Below The Fold

So, somehow I blinked, and it’s over a month later.
I honestly don’t know how it happens. Looking back, it’s like a series of momentary flashes of light in a dark room. Just enough of an image so you get a sense of what you’re looking at, but not enough time to understand context. As I rapidly approach 32, I’m aware of a slight sense of foreboding that the older I get, the more my recollections will look this way.
Two nights ago, I bought a Chevy C10 Pickup truck. It’s a 1975 with 75K showing on the odometer. The guy I bought it from was the third owner. He said he bought it from a kid whose grandfather gave it to him. He said the kid swore the mileage was original. Judging from the exterior, you could go one way or another; there’s significant rust in the wheel wells. However, it’s from Texas, the bed’s straight and the interior’s in very good condition, which supports the original mileage claim. Certainly, the interior’s nowhere near worn enough for it to be 175K.
I bought the truck to replace my Pontiac sunbird. It was a free car; my sister handed it up when she bought a new one and they wouldn’t even take it in trade. I ran it for about 40K miles, until I got plowed into by a dump truck who didn’t believe in lane lines last month. I used $850 of the settlement to buy the old Chevy. It runs strong and drives smoothly.
The guy who sold me the truck lived on S. Beeler in Hampden Heights, a block away from where I grew up. As I drove past my old house, I saw the garage door open and a woman standing in the garage, holding a baby. I pulled up and introduced myself and I told her I grew up there. I asked if I could look around. She said yes.
She was in the process of moving in; the house is now a rental. The people who bought it did tremendous work to it; bringing back to life the yard that four generations of dogs destroyed, completely finishing the basement, installing hardwoods throughout, replacing carpet, opening up and updating the kitchen and installing a sliding glass door on the back porch.
It was like running into someone you might have loved in your past, who had dropped a lot of weight, redone her wardrobe, colored her hair and had some nips and tucks done by a top-shelf plastic surgeon. The house was recognizable only because of my intimate knowledge of it, and it’s of me.
The ghosts in the walls seemed to be fully exorcised. The paint erased away 20 years of our lives pretty well, except the unusual ceiling moldings in the living room remained, tracing geometric paths along the memory of my youth. In my old bedroom was the baby’s crib, tucked away in the same corner I always kept my bed in.
The woman was very gracious and kind, and her children were happy and beautiful. I didn’t linger too long; she was waiting on the moving trucks, which showed up not long after I did. So I bid her a farewell and pulled my car out of the driveway so the trucks could pull in. I cast a last glance back at my old her new home, stately and clean and bright and ready to catch a new collection of lives and stories in its rafters. And then, I drove home.

Now, for something completely different. Beware the Milky Pirate. (thanks to the Fish for this one.)