DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

I rented a big truck on the day we moved across town. You’ve seen them, lumbering inexpertly around wide turns, packed wall-to-wall with boxes and furniture and potted plants, driven by stressed-out and dirty and exhausted people who have apparently piloted one of these things about twice before in their lives. It isn’t just the tentative way they change lanes, it’s the way they stop traffic, set out pylons, and call in for airborne support when they have to back into a driveway. New drivers of big trucks need a football field to execute a three-point turn.

None of this is true of me, of course.

So I sit down in the truck, fire up the motor, pull the handle to release the parking brake, shift into drive, and lurch halfway across the driveway. The acrid smell of unhappy brake pads rises immediately. “What a maroon,” I think, “the previous renter must have tried to drive with the parking brake on.” And then I realize that the hood isn’t latched, and yes, I did put two and two together shortly after that.