Why Do I Own a Truck?

In English, the question of why can take on two different meanings: by what cause, and for what purpose. The full causes and purposes of my owning a pickup truck in San Francisco are as of yet unknown, but here's what I have gathered so far.

I know buying my truck was an impulse decision.

A man, confonted with an irrepressible melancholy, will thrash himself around, scrambling for purchase. Drinking, smoking, reckless driving. I'm a gambler, so in 2024 I went to Reno to do a bunch of shrooms. Either I would be cured instantly in my clown-themed hotel room, or I would go insane and join the good people of North Virginia street. This was in fact the best plan I could come up with—the alternative, perhaps talking to someone about my feelings, was something I had only accomplished while blackout drunk. Unproductive logorrhea.

My trip was the usual tech-bro mystical experience. The universe is a computer, I am a vessel for intelligence retrocausally manifesting itself into existence, etc. etc. The wound had been violently torn open again and I was forced to confront my aging visage in the mirror but other than that I was fine. It was time to smoke a blunt and hit the casino.

There are energies to a casino floor. I could feel them. I could also feel people's past lives (you were a poet, you were a warrior) but decided to keep this to myself. Wandering from casino to casino, talking to all sorts of machines, I turned $200 into all sorts of exciting numbers over the course of the night: $220, $170, $130, $100, $80, $95, $60, $40, and finally $20.

At this point, I had made it to the Cal-Neva, "Reno's Best Bet," and was ready to call my spat with lady luck a draw. It was three in the morning, and the gentleman seated a few machines over was hitting his machine, so I was mashing the "max bet" button to ditch my last twenty and get out of there. It was then, on my last dollar, that I noticed the cutscene was taking longer than expected. I had won $1,200.

This was clearly a sign. But of what? More gambling? No, too obvious. The purpose of this money would reveal itself to me when the time was right. It was not mine to spend. Realizing everyone probably saw me win this amount of money, I hoofed it back to my hotel room before I became some mugger's lucky break.

It was a few weeks later, that I found her—my truck. Back in San Francisco, I came across a 1999 Toyota Tacoma on Facebook Marketplace and instantly knew it was the one. This was what the money was for. A few months prior I had totaled my car in a freeway accident, as is custom for Nissan Altima drivers, and I had been forced to commute two hours by public transportation. This truck could give me my time and energy back.

I bought it off some Mexicans the next day. It was spray painted black, had a minor check engine light (I brought a scanner to strong-arm them on the price), and when I got home I realized it had several 9 mm bullet holes in it. The salvage title meant it was probably stolen. This truck had character.

As for the purpose, this truck ended up being the workhorse for my brother's fledging Christmas light installation business (he was making gangbusters, but Q1 has not been so generous). And moving was so much easier without the stress of having to return a U-Haul. Could I have anticipated these? No. But I didn't have to.

I suppose there is the question of self-expression. What does my truck say about me? I am a man. I'm self-sufficient, practical. My penis is somewhat on the small side. Perhaps some part of me felt these qualities were not adequately communicated, and took steps to correct this.

Do I recommend owning a truck? If the time is right, it will find you regardless.