Crashbox

It started one grey morning with a bus ride to Boise Idaho and a car battery tucked under my arm. Well actually, it started with a phone call a few days before from a very old friend: "Yo! I have a truck for you." A 1961 International 1 ton, 4x4, V8, with a steel flatbed, crane, and winch, among other things. Sweet! Okay, so it's not really for me, it's to be shared by dad and various relatives according to their needs; still, it was my distinct honor to go to Boise and drive it home. And what a trip it was.
After about ten hours on a Greyhound, I was met at the station by The Mechanic of Infinite Ability in his newly acquired (free, of course) 1981 Subaru Justy. Back at his house---well, wait. I can't really call it a house. When we got to his hovel...no, that won't work either. I think he put it best himself: "Welcome to my structure." Two rooms do not have floors---just dirt. There is not a lot of the interior walls left, and the kitchen is full of the wood from the missing floors; which he has been cutting up with a Skil Saw and burning in a wood stove he dug up from the front yard in order to keep warm. And then there was the mice: no traps for these little guys, they get the .22mag in the head. In the house. The bullets don't quite go all the way through the wall we discovered.
So after two days of preparing the truck for the trip, with plenty of smokes and beer tossed into the mix, we finally left at 6:15pm, Saturday. First stop after gas was when the headlights decided that they didn't like being on when the clutch was pressed. This gave me great pause, I assure you. With flashlights in the dark we found the source of the trouble and soon rolling again. Now, I haven't told you yet that the transmission had a really nasty whine at any speeds above 25mph---at least, we thought it was the tranny---in was actually the front axle; when we finally figured this out it was late and dark and about 40 miles out of Boise. So we ended up pulling the front driveline off in the gravel by the side of the road by the headlights of the Suburu. By this point the wind was blowing and the temperature could not have been above 25 degrees. Back in the cab with a sleeping bag wrapped around my knees and as many coats as I could cram myself into, we made good time for a few hours. There were various gas-station skeptics muttering under their breath about us being 'Fucking crazy', and 'What a piece of shit!'; there was the pretty moon floating in ragged clouds, snow in one small mountain town; the comforting glow of a cigarette against the frosty dashboard; 55mph all night with a deafening roar of motor and gears.
At 4:00am we couldn't take it anymore, so I climbed into the Suburu, we cranked the heater and struggled to sleep for an hour and a half. Finally giving up, sore, hungry and pissy, I climbed out and started the International to let the engine warm up (there was no hope for the cab following this wonderful example). Alas! Little did we foresee the misfortune that was to follow directly after: sitting in the little car trying to get warm, there came without warning, a sickening crunch. The car rocked and we stared out the window, which was filled with headlights and grill. How's it going!!! Apparently the parking brake does not work on the '61. $#!%!!! It was okay though; the car wasn't in very good shape anyway, and it still drove. We went on.
From there on out it was pretty much a staring-eyed, sleep-crazed lurch toward home, and we finally rolled in about 10:30am Sunday. I'll never understand why or how I get myself into these kinds of situations---I guess I'm a glutton for punishment or something. In the end though, I really love this stuff; and you know I'll be out there again---probably sooner than I think!