ME AND MY BRIGHT BLUE PICKUP TRUCK
by Kidd Wadsworth
I’d been invited to a posh dinner to honor director Martin Scorsese. I decided to drive to ‘The City.’ My friend recommended that I take the Lincoln Tunnel. Twilight found me approaching the entrance; I glanced at my gas gauge.
I was young and naive, but I wasn’t worried. “Those New Yorkers are smart,” I said to myself. “I bet they’ve built a gas station right at the entrance of the tunnel.”
Nope, no gas station.
But I wasn’t worried. “Those New Yorkers are smart,” I said to myself, “I bet that tunnel is wide with room on both sides to pull over if you run out of gas.”
Nope, earthworms build wider tunnels.
I may have prayed.
I made it through, wheels still turning, spark plugs still firing. “No need to worry,” I thought. “With all these cars there must be tons of gas stations on the isle of Manhattan.”
Nope.
I looked and looked all the way to the hotel where the dinner was being held. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the valets. I knew they could help me.
“Hi, do you happen to know where I can find a gas station?”
The valet rubbed his chin. He looked at the ceiling. Then he yelled over to his bud. “Hey, Rodrigo you know where this lady can find some gas?”
“Dude, I ain’t got no car.”
The valet promised he’d have an address for me when I came back for my truck.
The event was fantastic, lots of stories, great food. As my first introduction to The City, I was impressed. When the dinner ended, I thanked my host and took the elevator to P1, the parking garage.
Yes, my wonderful valet had an address. I drove through dark streets—one eye on the gas gauge—until I found a line of cars waiting to fill-up at the world’s smallest gas station. I had to do a seventeen point turn to get my truck next to the pump. I breathed a sigh of relief. Never have I been so glad to see my gas gauge read FULL.
I asked the attendant. “How do get back to the Lincoln Tunnel?” Half a page of directions later—remember this was before GPS—I headed across The City. It was 2 AM and I was a bit confused. Wasn’t this the city that never slept? And here I was on a very famous street, Broadway, and everything was so quiet.
Until . . .
I came to this place as bright as day. I’ve never seen so many lights—and people, and noise, and guys working on the sewer system in the middle of the night—and I wasn’t moving, not an inch. You see, it was me, in my bright, blue pickup truck and 10,000 yellow cabbies! Those cabbies weren’t giving me any room.
I tried to be polite. Eventually, I realized I was southern in name only. If truth be told very few battles of the Civil War were fought in Texas. Texans aren’t really southern, we’re Texan, and that’s a whole different breed. For example, southerners pride themselves on being polite. Texans respect gall. I looked at those pathetically small cabbies. Then I looked at my BIG, bright, blue pickup truck. The Texan in me figured I had the right of way. I took my foot off the brake.
What do you know? Those New Yorkers are mighty smart. Why they let me pass. Such nice folks.
I left the lights behind still looking for the tunnel. Once more, and only once more, I gave those New Yorkers the benefit of the doubt. “I bet they have a great big sign pointing to the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel.” (Just so you know, in Texas the signs are HUGE.)
Nope, they had this little sign two feet off the ground with one bulb illuminating painfully small letters: Lincoln Tunnel –>
Really?
Yes, I made it home, but I realized something. When I go to a foreign country, I’ve gotta know the rules. I can’t assume stuff like—where there are cars, there are gas stations.
So, I asked myself, what would I tell a New Yorker going to Texas?
Here are the things you need to know.
- It’s legal to carry a gun.
- It’s illegal to be a vegetarian.
- Everyone still dresses up to go to church. So bring your lizard skin cowboy boots.
Some of Kidd’s stories are in the following anthologies
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Photo by Misael Nevarez on Unsplash ME AND MY BRIGHT BLUE PICKUP TRUCK by Kidd Wadsworth I’d been invited to a posh dinner to honor director Martin Scorsese. I decided to drive to ‘The City.’ My friend recommended that I take the Lincoln Tunnel. Twilight found me approaching the entrance; I glanced at my gas […]
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I wanted to stop forgetting appointments and lunches with friends. I wanted to keep track of events days, weeks, months and even years into the future.
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I’d been invited to a posh dinner to honor director Martin Scorsese. I decided to drive to ‘The City.’ My friend recommended that I take the Lincoln Tunnel. Twilight found me approaching the entrance; I glanced at my gas gauge.
I was young and naive, but I wasn’t worried. “Those New Yorkers are smart,” I said to myself. “I bet they’ve built a gas station right at the entrance of the tunnel.”
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My main issue with fiction, written in first person, is interior dialogue. Often interior dialogue is self-serving—or rather author-serving.
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This is a true story.
Two nights ago, I had a dream I could fly. I opened my arms wide, pulled the wind toward me and felt my feet lift off the ground. It was glorious. With my engineering-trained mind I quickly sought practical applications.
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