Red Truck

Red Truck

By Oaken Beeson







Yesterday I found something I forgot I lost. As we all know, something forgotten is no longer lost. To be lost you have to be known, therefore being an unknown just makes you misplaced, not lost. Anyhow, yesterday I found, again, a little red Hot Wheels truck. As soon as I saw it I got tingles on the back of my neck which made me think it might have meant something to me at some point in my life. Now I can't really place it or remember exact times played or anything but I know for a fact that I was once in love with this truck. At first I was a little skeptical about whether this truck used to be mine or not. I mean, really, how many other little red hot wheels trucks could there possibly be in the world? So I turned it over and read the date on the bottom. Guess what it said, well, okay, don't guess I'm just gonna tell you anyway. 1976. Why is that year so significant? I'll tell you why. It's the year before I was born. Now, if it would have said, say, 1986 for instance, I would have said nope this wasn't my truck after all. Even say, 1983 would have changed everything, but no, it had to be 1976. This little red fire engine was built 29 years ago. That's a long ass time in dog years. Hell it's a long ass time in my years. I can now officially say without any apprehension that I own only one toy that is older than me. Just one.



So now as I roll the truck across the floor and look at it in every angle. As I study every little window and color change and decal. Every little thing I look at on this truck brings back the tingles more and more intensely. This WAS my truck. I know it. There is absolutely no denying the fact that I was once the child owner of this vehicle. I am amazed and astounded that this could somehow find its way back to me after 28 years. Twenty eight long years I might add. What did this little truck go through in that time? Did it have as many adventures as I did? Did it travel the country and end up back home as I did? Did it have any regrets?



There is a point to this story I promise. Mark Twain once wrote, "Just cause it happened to you doesn't make it interesting." Don't you worry; this isn't just about me and a Hot Wheels fire engine. It's about being lost. And that I think we can all relate to.





So maybe you'll find it interesting and maybe find a little bit of yourself in my story. I'm not supposed to tell you that right off, so please don't tell any other writers I did that. They will be most displeased.



There is one thing that bothers me about this little truck I found.



I really really want to be able to recall just one memory of me playing with it and enjoying it so much as to be completely oblivious to the world around me. So completely enthralled that I didn't notice the sirens, the crashes, the crying, the weather, the silence, and even the being alone. I want to remember what it felt like just once. I know it is my toy. I know I played with it more than any other toy in my arsenal of distractions and I KNOW these things to be true. But why can't I just recall one damn hour of it in my little hands. Just one minute of vroom vroom noises. The memories have to be there somewhere right? If I can know that it was once mine, then there has got to be some piece of it deep inside me somewhere. It's almost like a memory of a memory. I know I used to remember but now it's gone.



This is no longer just a truck. It signifies all that I have lost in my becoming "adult". It now represents all that I wish I could have back, it is a last link to some piece of me that I can't seem to find but I know is there somewhere. If only we could just forget it was ever there. To forget that there was a way we used to be and a memory we used to have. Not to leave them lost, but to forget them and let them be only misplaced.