Your Chariot Awaits

When I turn towards the driveway, I notice his mode of transportation: a truck. A very old truck. I have nothing against a modest ride, but come on. This thing looks like it should be up on cinder blocks. Apparently it was white at one time, but now it is a patch work of primer gray and orange rust. I stop in my tracks.

“What? You don’t recognize a classic when you see one?” He is grinning with amusement, “1976 Dodge Pickup.”

“Ummm, I am less concerned about its age than its ability to get us to school.”

“Don’t worry, the engine is solid.” He grabs me by the elbow, leading me to his death box on wheels.
I hesitate, starring at him.

“The frame is solid, too,” he adds.

“The frame?”

He laughs and tugs on my elbow a little harder. I follow him with a bit of trepidation. When James tries to open the passenger’s door, it resists. He tries again, pulling a little harder. It creaks and groans as it begrudgingly moves on its hinges. James looks at me with satisfied amusement, “Your chariot awaits, my lady.” He gives a gallant flourish towards the interior.

“Lovely,” I emphasize my sarcasm with a raised eyebrow, and his smirk broadens into a disarming smile.

Getting up into the truck feels like a hike up the Appalachians, and the vinyl bench that stretches across the cab is hard with springs that complain every time you move. Slamming my door shut, James jogs around the front of the truck.

He opens his door and swings himself up into the seat in one fluid movement. He has to turn the key in the ignition a couple of times, pumping the gas pedal to get the truck to finally start. I give him a concerned look, and he laughs.

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