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The Homicidal Tree & Disaster Dave

Disaster Dave gave a tree a hickey with his trailer, hauled by his cumbersome truck that maneuvers like my fat, elderly aunt trying to dance the quickstep.

Easing into a very tight turn out of a parking area cramped with cars illegally parked, there was the tree. Or rather, there it wasn’t. The tree’s unexpected girth hid behind a big bush. Dave didn’t care if his trailer pruned the bush a bit, but the tree leaped out to chew the trailer’s fender.

For once, Dave was glad he faced a crisis alone. No witnesses and no recriminations beyond the guilt and anger barking in his head. (Later, he would have trouble quieting the ruckus because this wasn’t his first wreck. He’s edited traffic signs, electric utility boxes and phone poles. Inching out of a parking spot one night, with his windshield covered by smeared gray dust from a fairground, he nudged the bumper of a gray car that was almost invisible because it was camouflaged with the same gray dust. His truck’s bulk rocked the car like a steroid-stoked wrestler bumping a wheelchair, but there was no damage, at least nothing Dave could see through the dust.)

 As a connoisseur of the demolition derbies commonly held at county fairs, Dave appreciated the minimal force the tree used to inflict the dramatic aesthetics of his fender’s twisted metal. But he didn’t have time to ponder the scene. As usual, he was doing tourism on a deadline between fairs; so pounded the jutting fender into submission with his ever-handy crowbar (a very satisfying experience) and exited before the tree attacked again.

(The location of this epic encounter remains anonymous for fear Earth First might seek revenge for his arboreal assault. Rest assured the incident didn’t mar the Gardens of Versailles or even an old lady’s lawn. It occurred on a skinny gravel road in the country, where an owner might claim unseemly value for an extraneous tree.)

Disclosure: This is Dave’s tale, and he believes facts sometimes interfere with a good story. Keep that in mind if you’re tempted to locate any of the scarred waypoints of his bumper-car travels across the nation. However, it is Disaster Dave, who drives with the finesse of a machete doing brain surgery.

Truck missing? Yes & no. It occasionally misfired or died at interesting, sometimes deadly times (e.g., turning left). I wish it was missing more, like vanished, stolen, gone. In two earlier years, I’ve had two trucks shot out from under me: frozen transmission and a fiesta of fuse blowing. But this time I made it to a Ford dealer, who made some modifications to improve performance (see above).

Truck missing? Yes & no. It occasionally misfired or died at interesting, sometimes deadly times (e.g., turning left). I wish it was missing more, like vanished, stolen, gone.

In two earlier years, I’ve had two trucks shot out from under me: frozen transmission and a fiesta of fuse blowing. But this time I made it to a Ford dealer, who made some modifications to improve performance (see above).

1 note

Goat entrails for emergency truck repair?

The truck blows fuses at night, again. Fixed it the first time with electric tape and a bigger fuse. But not now. I chant, spread goat entrails on the hood, burn candles. With intermittent outages of my instrument panel and trailer lights, I try new remedies in many scenic parking lots. My 3 hour drive covers 50 miles.

Hello, motel. The hallway echoes every step, every word, every door closing. Hello, sunshine and an 8-hour drive with a deadline. Hurrah, show business.

I act like I’m driving. Not too bad. But during my only stop, I turn my head and my eyeballs don’t catch up for a couple of seconds.

Epilogue: I was killed in a fiery crash on the interstate. Or did I dream that? When I drive tired, it’s easy to confuse details (like “Have I driven through Pittsburgh yet?”).

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Demolition Derby of the Senses

After driving the BAT (big-ass truck), piloting a subcompact is like a carnival ride. Thin-skinned tin zipping through quick turns. Running low to the ground accentuates the speed as unaccustomed bumps and noises compete for sensory attention. Add the joy of fast lane changes, uninhibited by tons of truck and trailer.

The BAT by itself is a lumbering, rumbling diesel dualie (double rear axles), 6 feet longer than the biggest pickup truck (full double cab, long bed with a trailer hitch). It has more blind spots than 1) the Sun Staring Society, 2) a new litter of three-eyed puppies, 3) the ______ (political party) policy on __________ (issue), 4) a woman in love with Charles Manson. Big side mirrors — partially covered by convex, funhouse mirrors— provide the only clues about obstacles beside, behind and sometimes above the 6.5 foot tall perch. When the truck cuts across old ruts or a field recently converted to a parking lot, only a percussion band on a trampoline could produce more cacophonous bouncing.

Add two GPS units shouting or mumbling conflicting directions (I run two simultaneously because blind elves with inner ear problems operate both), a book on CD and an onslaught of thoughts. In comparison, rush hour in a subcompact seems so calm.

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