Compact Car Will Never Be A Genuine ‘Rig’

I want a pickup truck, and I want it bad, and I want it now. I have never owned a pickup truck. This is un-American, and, especially, it’s un-Western American. I doubt if a dozen people in our entire circulation area, which stretches from Fargo, N.D., to the Aleutian Islands, don’t own a pickup truck.

And here I sit, a man who has lived all of his life in prime pickup habitat - Colorado, Wyoming, Oregon, Washington - and I have yet to possess my first tailgate. I’m as alarmed by this sad record as you are.

I do have an explanation. In high school, which is when most normal Westerners get their first pickup, I never had enough money to buy a vehicle of any kind. Nor did I have enough money to buy a vehicle in college, which is when the majority of Americans have their first pickup experience, according to the Kinsey Report.

And then, when I finally bought my first vehicle, I bought the first thing I found that fit my stringent vehicle-shopping requirements: A price tag under $250.

It was an ancient VW bug. If only there had been a rusty enough pickup on the market that week, I might have avoided years of frustration.

I bought my next vehicle after my wife and I started having babies. We felt a back seat was mandatory. However, thinking back on those infant and toddler years, it might not have been such a bad idea to stick the kids in the bed of a pickup. (Oh, don’t get all agitated. I would have made sure they were safely strapped down back there.) Then, in about 1985, I made a fatal mistake. I bought a little 1982 compact car, a car I have hated ever since.

There are two problems with this car. First, it isn’t a pickup. Second, the idiot thing won’t die.

For about eight years now, I’ve been promising myself that I would get a pickup as soon as this stupid car wears out. It’s always on the verge of going completely T.U. (“tires-up”) but it always sputters and coughs and stays alive.

I can’t get rid of it. Nothing works, not even that hand-lettered sign I made, the one that says, “Key in ignition.”

You’re probably saying, “Jim, you ninny, if you hate the car so much, why don’t you just trade it in for a pickup?” Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? The trouble is, that car is paid for. I can’t afford to trade it in for something I have to make payments on. Which means I would have to trade it straight up for some other piece of junk selling in the high three-figure range. So, essentially, what I would be doing is trading in a car that won’t die for a pickup that will die, ten minutes after the title is signed over.

My heart says trade it, but my head says, “Keep the car. It’s the financially sound thing to do. Plus the back seat occasionally comes in handy.”

Yeah, well, what about my needs? I really need a pickup, because … because … well, because then I can throw stuff in the back of it. Stuff like bricks. Also, I can haul stuff with it, like furniture, or my briefcase.

And I can refer to it as my “rig.” A guy can hardly refer to a car as his “rig.” A Geo is not a rig. A Neon is not a rig. A Lincoln Town Car will never be a rig, not even if you’re using it to haul bricks.

And finally, I need a pickup because I always feel kind of … wimpy … when I go up wild trout streams in a car. If I had a pickup I could just toss the old rod in the back and take off. At least I wouldn’t keep slamming the car door on it and breaking the tip off.

Meanwhile, though, I’m resigned to driving that annoying little car. I have been compensating by pretending it’s a pickup, which is not hard to do since it’s a hatchback and the rear seats fold down. I once hauled almost a half-cord of firewood in that thing. It didn’t exactly do wonders for the carpeting, but I’m past caring.

Still, I hold out hope. Someday, I will get a pickup; maybe even someday soon. I noticed an encouraging sign while I was driving my car the other day. I think my clutch is about to give out.

, DataTimes MEMO: Jim Kershner’s column appears Saturdays on IN Life.

The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Jim Kershner The Spokesman-Review