I had access to a couple of different vehicles once I was able to drive. I had the sporty two door ford Fairmont, a beater work truck with a ridiculous hand painted portrait of an elk on the door and a nicer work truck. I usually drove the car but I would go with the nicer work truck if it was available and the elk truck was the dregs of my high-school rides. If it was a date night I would try and spiff up whatever car or truck I was taking with a little low rent detail work and maybe a spritz of my dad's old spice to make it really fancy. One night a friend of mine and I were meeting a coupel of girls for a movie in the next town over and I took the truck because the weather was a lot nasty and I thought that was my best chance to live through the night. We drove over in light snow and watched some movie and I got to hold some hand which means basically mission accomplished. The girls had to head strait home so we couldn't pursue the game any further. We went out to the truck to ride home loaded up, turned the key and not a thing happened. I discovered that I had not turned off the lights after we parked and the battery was flat dead. The street was pretty desolate as you might expect in a blizzard late at night. It took me and my friend twenty minutes to flag down a rescue truck for a jump and we were off. The snow was made up of huge flakes that swirled and blew reflecting the light back into the cab and making it difficult to see the road and more importantly the side of the road.
|Like this, but not so clear and it was pitch dark and plus I was terrified.|
We had driven about two miles from the theater to the outside of town where the street lights ended and I was creeping along trying to make it down the road when a gust of wind blew the obviously poorly closed hood and smashed it up against the wind shield. I am not sure if I screamed, or peed my pants, or maybe both. I tried to stop but on the snowy ice the truck started sliding sideways and I couldn't see a thing. It was a helpless and terrifying feeling to be sliding sideways in a white out waiting to see where we ended. We slid to a stop on the side of the road and we got composed shut the hood and tried to finish the drive home. We got about halfway home and I was leaning far forward to try and see through the snow when another gust slammed the hood back into the cab. That time I am certain I screamed the F-word startled out of my snow trance. My friend Dukes-of-Hazzarded out of window and jumped on the hood to close it for good this time, we made it home with no more lid ejections. My dad asked the next morning how it went and I told an abbreviated version that left out the hood smashing. He said he was glad we made it home okay. Sometime in the next days my dad noticed that the hood of the truck was smashed up like someone had jumped on it and the hood was creased like it had slammed into the cab. Curious, very curious. The mystery was never solved, and I tacitly plead the fifth while my dad raged about who could have done this to his truck.