I’m An Oversized Pickup Truck, And This Suburban Life is Killing Me
This cul-de-sac just ain’t big enough for the likes of me.
I had big dreams. Mega Cab dreams. I was going to go on all kinds of off-roading adventures — from Yosemite to Yellowstone — with a kayak strapped to my roof rack and a pair of dirt bikes sticking out of my tailgate. Instead, I’m trapped inside this suburban garage like a caged Ram, yearning to be set free so I can stretch my 22-inch wheels and kick up mud out in the wild.
I thought I would be driven by a bearded outdoorsman named Hunter or Gunner or Brūt, hauling entire forests’ worth of freshly felled lumber for his off-the-grid log cabin. Had I known that I would instead be hauling golf clubs and grocery bags for an orthodontist from Long Island, I would have rolled right off that Detroit production line and headed straight for the nearest cliff, like Thelma and Louise in that gorgeous ’66 Thunderbird. God, what a pair of headlights on that one.
There was a time when massive pickup trucks like me served a purpose. We had a job to do: carrying sky-high mounds of crushed rock from the quarry to the construction site. Our V8 hearts were as full as our ample cargo beds at the end of a grueling workday. But now we’re just glorified minivans, driving snot-nosed brats to soccer practice.
