"Truck U"

I didn't have anything better to do, so for whatever reason, I decided to peruse some of my old stuff ( circa 2004 ) and came across this one. I don't want to toot my horn too loud, but I thought this one was pretty good. So here it is.

Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Truck U

I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck.
The day the music died.

I was going to Rowdy U and it would be my first time away from home. I might have been a broncin' buck but I did not have a pickup truck- no rifle, no rifle holder- just a VW bug.

The bug was my vehicle of choice-not by design, mind you-but because we were somewhat lacking in funds. The family had bypassed the Big 3 who cranked out those huge, gas guzzlers back in the day-and yes, the precursor to global warming-and settled instead for the economical and thrifty product from Germany with the motor in the back, of all places. Gas was around 25 cents a gallon, and you could go approx. 250 miles on a tank of gas. Do the math, eh? 25 X 10 [ that's how many she would hold ] and voila: $2.50 to go 250 miles. And she purred on regular petrol- Ethyl be damned.

That was one of the secrets to good gas mileage. The damn thing could barely get up to 70 mph. Sometimes 75, if you were going down a steep hill, and you and any other passengers were leaning forward towards the windshield. Added inertia or something like that. And this was pre-Energy crisis, so the speed limit was 70. And just like today, nobody went the speed limit. More like 80, 90, 100-just like today-some things never change.

So if you wanted to pass someone-which was rare in a bug-you had better put the petal, er, pedal to the metal, cos you might get blown off the road. And normally mild-mannered folks would roll down their windows and shout the nastiest of epitaphs my way. And many a time, I was a recipent of the infamous middle finger.

"Get that piece of shit off the roads!" would be the normal response.

And it was one of the kinder/gentler messages yours truly received.

"Hey, you piece of dog shit. You're puttin' the American worker [ i.e. Big 3 ] outta work when you buy imported shit from overseas."

Well, I was rowdy back then and I'd engage a conversation with my attackers-albeit briefly-as they were zooming by.

"We can't afford a Big 3 car, you bastards. Truck U."

And that was my destination. Truck U.- College, here I come. Driving a bug from Germany and heading for the bright lights of higher education.

After being insulted-"Hey, does that funny looking car have a motor, fart face?"- heckled, and abused throughout my journey, I pulled into the parking lot of Payne Hall. I was a freshman-more abuse was on the horizon-and couldn't park in the dorm's lot-just unload; it was reserved for upperclassmen. The plebeians had to park in the Siberian section of campus and walk a coppola miles back to our fraternal domicile.

My buddy, Keith, would be my roomie. We had gone to Rowdy High together and had become best friends. He had arrived a day or two before me and had picked the lower bunk leaving me the top.

"But, Keith, I have vertigo. And I sleepwalk. And I might fall on you during a fitful nights sleep."

I don't think I used words like fitful back in the day. It was more like:

"I ain't sleepin' on the top bunk, you piece of horse shit. Just because you got here first don't mean shit."

Keith would simulate playing a violin. And unless I wanted to "kick his ass" the arrangements had been chiseled in stone.

Keith was my best friend. He helped initiate my entry into the wonderful world of smoking. Fags, as we called them in those days, were 25 cents a pack, allah petrol. He was carrying on a family tradition-both his dad and mom smoked- and, me, wanting to be Kool and the Gang, began the long, arduous road to addiction. Thanks, Keith. Especially if you're reading this.

He also introduced me into the wonderful world of soft porn in the downtown district of Golden Pond. Remember, we were teenage broncin' bucks and tho "the times they were a'changing," they weren't changing fast enough for us.

These movies today would be rated "R" for Rowdy, er, risque, but in those medieval times,[ back in tha day ] they were the best things going for horny teens with accelerated ragin' hormones. Sure our shoes would stick to the floor as we made our way to our seats. Shirley, it was a few cokes that had been spilled accidentally. But we could never be sure so I could never bring myself to buy any popcorn or candy.

To enter the emporium, the patron was supposed to be 18. We were 16 and looked like we were 14 at the max, but the ticket taker never discriminated and we were always allowed in. Keith became obsessed with perusing the flicks of Golden Pond's adult cinema. A frequent customer, but I did go with him many a time.

We saw movies like "The Lustful Turk" which was filmed-believe it or not- in technicolor. Most belonged to the black and white genre. Most of the participants, er, actors smoked grass and took off their clothes. We got to see a lot of T & A, and would rejoice-titillated is more like it-if we got to see some bush, er, pubic hair.

Most of the plots were bizarre, if they even had a plot. But we didn't care. We just wanted to see women naked. [ if offended, please see the opening paragraph ]

Which means we've come full cycle. And a good stopping place for part one of Truck U.

Farewell and adieu, v.c.