Owning three trucks in a city as small as San Francisco doesn’t make a lot of sense. “Why am I like this?” I ask as I look for parking, hooking a U-ey with a twelve foot box truck swaying like an old woman’s bingo arm behind me. The GMC groans and creaks like I do getting out of bed, the power steering pump squeals as I jam the wheel hard right, there is a 260 degree blind spot made out of aluminum and painted baby blue so I drive by trust and hope.
These trucks are like sheds. Where I grew up, in a small town named Greenland that was known for growing apples and raising milk cows, sheds were a sign of wealth. If you build a shed, it’s because you have something you want to keep out of the weather. If you have a lot of stuff, you have a lot of sheds, you have a lot of money.
I own these trucks because in my simple mind, it means I’m rich.