Preston's Truck

When I was younger, I used to think there were only two types of cars: on top cars and on bottom cars. Now before you start assuming things, this was in context of car accidents, not other things. I figured that when two things crashed together, one would ‘win’ and be the one that ended up on top in the wreck. While my car was somewhere in the middle of the top-or-bottom scale, my twin brother Preston’s truck would definitely end up on top.

Where I would say a big black truck, Preston would say a 2015 F-150 with extended cab. Either way, it’s still the same truck. Its cab is longer than normal, giving both the front and back row more than enough room both length and width wise. My three six-foot-plus brothers can fit comfortably in the back, which is more than I can say for my car. His truck wasn’t only bigger-than-average, it was taller than average too. He had it lifted several inches, which didn’t mean much to me beyond that it meant climbing up into his car every time I went somewhere with him. He’s done a lot of modifications to it: under the chair ambient lighting, two light bars discreetly put on the nose of his truck, a base speaker underneath the back seat, and probably a lot more that I don’t know about. He always keeps his truck clean enough that it shines, both inside and out.

Preston’s truck is my favorite vehicle to drive home from college in and was the one the two of us sat in currently speeding eighty-five miles an hour north towards home. I had one leg folded underneath me, staring in a half-daze out the front windshield to watch the familiar scenery rush by. As I absentmindedly listened to the audiobook of “Ready Player One,” Preston’s favorite and one we’d listened to at least four times now, when I heard a voice I didn’t quite recognize. It echoed what the audiobook narrator was saying, but just a half-beat delayed.

“James Halladay had no heirs. He’d died a sixty-seven-year-old bachelor and, by most accounts, without a single friend…” The voice was comically tense and sounded like a man murmuring an almost baby-babble in a high-pitched tone, kind of like that one Muppet that only says “meep”

I turned to look at Preston, wondering if he heard the voice too, when I realized he was the source of the voice. His jaw was clenched shut and his lips were squished together so that they only parted the barest amount when he spoke.

“Halladay had prepared a short video message along with instructions that it be released…” I snorted and started to laugh, causing his façade to crack.