2
Ironman Sam gave new meaning to the
word “workout.” For this, I loved and hated him in equal measures, though not
always simultaneously. As I walked to the parking lot, it was a lot more of the
latter.
I returned to my
truck, a 1978 International Scout II, and tossed the sling onto the seat. I’d
found the Scout four years before by happenstance. I’d been selling my
Mercedes, a reminder of a life I no longer had nor wanted, and Stan had been
looking to buy something new for his wife. There was something about Stan I
liked, and he must have known then that he was dying. I knocked a big chunk off
the price of the Mercedes, and he threw in the Scout.
Talking around an ever-present cigarette
between his lips, Stan had told me he’d purchased the thing new in ’77 and,
being a mechanic, he had done all the work himself. With one glance, it was obvious
it had been impeccably—and lovingly—maintained. The Scout is a thing of beauty.
It’s hunter green with a white removable hard top. The interior is an Army-tan
color. Everything works as well as it had the day it rolled off the
manufacturing floor.
And almost everything is original. Shortly
after Stan died, the lock on the tailgate busted—the truck’s way of mourning,
no doubt. I never replaced it because I knew Stan would never approve of
anything less than an original Scout part, and my half-assed attempts to locate
one had turned up zilch. But the open tailgate had been how the kidnappers had
succeeded in grabbing me, so I’d gotten serious about repairing it. My new
mechanic, Manny, had fixed it for an exceptionally reasonable price.
