The Truck That Only Went Backwards

At exactly midnight, on Blackman Street, the old truck said, "I'm done."

Trucks can't talk, of course. But it made a clunk and a grind that meant the same thing. Forward had gone to sleep. Only Reverse was still awake.

Cars came zooming down Blackman Street, and nobody was slowing down. Sitting there was not safe.

So Rob did the only thing the truck could still do. He drove it backwards. A whole quarter of a mile. Looking over his shoulder the entire way, like a crab in a hurry.

"Well," said Rob, "at least we have gas." "And we're warm," said Anita.

Rob bought a towing plan on his phone at 12:44 in the morning. The phone said help would come at two o'clock.

"Lock the door," said Rob. "Why?" said Anita. "Because I don't know where we are."

It was their very first tow together. Neither of them knew if you were supposed to stay in the truck. (You're not.)

Far away, up on Mountain Top, a big round panda named Darrell had gone to bed at eleven thirty.

His phone rang. He did not grumble. He put on his boots, climbed into his tow truck, and came down the mountain in thirty minutes. Not two o'clock. Way before two o'clock.

Darrell had been towing trucks for eighteen years, and he made it look easy. The winch went whirrrr. The cable pulled tight.

"Never stand behind a cable when it's pulling," Darrell said. Rob and Anita stood way, way back.

Darrell didn't take cash, so they paid with a card, and Anita added a tip.

"You went to bed at eleven thirty?" said Rob. "If you'd told her that, she'd have tipped you two hundred and fifty."

They all rode home squished in Darrell's tow truck. Darrell is on call every day, every weekend, every holiday. When he visits his brother's bar, he can only order soda or water, just in case the phone rings.

"We just had two black bears in our yard," he said. "And one time I heard a bang at the Turkey Hill, and there were two bears climbing in the dumpster."

"When it snows up on the mountain," he said, "it SNOWS."

Home was down a tight little alley. "I get one shot at this," said Rob. "If you don't make it, I'll help you push," said Darrell.

And for the first time all night, a truck that only went backwards was exactly the right truck. Rob backed it in, one try, just like he'd practiced.

"I can't believe you got it in there," said Anita.

Before he left, Darrell handed Rob a card for a mechanic named Cheyenne. "He won't mess around," said Darrell.

Then he pointed at the skinny white line on the side of the road. "That line is all a tow driver has between him and the cars."

So when you see flashing yellow lights, slow down and move over. That's how you say thank you to a Darrell.

It was two o'clock exactly, the time the phone had said help would come, and they were already home.

"Give me a hug," said Anita. "We made it."

Slippers went on. The oil burner went on, for a celebration. Anita said hello to the houseplant, which had grown three new leaves while they were gone.

There were funny little marks on the floor. A mouse? No. That was Rob, dragging the hose the day before.

The next day there were phone calls. Lots of phone calls. Mechanics and tow trucks and a trailer that wasn't there.

By Sunday there was a plan: a rebuild kit, a good local mechanic, and Rob working right alongside him.

"Two steps forward, one step back," said Rob. "But going the right direction."

"I feel like the universe is encouraging us," said Anita.

And out in the alley, under the stars, the old truck dreamed.

In the dream, it went forward.