“Ghost Truck”
c. 2013 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-13)
The financial collapse of
2008 left many Americans pondering how our nation could survive the modern era
of bailouts and going ‘bust’ on a national scale.
In the Ice Household, this
calamity brought chaos to a home governed by financial discipline. For the
first time in my life, I struggled to maintain employment and the stream of
bill payments expected of our brood.
Frightfully difficult
among these responsibilities was remaining current on my loan for a brand-new
Ford pickup. The 2005 F-150 was an STX model with 4x4 and a 4.6 liter V-8
motor. I had bought it at Classic in Chardon, which was Lawson Ford for so many
years that I still called the dealership by that outdated name when signing the
paperwork.
The truck was number six
in a long succession of Ford loadhaulers. I had owned a 1972 Econoline van,
then a 1979 F-150, 1978 F-150, 1985 Ranger, 1996 Ranger, and the 2005 STX.
My plan was to buy a
factory-new vehicle which I reckoned would last ten, fifteen, even twenty
years. But an unexpected employment interruption made that idea one lost to the
unpredictable winds of change.
The company where I worked
sold out in 2006.
Unemployment compensation
covered household bills through the remainder of that year. A full-time
journalistic adventure in 2007 proved to pay too little while consuming much of
my personal life. In 2008, I dabbled with odd jobs and creative projects.
Finally, in 2009, I worked as a part-time cashier for CVS. And promptly blew
out my right knee while on the sales floor. I needed surgery and rehabilitation
to recover.
Nationally, the government
was busy rescuing wealthy bankers and corporate CEOs. So a plight like my own could
hardly have registered on their radar. But I reckoned that people at home would
be more responsive.
I sent messages to various
elected officials in the state, along with copies of my ‘Thoughts At Large’
book. Most replied with words of encouragement and hope. Yet a real solution
did not appear.
Bank notices began to pile
up with frightening speed. The telephone rang from sunrise to sunset. I
negotiated and renegotiated debts. Meanwhile, I sent resumes to every potential
employer in the area. I even asked some of those threatening court action for a
job with their financial institutions.
One day before my knee surgery,
repossession agents appeared in our driveway. I met them on crutches. The more
seasoned of the two demanded my truck keys with professional indifference. His
partner, notably less-experienced, seemed embarrassed by their visit. He
confessed that his uncle had endured a similar fate.
My wife was in shock. She
began to clear our things out of the vehicle. Beach sandals for the girls.
Various cheap sunglasses. Plastic cups from a Lake County Captains game. Poorly-folded
maps. And a set of TV rabbit ears bought at a garage sale.
I handed over the keys without
an argument.
Our neighbor, a Sunday
School teacher and longtime member of the community, stood in her yard across
the street. She was crying.
My own reaction was more
subdued. I confessed to the family, “You know, I never expected to die with
that truck. There’ll be another.”
The bank repossession agent
asked about gas stations in the area. He fretted that the tank on my F-150 was
so dry.
I told him that it would
be an equal drive in any direction. Chardon, Madison, Hartsgrove, Geneva, Rock
Creek. They were all about the same distance away.
The truck’s fuel tank was
empty because I had spent every penny looking for work.
Not surprisingly, he was unsympathetic.
I had often heard it said
that the authentic ‘Golden Rule’ should be “Those with the gold make the
rules.” It seemed like a rant from people with little ambition and much self-pity.
Yet standing in the driveway, watching my vehicle disappear, I suddenly had a
change of heart.
The knee surgery went
well. But I lost my meager employment. Several months would elapse before I had
another job.
The bank auctioned off my
Ford at a lowball price – about half of market value. Then, they demanded that
I pay the difference. The request seemed amusingly ironic. I was bankrupt, of
course, which was the cause of their repossession. So in real terms, it didn’t
matter.
Seeing the ‘Ghost Truck’ at
Mentor Kia, so many years later, brought all these memories back. I walked
around the vehicle, resonating disbelief. Was this my lost mule? I could not be
sure. It had begun to bubble rust under the paint on its front bumper. I looked
for a cigarette burn on the back seat, something my wife had caused
inadvertently, but it was folded up and out of view.
I reflected on trips with
the family. Hauling away a tree we removed from the side yard. Navigating
snowbound Geauga roads when getting to work was a must. Even my stepdaughter’s
prom. But after a moment of silence, I concluded that the Ghost Truck was
better left in the shadows. It was part of an era that had passed.
New memories were waiting
to be made. My task was to find them before sunset.
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