My friends and close readers know my car is a Scout—a 1964 International Harvester—and my daughter, by a coincidence that arouses suspicion in the suspicious, is also named Scout. (She's a 2003.)
I've decided to sell the truck after nine years of pure joy and mostly reliable utility as the service vehicle for Murray's Freelance Writing. I'm also selling my other "mostly reliable" car, a 1992 Volvo.
Several years ago I took a teenage protege of my inner-city art-teacher wife for a ride in the smelly old Scout. I was introducing Bryant to golf, and Bryant was introducing local golfers to hip-hop golf togs.
"Dave, can I ask you a question?" Bryant asked politely as the car coughed and wheezed down Division Street. "Why do you drive a car like this?"
"Well, Bryant, I just think it's fun to drive—you know, kind of an adventure every day."
He hesitated, and then said with a quiet smile, "You know, sometimes I think white people just don't have enough problems."
Well these days, white people have enough problems.