My Dad's New Truck

Did you ever do something in your youth that you still feel guilty about? I did.

In the summer of 1969 my Dad would let me drive his new maroon Chevy truck when he needed to drive his boom truck to a job site. I drove his new truck to Midway Park, in Euless, to watch some of the high school boys play baseball. As I attempted to park the truck I caught the squared, steel reinforced, bumper of an old green truck on the right side of where I was pulling in. It left a major seam down the passenger side of Dad’s truck. This was not a scratch, it was MAJOR damage. It did nothing to the bumper of the other truck. I was afraid to go home, but when I finally did it was way after dark and Dad had already gone to bed. I parked the truck in its usual spot which meant that Dad would not see anything but the driver side the next morning when he left for work.

I tossed and turned all night knowing that it was my last night alive. When I woke up and looked out the window I saw that the new truck was the one Dad had driven to work. I was sick with fear. I spent the last day of my life going through my treasures, clothes, shoes, and mementos to pass onto my friends. The agony of the day could not be measured – it was off the chart.. As afternoon moved into time for Dad to come home, I started to throw up.

I began to pray to God for forgiveness, even though it was not His truck. I also asked Him to give Dad the wisdom of a applying a quick death and not a long, drawn out tortuous one that included a lecture.

Dad arrived home. He slammed the front door. I heard him yelling something to Mom and he sure did sound pissed. Shortly after that Mom called me to dinner. What? They were going to feed me a last meal? With my luck it would be liver and onions, hominy, and cauliflower; I would just as soon get the death scene over without a dinner punishment, too.

I walked slowly into the dining room. Dad looked fiercely at me as I sat down and he growled, “Sis, you won’t be driving my truck for awhile.”

I just nodded my head and looked as sad as possible.

He went on to say, “Some asshole bashed in the right side of it on the job today. It has to go in the shop.”

That was the day that convinced me that praying really does work. Looking back on it I figure it was also a test from God to see if I would confess. I never was any good at tests. I waited another twenty five years to tell Dad about it…over the phone…he lived two hours away. The phone line mysteriously disconnected just as I heard, “Well, son of ……..”