Zippy

I picked up my truck from my uncle's house. With farewells given to my aunt, who held back her two gigantic scary dogs while we scribbled on bills of sale, I hopped into my brand new 1994 Ford Ranger, turned the key, listened to the awkward rumble of the little engine, forced the reluctant standard transmission into gear, and stalled out the truck 40 feet from where it'd been parked for the last month.
But inside my fat-clogged north American heart, only one thought raced through my mind. It wasn't "I can't afford insurance," or "I have no money to register this truck" or even "I can't drive this truck at all." It was "freedom." Not "Freedom!" as in, "freedom isn't free," but rather "freeeeeeeeedom," like "I'm bored. I'm going to drive across the country," or "I don't want to stay in the house. I'm going to drive! somewhere." Or, most importantly, "It's -90 degrees outside. I'm going to fuck up the environment a couple more degrees by driving three blocks to the grocery store so that my broccoli doesn't freeze on the way home."
So, on three bald tires, and one mysteriously new and healthy-looking tire, I'm going to drive across the country, one province at a time, until I'm tired and sore and lost and content and all explored out. Then I'm going to take a summer off, go fishing, and put shit in the back of the truck and bring it to wherever I want it to go. Oh, and I might see about starting a painting company. I figure, a truck, plus paint, plus someone who knows how to paint, is a pretty good recipe for a pretty laid back summer. Or I might start a fishing company, "Bankruptcy Bros. Fisheries," that I'll run out of the back of the truck. Our business plan: stay out of the house all summer. Our motto: ... well, it'll probably be a quote from some Journey song.