Giving In

The odometer had over three hundred and eighty thousand miles on it when the odometer stopped turning, and that was some time ago. It had belonged to Cathy’s brother who had bought it used with the discontinued DATSUN logo spread across the tailgate. He was stationed in California and his girlfriend was in Texas and he hated to fly, so many of the miles were burned to feed love’s fire. Cathy lost her virginity in the truck’s scratched bed to the drummer in Kyle’s band. The seats, already giving in when Cathy’s brother purchased it, were now worn down to the bare metal springs, but the engine and transmission were still strong.

Originally black, the truck had succumbed to the onslaught of so many amps, and dolleys and drum kits, and the laser-etching rays of the Texas sun that it had faded to the patina of whale skin. Cathy could always be relied upon to get the band’s equipment from the practice space to the gig – whether it was at a club or an abandoned warehouse. For her, it was all about passion for the music; a way for a non-musician to manifest music. We got invited to play a party out west of College Station in Navasota Springs. It turned out to be a fishing camp in the middle of nowhere. There was a stage set up across some sawhorses and all of the power and lights were supplied by a diesel generator the size of the nearby chicken coop. 

The band that preceded Kyle’s was a Lynnrd Skynnrd/Allman Bros. cover band, and they were deep into their bourbon and beer by the time we arrived. They had allowed Kyle’s band to use their amps and drums, so all we had to bring was the guitar and bass. By the time Kyle’s band started, the worm had started to turn. Powders had begun to scratch itchy nostrils and bourbon’s bravado was reinforced by something more steely and dangerous. Things slid rapidly from “Play Freebird!” to “You think you’re better than me? Git down here and let me kick your ass.” Kyle’s drummer had dented a couple of the cymbals on the borrowed drum kit which devolved into an assessment of how many pounds of his flesh would be required to satisfy the standards of broken bottle justice that ruled such a jurisdiction.

We barely had time to throw ourselves and the guitars in the truck. We were pursued, Dukes of Hazzard style, down the long dirt driveway, only escaping because we were camouflaged by our plume of dust and Cathy turned the headlights off when we reached the road. When we got home, the truck just stopped and never started again. A mechanic who looked at it afterwards said that he couldn’t figure out how it even got us home. It was a mechanical impossibility. I think it was the last miles burned to feed love’s fire. Everything has a soul.