The Lift

I got mad, went outside, and tried to lift a truck. It was dark. I couldn’t tell what color the truck was. I squatted down and put my hands under the rear bumper and, struggling, attempted to raise the truck above my head. I could only manage to get it to rock a couple of inches. The tires didn’t even leave the ground. With every bit of strength I had I strained to lift, veins bulging in my forearms, cords standing out on my neck. My head felt full of blood, like a balloon, like it could explode any minute. I got tired and, breathing heavily, decided to sit on the rear bumper and rest a little. Already, much of the anger had melted away, replaced with a sense of gratifying fatigue.

A burly man wearing a flannel shirt and a straw cowboy hat opened the door of the truck, climbed out, and came around to the bumper.

“You try to lift the truck?” he asked, staring somewhere just behind me.

“Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t know you were in it. Sorry.”

“Thought maybe you could use some help.”

“Sure. If you could lend a hand... I think that would be a big help.”

“No problem. I hope you don’t mind. Me bein in the truck and all.”

“No. Not at all. Is this your truck?”

“Yep. I was passed out. I don’t like to go home ‘til dawn.”

“Sure,” I said, rising from the bumper.

We both squatted down and put our hands beneath the bumper.

“Here we go,” he said and gave a great heave.

The truck nearly flew into the air, the burly man holding it above his head. I was on his right side and, while I had my hands on the bumper, I didn’t think I was really doing much of the lifting.

“Back down,” he said. His face was red and a trickle of sweat ran down his cheek. “That was a good lift,” he said.

“Definitely.”

“Say, you want to come with me for a pack of smokes. I ran out.”

“Yeah, I guess I could come with you. I have a few things I need to pick up as well.”

“Yeah, okay... You’ll have to ride in the back. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No. Not at all.” I didn’t know why I had to ride in the back. I didn’t see anyone else in the cab. Maybe the man was hiding something. Or maybe he didn’t trust me. I climbed up into the bed of the truck. The man got back into the cab, fired the engine, and we sped off into the night. He drove like a maniac, running lights and hitting cars. I contemplated jumping out if he actually stopped the truck. But it didn’t stop until we reached a convenience store on the outskirts of town. It was one I’d never been to before. Mainly because I had always thought it was abandoned. I couldn’t recall ever seeing a light on inside it and many of the windows were broken.

The man turned the ignition off and picked up a large rock. He threw it at one of the remaining windows and it shattered with a noisy crash.

“The owner gets in there and falls asleep. You have to throw a rock just to wake him up.”

I followed the man into the store. The old man, presumably the owner, was behind the counter, rising from an old army cot spread with blankets. Blearily, he staggered to the counter and stared out over the darkened store. The only light was that coming from the fluorescent lights from the road.

He gave the burly man a pack of cigarettes and said, “They’re on the house,” turning his attentions to me. I grabbed a blue bandanna and a snorkel—they had such an odd assortment of items. I could have looked around and found more stuff but it was so dark I couldn’t see very well and I had to hurry so the owner could get back to sleep. I threw the items on the counter and he charged me at least five times what they were worth. He didn’t ring anything into a cash register. He just called a number from the top of his head. On closer inspection I noticed there wasn’t a cash register. I didn’t have any cash so I gave him a credit card. He gently fingered the raised name and numbers and looked intently at the ceiling. “That’s a good one,” he said, handing it back.

“May I have a receipt?” I asked, thinking maybe I would put the items on my expense account.

“I need to get some sleep,” the old man said.

“Yeah, but, a receipt?” I asked.

“Too tired,” he said, dropping back onto his cot.

The burly man had already exited the store and sat in the cab of his truck, smoking. He smoked very fast, furiously. A cloud filled the cab of the truck and rolled out.

“I think maybe you should drive,” he said. “I’ll be busy smoking.”

He tossed his cigarette away and lit another one, scooting over into the passenger seat. I climbed in behind the wheel, wondering how I went from riding in the back to driving the truck.

I drove back home and got out of the truck. I assumed the burly man would slide over into the driver’s seat but, instead, he got out of the truck and began walking in the opposite direction.

“Thanks for helping me lift that,” I said.

He turned, a fresh cigarette in his mouth, and said, “That’s not my truck at all.”

I nodded my head as though I understood but I didn’t. I came to the steps leading to my house and stopped, holding the snorkel in one hand and wiping the sweat from my face with the bandanna. I couldn’t remember what inside the house had made me so mad but I felt a sense of dread as I looked at it. There had to be something in there that caused me to get mad and go try to lift a truck. As hard as I tried to think about it, it wouldn’t come. So, not knowing what else to do, I put the snorkel in my mouth and opened the front door.

It all came flooding back but it was too late to turn and run.