“Fluids first,” he said, getting on a wheeled board and going under the truck to drain out oil and other things I didn’t understand. “Old trucks will tolerate a lot, but they won’t tolerate neglect.”
I tried to be helpful. This mostly resulted in me laying on the cold floor, holding the flashlight at the wrong angle and asking questions that slowed him down.
“Is that supposed to look like that?” I asked as some gunky stuff flowed out into a small bucket he was holding.
“Yes,” he said.
“What about that?”
“Also yes.”
I nodded as if this clarified things. I had once killed an engine by not getting the oil changed. It wasn’t really my fault, because I hadn’t known cars needed servicing on a regular basis.
Finally putting everything back in place, Dad and I were able to stand upright again. He poured liquids into different tubes and doublechecked the dipsticks. “It needs to show between here and here. If it’s too full, it’s not good. If it’s too low, it needs more.”
I nodded like I understood.
He checked the tires next, crouching to inspect the tread. “These are fine. Not new, but serviceable.”
“Serviceable sounds promising,” I said.
“It means they won’t betray you,” he replied. “As long as you don’t panic if it’s icy.”
That word again.
I crossed my arms. “I don’t panic.”
Dad’s expression was patient in a way that suggested he had known me a long time. “The truck will do what you tell it but you need to be cautious. It’s old and things won’t work the same as a newer vehicle. Take it driving and get used to it”
That felt uncomfortably applicable to more than driving.
When he was finished, he straightened and wiped his hands on a rag, before putting the hood down. “All right. She’s ready.”
I stared at the driver’s door.
“You don’t have to do it right now,” Dad added, reading my hesitation. “The offer stands even if you decide this is a terrible idea.”
“It’s a terrible idea but I don’t have another one,” I said. “I’m not quitting so I’ll have to learn.”
That earned me a short, approving nod. Dad pulled the keys out of his pocket, handing them to me. “Get in and see if it runs.”
Carefully taking the keys, I hopped into the driver’s seat. The cab smelled faintly of oil and something older, something lived-in. The steering wheel was thicker than I expected, the pedals heavier under my feet. I took a breath, adjusted the seat, and placed my hands carefully at ten and two like that suddenly mattered. Putting the key in the ignition, the engine coughed once before settling into a rough but steady idle.
“Start in first gear and just get the hang of starting and stopping. Then work on getting up to second gear. Keep the windows down so I can talk to you." Dad stepped back. “I’ll be nearby.”
“You’re not staying?” I asked in surprise.
He smiled, already retreating. “You need space to swear at it privately.”
“Okay,” I said aloud. “We’re just going to practice driving.”
I pressed the clutch all the way in, shifted into first, and eased off slowly, carefully, exactly like I had been told.
The truck lurched forward six inches and stalled.
I laughed, startled by the sound. “All right.”
I tried again.
