Bitchin' Vehicle
Mac my mechanic used to have one, a Sun-liner, wow, such a cool looking van.
I wished I had one too, but mine was a Kombi-bus, perhaps a more practical choice,
since at the time I was homeless. I could sleep in it, eat in it, change clothes in it, relax and read in it,
kind of like a camper, with back seats, a folding table, but without the tent attachment.
Those VW's were built to last, the 1960's jobs. Mine was a 65.
And so cool to look at and DRIVE!
Mac used to say “It's a bitchin' vehicle. You sit high up and the steering wheel is at the same angle a real bus driver's is, so you can lean forward on the wheel while you drive. Sitting up high you can see well ahead on the road and you feel like you are in command of your bus—it's a great way to drive!”
Mine was really ugly, a two tone copper and cream color, not a pretty sight, but being so ugly it was left alone by car thief’s. This was a strength that I didn't fully appreciate at the time.
Repairs was its middle name. As awesome as these vehicles were to drive, they had one fault: an engine too small for their weight, and it was in the repair shop frequently, seemed damn near all the time, but you loved it so much you put up with the cost and inconvenience, kinda like a high maintenance girlfriend, who was beautiful, expensive, and trouble.
I decided I would get it painted: taupe, a greyish brown color. An unconventional color for an unconventional vehicle. Its appearance now so improved that people would call out of their cars at me---”Cool car man!”
Right then and there I should have sold it while I had the chance.
I should have, but should'ves don't count,
it's what you did and what happened that does.
Soon after, I was sick, the flu or some virus going around. I lay in my little bed half out of my skull.
It was late at night, maybe one am and I heard a click. Just a little click, in the driveway, just outside my apartment window, where my bus was parked. I wondered, but being ill, I fell back asleep.
The next morning, with the sun streaming in through the windows and I noticed something was different in the driveway. There was a shape missing.
I got dressed and went outside.
I walked toward the driveway.
My bus was gone.
Suddenly a sensation like something scooping my stomach out and hurling it up into the sky.
An awful feeling, forlorn, robbed, all alone in a hostile land.
Later that morning I sat with a police cadet as he took the report.
He said the odds are I'd never seen it again.
I knew he was right.
My bitchin' vehicle was in a California chop shop somewhere in town,
parts were being swapped, the plates and VIN being changed.
Today a collector is probably driving it around Tokyo,
he's sitting up high and leaning over that steering wheel,
just like I used to.