White knucklin' truckin'

From the sound of his voice I could tell that I was clearly my son’s last option, but he called me nevertheless. “I have to tow a truck to Becker’s. Could you sit behind the wheel?”

I said I would, but it’s one of the things I hate to do — being towed. I think it’s the lack of control. I’m almost phobic about it.

So there I was yesterday during my lunch break, in my office clothes sitting in a dirty old truck with a cracked, shattered windshield. Cardboard had been placed on the seat so I didn’t have to sit in glass.

I sat down and placed my hands on the steering wheel. “I really hate this,” I thought. I figured it was all mental, so I told myself, “What is the worst that could happen, really?” I could bump into my son’s truck and didn’t want to do that. But I had use of the brake and also we had arranged hand signals prior. Thumbs down meant slow down.

I used my thumb a lot. The faster he went, the more my mind raced. I was glad when we made it down the home stretch to Alter Iron.

He said I could get out before the truck was weighed. I told him he would get more money if I stayed in.