I Hate Owning a Pick-Up Truck

It was love at first sight when I first put eyes on my truck.  My wife and I were still only just dating, it was the summer of 2008... she, the truck, was all black, step-side, shortbed F150, tucked away along the back wall like a shy girl at a 50's sockhop.

I knew I wanted this truck, she had to be mine.

I've owned three different primary modes of transportation (not counting motorcycles) since I've had my license to drive.  My first car was a 1989 Ford Thunderbird that was too long in the tooth to be handled by some idiot 17 year old and his friends with a love of action movie car chase scenes.  When that car died a fiery death in a police station parking lot (no lie, seriously... the car caught fire in a police station parking lot as I was going inside to get an application to be a summer meter maid....) I moved on to a 1998 Chevy S10, bright red, my first pick-up.

The S10 was a "starter pick-up," one no one would dare take seriously.  It was a stick shift 5 speed, did whatever you asked of it and nothing more.  But, after four years, I was ready for a more "adult" truck.

And that's when I saw her.

But the pain with owning a pick-up is that everyone else doesn't own a pick-up, meaning, as a truck owner, you're automatically obligated to help people move the most ridiculously heavy shit across town, or even out of state, for as little compensation as possible.

For me, it's always completely circumstantial as how I'll feel when, at least twice a season, I'm asked to haul shit from point A to point B because I'm the only person that person knows who has the equipment, so to say, to perform such a task.

These people are always really grateful and polite.  It's not ok when they're assuming and expectant.

I had former co-workers spring up on me just as work would be letting out on a Friday with "oh heeyy...." and then go on to be like "can you help me move on Saturday?  I gotta be out by the first and.... we haven't really started anything yet.... and you have a pick-up and all we have is this shitty hatchback...."

Or what's even worse, the guilt-riddled text you'll get all day from someone who asked if you'd be available to help them move, when you said you either "weren't sure" or "were not available" on that day.

I had a co-worker send me like, 60 texts in an afternoon, saying some shit like "oh, we'd be done by now if you had your truck..." sorry, but spending one of only two days I have off a week, helping you move heavy shit or packing boxes (the wrong way, apparently) is not on my agenda, ever.

So this past week, a friend of me and my wife's asked if I'd help him move a small couch off-Cape to his new apartment in Newton.  I like this guy, Matt, he's a solid bloke; the type of guy you could feel rest assured would have your back in a barroom brawl or Memorial Day Sale at Macy's. 

Initially I was a little miffed that I was "volun-told" to help out Matt, but I hadn't had much "man time" recently, so I looked at it as a chance to catch up and be "men."

We met up at the coffee house we go to and got something to eat and drink.  We then went to his uncle's house nearby to pick up the couch.  Here's where I got the inevitable bad news:

"So, yeah, it's a sleeper, actually.... so it'll be a little heavy... and ... uh, there's stairs."  Of course.

But the rest of the trip went well, and Matt bought me lunch at a wing place before we headed back to Cape.

I had a real fun time, but I think my next car will be some shitty hatchback.