Hello, kids. Kids—that’s what Mike calls you, isn’t it? Jeez. Did you know he sometimes refers to himself as M. Edward, too? Yeah, actually signs his name like that and everything. How do I know? He leaves all his papers and junk in my floorboard. And my seats. And everywhere else. I digress.
I’m a little worried about my buddy. Don’t let him know I told you, but we were both incredibly happy when we found each other. He wanted a bit of independence, and I wanted to get away from those salesmen. They smelled like cheese. Mike hasn’t been that guy for the last few days, though. I think he has a lot on his brain.
How do I know this, you say? I’m just a truck, you say? Obviously, you’ve never been with me when I’ve taken the entire Mountain Parkway in less than an hour. If there’s one thing I know (aside from Shell gasoline tasting like liquid chicken) it’s Mike’s moods. I was in and out this weekend, but I took some notes. Yeah, I can take notes–I’m writing this, aren’t I?
Friday, 5 PM: Dressed to the nines, he is. Must be going somewhere after work today. Judging by the weight of the duffel bag, probably one of the crazy weekend trips he likes to take. Wait, what’s this? A big red gift bag?! Oh, man, I forgot, he’s going to do that Christmas thing! I’m not too good with times and dates, but didn’t everyone else already do this? Ah, who gives a fuck, we’re Lexington bound, bitches! I love that place. So what if they’ve cracked down on the parking, if you’re smart like me, you’ll find a spot. Time to gas up and hit the road!
Friday, 7:30 PM: Mike doesn’t seem as happy as he was earlier. He called that lady he hangs out with, I guess to let her know we’re close. Wasn’t the usual reaction on his face, though—you could see his…er, you could tell…well, I’ll put this way: if he were a car, it would be like his oil was 3,000 miles past checkup, his air filter was clogged, and his headlights blew out. This didn’t stop him from making more phone calls, though—unsurprising, as he’s addicted to that damn Blackberry of his. It sounded like the same conversation over and over again—full of questions like “what do you think” and “what does this mean?” He doesn’t have class anymore, so it can’t be a homework thing. I don’t get it, Mike’s a smart guy, he should be able to figure it out.
Friday, 8:30 PM: You ever feel like the world was a tuxedo, and you were a pair of brown shoes? That’s me right now. When Mike got to the lady’s apartment, he left his bag in here. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve carried it this far, I’ll carry it some more. But, why wouldn’t he just take it inside? I mean, he’s staying there, right? And why aren’t they holding hands? This is so weird: she seems content, he looks like a boxer who didn’t see the punch coming, but is trying to play it off. I’m deep, for a pickup.
Saturday, 4 PM: Well, this is strange. It’s a Saturday, and Mike was up, out and about at 10:30 AM. He picked up the medicine ball he’s been bitching about (I understand him on that one, though—apparently the gym charges $8 to get in, and he only uses the med ball, so why not pay more upfront and save money in the long run. I’m an economic god.). He’s also not playing any music. Normally, I’d be relieved. I get tired of screaming songs every time he hops in the car. This is a weird silence. His face is unreadable. He’s not saying anything. No phone calls. Which is odd. I know he saw some friends last night after hanging out with the lady. And he didn’t stay there last night. What’s his deal?
Sunday, 2 PM: Fucking finally! I haven’t seen Mike since around this time yesterday. I’ve had to look at the fat ass of this Jetta all night. I mean, if were cranked up on octane booster, maybe, but…oh, right. He’s looking kind of rough. Hasn’t had a shave in a bit. Shuffling his way to me, instead of that confident walk he has on occasion. I also haven’t seen the lady since Friday night, so I think I know what’s happened. Poor guy. I’m just glad he didn’t do anything too nuts last night; I’m the crazy one in this relationship. He’s gotta have control if he wants to boogie with me. Though, I certainly wouldn’t blame the guy if he wanted to check out for a little bit—you gotta have a release. Mine is cutting off people who cut you off a few feet back. Never gets old. Oh good, the music’s back. I’ll indulge…for now.
Sunday, 11 PM: This is strange, I thought we’d be home by now. But we’re over at what he calls his future place. I hear him talking about this place a lot—stuff like, “I’m glad I know that shelf fits in Magoo.” Sounds like he’s planning to haul his stuff here. I hope he plans on giving me a fucking oil change between now and then; I’m tough, but when I move things, I like to be on fresh juice. Looks like he’ll be staying here in Lexington another night. I’m pretty observant, and I think Mike really likes this place. Back in Mountain Land, we don’t take the late night drives. We don’t go out to meet his friends (and their awesome cars) on a whim. Everything has to be so planned. I don’t like planned, and it’s not Mike’s style, either. I’m glad he was here when all this happened—I can only do so much for him. His friends have been there for him this whole weekend—swell people, I’d say. They could ride with me anyday.
Not much to tell after that. We made our way home on Monday, trying to avoid a late night ice storm that kept Mike from going to work on Tuesday. He kept bitching about how his work was going to pile up, but I’d say the extra day off was good for him (and not gonna lie, I wanted to rest a bit. He drove around quite a bit on Sunday night, trying to straighten things out). I took him to work today. When he came out, he seemed okay. Not totally better, but okay.
He probably has more questions than answers, but who doesn’t? He just needs time. For my sake, I hope it’s on the road.