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Fuck.

I was going to do some grocery shopping this morning.

Came out to the truck. Noticed something shimmering next to the passenger side in the driveway. Went to inspect.

Glass. Fucking glass. The passenger side window had been busted out.

A fucking Five hundred dollar truck that was brand new back in 1994 but had definitely seen better days was now royally fucked up.

Why had I locked the fucking doors?

Why not just leave everything fucking left wide open and let whoever lame assed mother fucker that felt the need to ransack my fucking truck for spare change pillage the mother fucker and be on his way.

Goddamn.

I sat in the driveway next to the truck.

Cried like a fucking baby.

I don’t know how long I cried.

It felt like a long time.

Was I really fucking in mourning for my fucking truck?

Bessy.

I called her Bessy.

Or the Little White Mule.

Only the second vehicle I had bought new… back in fucking 1994.

We had history.

Twenty-four fucking years of history.

Almost as much time as I had invested with Carmen.

Carmen.

Fuck.

I missed the hell out of her and I still couldn’t figure out why.

Carmen.

Now Bessy.

Fuck.

What was the fucking world coming to?

My foot hurt.

Hadn’t hurt that bad in months, really.

I had begun running again. Hadn’t bothered me at all.

Was up to six miles in a workout.

Was giving Triathloning a serious thought.

Hell, I had the pool, so the hard part was taken care of.

I’d have to get a bike.

There was a bike shop in Glenden–the next town over.

Maybe next weekend I’d buy a bike if the fucking foot would quit hurting.

Carmen.

Bessy.

One of the City of Hamilton’s finest pulled into the end of the driveway.

I watched him talk for a bit on his radio.

The police officer got out. Walked my way.

I recognized him. I believe his name was Neal. Officer Jeanis.

He had helped pop the lock on James’ Corolla one afternoon when he still lived at home. Somehow James managed to lock the keys inside.

That afternoon, I had wanted to break the glass and get in. How ironic.

Officer Jeanis had a tool. Slipped it down beside the passenger glass. Popped the lock smooth as silk.

I wondered at the time how many police officers moonlighted as petty thieves.

Who the fuck would have broke my fucking truck window? Rat bastard.

“Good morning, Mr. Standman.”

“Good morning, Officer Jeanis.”

“Got a problem?”

“I was gonna do some grocery shopping this morning, but came out to this. I’m guessing some neighborhood teenagers.”

“Think it was Bobby Meachem?”

I smiled. “I’m never gonna say never, but I will say I doubt it was Bobby. Been keeping him busy earning real money.”

“A meth head is a meth head.”

“True.”

“Want to file a report?”

“Nah. Hell, the truck isn’t worth what I’d have to pay to get the glass reinstalled.”

“I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this, Mr. Standman.”

“Thank you, officer.”

“Mike?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m sorry as hell about Miss Carmen. She was a sweet lady.”

“Thank you, Neal. I appreciate you saying that.”

“You’ve had a pretty shitty run here, lately, haven’t ya?”

“It hasn’t been a bed of roses.”

“Sorry, man.”

“Yeah.”

“If you need anything, Mike, just call us. We can have a car over here in minutes.”

“I know. You guys do a helluva job.”

“I’ll let the guys know to do an extra spin through here between midnight and four for a while.”

“Thank you. That might be a good idea.”

“Take care, Mike.”

“You too, Neal.”

I thought about calling my insurance guy, then thought better of it.

Found one of those “We’ll buy your junk cars and give you CASH guys online that was pretty close by. Gave him a call.

“Buddy’s.”

“Hey, this is Mike Standman. I live in the City of Hamilton. I’ve got a ‘94 Mazda B2300 that’s ready for the boneyard. You interested?”

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