Jolene, pt. 2


So on a recent Friday I went and picked up an engine hoist and transmission jack from a rental outfit using my dad’s pickup. It’s a massive diesel rig with rear duals and an honest to God hydraulic lift in the bed, which impressed the heck out of the rental dudes who loaded the stuff onto it. I hopped out of the truck (well, it was more of a semi controlled fall, as the truck is very tall and I’m somewhat not springy) and found them regarding the back of the truck.

“You want me to put the lift down?” I asked.

“Uh, that’d be real good,” they replied, never taking their eyes from the truck. I’m pretty sure I saw the glint of saliva in the corner of one their mouths.

The lift came down, smooth as butter, and they each got that satisfied look, like they wanted to light a cigarette. I broke the reverie by holding out ratchet straps to them asking if they could secure the hoist and jack. I’m complete garbage with tie downs. They never work right for me and they’d work even less tight in front of these guys. They obliged and as they worked they commented that it looked like someone was getting ready to do some work on a vehicle.

“We’re pulling the engine out of my ‘65 Chevrolet,” I told them. Between that and the cool truck-bed lift I had now amassed a modicum of credibility amongst the tool rental guy crowd, exactly the kind of demographic a middle aged lesbian strives to impress.

I drove away with my rented machinery, reveling in the glory of it all on a fine sunny Friday in September.

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