Chevy C-10: A Short Story

When I was in highschool, I had a ’65 Chevy C-10. That truck was my baby, and I had rebuilt it over several years with my dad. It had a monster of an engine, and definitely made heads turn. People could hear me coming from a mile away. However, the truck had some minor faults, like a non-functioning air conditioner or a couple dings in the paint. It wasn’t until I graduated that the engine reared its ugly head. As I was driving one summer day, the engine caught fire and I lost all of my work in a flash. Two weeks after I graduated highschool, I was working full-time at a fast food place. My main mode of transportation was my trusty C-10. I drove that truck every day and never had any serious problems. Fresh out of highschool, I never expected to have problems
either. Earlier in the day, my dad decided that the carburetor needed a little tuning up, so we worked on it. I didn’t think that a small tune up would have an impact. As I drove to work, something felt a little off. The engine was running hot, and had an odd idle interval. Instead of being sensible and going back to my house to grab another car, I just went on to work. When I arrived, I called my dad to tell him what was up. “Hey dad? The truck’s running a little hot.” “I’m sure it’s fine. Just go slow and watch your revs when you pull out of lights.” “If you say so. I’ll call you after work if anything goes rough on the way home.” After work, I hopped in my truck and began my short trip home. I followed my dad’s suggestions, drove slower than normal, and didn’t pull out too fast. I was almost home. I had hit the final stretch, and began to pull up the hill that lead to our house. I should have been in the clear, but one block away at the stop sign I decided to rev the engine like I always did, to let my parents know I was home. Disaster. The temperature dial skyrocketed. Smoke began coming out of the vents, which is never a good. I quickly sped up that one block, pulled into the lot next to my house, and quickly opened up the hood. The engine was ablaze. The filter had come off of the carburetor and gas had spewed all over the inside. I panicked, and ran inside to get help. “The truck’s on fire,” I yelled, “where’s Dad?” “Grab the extinguisher down the hall.” said my mom. “I’ll go look for him.” Out of all the times I’ve needed to know something, this was the worst one. I had never operated a fire extinguisher. I grabbed it and ran outside, almost falling down the stairs on the way out, and began fumbling with the catch. I managed to free the latch, and just closed my eyes and sprayed until I heard my parents yelling for me to stop. The fire was out, but the damage had been done.
Burn marks covered the inside of the hood, and all the wires had melted. The filter that normally sat atop the carburetor had come to a rest in between the exhaust pipe and the engine block. The radiator had begun leaking. All the labor and care we had put into the bay had been snuffed out. The engine was ruined. “What happened? I know you said it was running hot, but this is hotter than I expected.” Even in this tense moment, my dad cracked a joke. My mom was still panicking about the fact that I had almost died, and my twin sister had come outside to see what was going on. I hung my head low, arms dangling at my sides, and holding the fire extinguisher by the hose. I was safe, but it felt like something inside of me had died. We tried to save what we could, but the damage was too severe to recover from within our budget. There are still burn marks on the parking lot where it stood, a permanent reminder of tragedy. I sold my pride and joy, the loud orange beast that had represented me. I had put so many hours into rebuilding it, and that time had been lost within a matter of five minutes. I was just happy I walked away with my
life.