A year or so ago, my boyfriend bought a 1979 Chevy LUV truck from upstate New York. It was old. It was rusty. It had some holes. But it was a good little truck. It’d been through a lot. Who knows how much hay it hauled or how many bumpy back roads it traversed. That good little truck survived the drive from New York to D.C. And it survived little trips around the city. (Except for that one time it broke down in the Whole Foods parking lot, which I think it did on purpose out of protest.)
But this good little truck couldn’t survive Shaw.
Some hooligan shot out the back window of the Chevy LUV. I can only assume it was a BB gun because of the small hole it left in the window, which turned into a spider web of cracks. (Who the hell buys their kid a BB gun in the city, I have no idea. I guess no one worried he would shoot his eye out.) Turns out you can’t find a replacement window for a 1979 Chevy LUV. So the truck’s trips were limited to street-cleaning moves, letting its engine sit all too idle.
This morning, I tried to move the truck for street cleaning. I got in and shut the door, broken glass fell on my back as usual. I tried to start it several times but only got an ear-piercing squeal and many stalls. Then the Chevy LUV bled a green-black liquid down the street. RIP, Chevy LUV. You were no match for Shaw.