Wyatt’s behavior shift after his father rendered the verdict. His hand hesitated on the ignition, he took every drive slower, more deliberate. Like he was saying goodbye, without saying it. Once, he let me sit for three days. I roared to life, coughing and spitting smoke that had built up. I was a daily driver, not a sitter. Wyatt wanted desperately for me not to sit. I didn’t want to sit.

Glynn sold him a newer model, Kermit, a smug little 2012 in forest green without a ding to his name. Kermit still had leaf springs. Still had his self esteem. I don’t blame the guy: he was born with a clean frame and a southern accent. But he don’t know the work like I do. He hasn’t dragged cords of firewood through mud so thick it’ll eat your tires. He hasn’t hauled two tons of wood pellets in his bed.  Kermit is a good truck, but I was his first.

I don’t know where I’ll go next. Maybe a scrapyard. Maybe to some teenager who’ll fix me up long enough to get me to 300,000 miles. Either way, I got no regrets in life. 

I was Earl. I did my job. I got Wyatt where he needed to go, even when I had no business still running. That’s enough for any old truck.