Death of a Toyota, and Thing Therapy

The Form and Matter of Love

1

The repair shop was already closed when I went to pick up my truck. I found it parked in back. The emergency brake still didn’t work. But I needed to haul some things, so I drove it home and used it for about a week before circling back.

Rob, my mechanic, was standing at the counter, writing appointments in his ledger.

“Shall we try this again?”

He shakes his head, looks up at the clock, and says, “Time of death, 9:43 a.m. No more. I’m not fixing your truck, Charles. That’s it.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

“There’s just too much wrong with it,” he says. “Not worth fixing.”

“But if I don’t have an emergency brake, I can’t get an inspection sticker.”

“Time to get a new truck.”

“But I just did all that body work.”

“Get another Toyota. Or a Nissan. It’ll last longer.”

2

I purchased my 2001 Toyota Tacoma used, from a man in Rowley, on the North Shore. He was short on cash. I wanted a truck. But maybe I shouldn’t have bought his truck.

The spots of rust concerned me. Living near the ocean, he had a small boat that he hauled on a trailer and probably backed into the salt water a few too many times. On the other hand, it had a stick shift with a separate high/low transmission that allowed the vehicle to really crawl. It also had a lumber rack that I could use to carry my kayak. I paid him a reasonable price and drove it home.