His 1935 Ford pickup truck ran pretty well with its bright new red battery cables and the hood taken off to display the engine. He was 15 years old, and the truck was a liberator.

 

It empowered him, and he could feel a surge of manhood. Not that he knew what to do with this longing, for that’s what it was more than a drive or a desire. It was a hole in his heart that needed repair.

 

But it focused his mind on Karen, a year younger but clearly beyond his reach. He put a dollar’s worth of gas in the truck and set off down Main Street, honking and waving at other guys in the Chevys or their dad’s truck – maybe a Dodge Brother’s with the exhaust pipe up the side and roaring. When he got to the Drive-In, there she was. Pedal pushers and a sweater, her hair drawn back and tied with a red ribbon. She was laughing with a group of girls sipping Cokes through straws, twirling on the stools.

 

He parked and walked inside. The girls stopped their giggling and said “Hi” to him, showing different bits of notice. Karen looked down and blushed with a hint of a smile. His heart skipped some beats, but he walked to the other end of the counter where Jimmy and Gary were slouched, talking pistons and wheel covers.

 

He ordered a Coke and answered questions about the truck. Yeah, he had fixed the radiator leak. Yeah, it skipped along the highway at 40-50 mph. He and Karen exchanged a look, serious. It seemed to be more than passing. He looked away.

 

When he looked back again, she was laughing with her friends. God. God. Pretty soon, the girls’ crowd began to move and head toward the door. He told the guys so long and made for the door himself. You want a ride? He asked her as they made it down the steps and the crowd of girls disbursed.

 

OK, she said, smiling. He opened the door for her and she got in. Nice truck, she said. Ah, he said. Needs work.

 

No, she said. It’s really neat to have your own truck. You must be pretty excited to go wherever you want.

 

Yeah, he said. It is fun to go out and see the world on your own, Want to check out the Passageway? What’s that? It’s a place where we test our rigs. Off the road, under the railroad truck, along the river. There’s quite a few places like that: The Rake-off, Gasoline Alley. The Passageway…you know.

 

Oh, Wow! OK. He drove along the highway, three miles south of town, turned off the on the country road, and then suddenly off that road down a steep, winding trail into the willows by the river.

 

It was dusk. Five Mallards rose from the river, spooked by the truck. He crept along about 5 mph, over bumps and turns, then cattails brushing the doors.

 

Oh, she said. This is neat! I didn’t know about this place. Is it secret? Nah, he said. Not really. Lotta guys go down here. You can park and go fishing, or just sit and listen to the radio. Or some guys with their girlfriends, you know, they park and…

 

Oh, she said. She smiled and looked at the river. The moon was rising over the cottonwoods. Oh, she said again.

 

He came to the clearing at the end of the rack after passing under the railroad. There was no one else there. He turned off the key and looked straight ahead.

 

This is a nice spot, she said, after a while.

 

He took a deep break and looked over at her. He put his arm up on the back of the seat and she moved closer to him. She smiled at him. They sat there for a few minutes while the moon rose. The Mallards came back and settled in the eddy. They could hear the movement of the water. They didn’t say anything.

 

His arm settled over her shoulders, and she moved closer. He felt happy in a new way.

 

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