Reflections - Spence and his Mavericks: A Five Act Drama

Red Maverick After the Accident

Act One – Maverick Demise

On Sunday, May 17, I called Spence from Cranberry, Pennsylvania. “Carla and I will meet you at the Greenville/Sandy Lake interchange at six.”

Heading north along I-79 in her red Honda, she and I rolled over hills and passed farmlands with grazing horses. We were running a few minutes late. No worries. Spence would be patient.

Carla had driven me all the way from Lancaster, Pennsylvania where I’d successfully pitched my nature story collection to Lawrence Knorr of Sunbury Press.

“Will you have enough time to rest before work tomorrow?” I asked. If I’d driven the three hundred miles, I would need three recovery days.

“I’ll relax tonight and go to bed early.” She eased around a curve. “I’ll plan a day off after the next writer’s conference.”

At 6:00 my cell phone chirped. Spence’s Snidely Whiplash icon flashed on the screen. I swiped to answer.

Spence’s voice quavered through the speaker. "A motorcycle hit me." In the background a horn blasted repeatedly.

“Good grief. Are you okay? We’re still ten minutes away.” I stomped my foot against the floor in a vain attempt to accelerate the car.

“We're both okay.” His voice steadied a bit. “I’m in the middle of the road by three fifty-eight.”

“What happened?” Carla gripped the steering wheel tighter.

I told her.

“You need to see Spence,” she said.

Cold shivers ran through my limbs. Anticipation and dread battled in my brain.

Carla pulled off at the exit. Empty road. She headed west toward Greenville—over the bridge, in and out of the dip—to Carpenter Road.

Spence stood beside his dented red Maverick. Its front bumper hung over the edge line of Route 358. The rest of the truck, interior obscured by puffy white airbags, occupied the middle of Carpenter Road. A thin young man paced in wide circles.

As soon as Carla parked, I ran and bear hugged Spence.

He flung his arm toward the pacing young man. “This is Michael. I’m glad to say he’s okay.” Spence pointed at the truck. “The drive train’s locked up. I called AAA for a tow.”

At least the horn alarm stopped blasting.

Michael’s 250cc Honda motorcycle lay on its side in the grassy berm.

“You’ve had a long drive.” Spence rubbed my shoulder. “Let Carla take you home. Get something to eat. Rest. The tow truck driver can drop—”

“No. I’ll go home, but I’m driving back.” That meant an extra twenty miles for Carla on windy back roads, but I didn’t hesitate to ask my flexible friend.

Carla helped me carry my luggage up the ramp and inside the house. “You’ll be okay? Text me when you get home.”

I gulped a quick bite, packed food for Spence, and raced back by 7:20. He shook his head at the food.

“I’ll eat at home.” He perched on the Maverick’s back bumper.

“Where’s Michael?” I asked.

“He drove his motorcycle home.” Spence threw his hands in the air. “He gave me his name and phone number. He didn’t want me to call the police.”

Snuggling beside Spence, I asked, “What happened?”

“I stopped at the intersection. The motorcycle must’ve been in the dip. I pulled out and spotted him. I stopped at the edge of the road. He assumed I’d keep driving. He veered to cut behind me. He hit his brakes. He couldn’t stop and t-boned the truck. The bike went into a grassy area and threw him. Thank goodness he wore a helmet.”

A pickup with a portable bar in back stopped. “Do you need any help?”

“Thanks. We’re just waiting for the tow truck.”

The man waved and drove away.

A sedan stopped. “Do you need any help?”

“Thanks. We’re just waiting for the tow truck.”

The woman waved and drove away.

An SUV stopped. “Do you need any help?”

“Thanks. We’re just waiting for the tow truck.”

The couple waved and drove away.

Every vehicle that passed stopped and asked if we needed help. In rural Northwestern Pennsylvania, you don’t have to be acquainted with folks to connect.

Who didn’t connect was Brown’s tow truck. Spence called AAA again at 8:00. “The tow still isn’t here. Would you call Leonard’s on three-twenty-two? They’re reliable.”

The sun set in glorious oranges behind bare-branched trees.

Five minutes later, Leonard’s dispatcher called Spence for information. She said, “You need to call the police before we tow your truck.”

Spence called a confused person struggling with GPS imperfections. “I can see the interchange from where I'm standing,” Spence said for the tenth time. Finally, the woman connected him to the state police dispatcher, who after a similar “I can see the interchange from where I'm standing” discussion, said she wouldn’t send out anyone.

Spence called Leonard’s back.

“It’s okay. You tried,” the tow truck dispatcher said.

Leonard’s tow truck arrived at dusk. Taller and broader than Spence, who’d ducked under the airbag, the driver sliced the airbag to slide into the driver’s seat. He checked a YouTube video for directions to unlocked the Maverick’s ignition. Then he put the truck in neutral, let the truck drift back, and loaded it onto his tow truck. “Air bag replacement is expensive. The insurance company will probably cash out the truck,” he said.

Cash out the truck? My throat contracted making it hard to breath. The tow truck driver must be wrong. Spence loved his Maverick. Of course the truck could be fixed.

Blue Maverick After Its 28.5 Mile Drive Home

Act Two – Maverick Insurance

Early Monday, I drove Spence to the Erie Insurance office in Cochranton. The short-haired woman behind the counter asked questions in a gravely voice.

Spence answered. He received an eyebrow raise for the state police refusing to come answer and “They’ll probably write the truck off” for his description of four air bags inflating.

I let him have his say and gawked at the decades-old Christmas cactus by the glass wall. When he answered in the negative to a question about injuries, however, I said, “He has a bruise on his upper left arm.”

“Oh, the air bag hit me.” He rubbed the spot with his right hand.

“I’ll write that in,” the woman said typing on her keyboard. “It’s important because issues can come up later.” She dropped her hands from the keyboard and her business demeanor. “My husband was in an accident. He didn’t want to go to the hospital . . . back injury . . . wheelchair . . . surgery . . . no hope . . .”

After fifteen minutes, Spence interrupted. “We have to go. We have other errands. Thank you for your help.”

Spence’s errand? His need to check on his Maverick around the corner at Runyan’s Auto Body.

Young Matt with hands in his jeans pockets and Mr. Runyan with elbows on the counter wore matching bad-news expressions. “Air bags inflated. Insurance won’t pay to repair it,” Matt said.

“But it’s in good shape. Spence loves his truck,” I said.

Mr. Runyan lifted the visor of his Runyan’s baseball cap higher on his forehead. “They get more money from parts.”

Tuesday Jason, the insurance adjuster called Spence. Spence reported the bad news. “We have to take the license plate off. If they total the truck, they will tow it right away.”

I drove Spence back to get the license plate.

He patted the side wall of the truck bed in a silent farewell.

As everyone expected, except romantic me, the appraiser declared the Maverick a total loss.

On Thursday Keyshawn called from Erie Insurance headquarters. “I’m sending you a packet with instructions. Complete the final paperwork. Fill out the forms and return them via Fed Ex.”

Blue Maverick After Its 28.5 Mile Drive Home

Act Three – Maverick Search

Since Spence valued the mechanics’ work at Titusville Ford, he called the dealership early Friday.

Eating breakfast across our open space room, I eavesdropped on his conversation.

“Hi, Bill. I want a new Maverick hybrid. What’s available?” Spence shook his head even though he wasn’t on a video call. “No. Do you have red, blue, or green?” Spence peered through the sliding glass door as if through the window at the dealership. “Okay.”

“Does he have a pickup?” I asked.

“Only a gray one. Everyone drives white, black, or gray.” Spence scribbled a note on his clipboard. “Bill’s going to check other dealerships. We’ll meet him at nine-thirty tomorrow.”

I checked Maverick colors online. Ruby Red, Eruption Green, and Velocity Blue. Spence couldn’t buy Chili Pepper Red again. Ruby Red came close.

Saturday morning rain splatted the Subaru’s windshield. I steered around curves and clutched to shift gears up and down endless hills. We passed farmland, golf courses, and woods. Scenic, but would I drive this fifty-seven mile round trip for maintenance appointments? Nope.

In the showroom, I stroked a sleek Mustang, but Spence walked straight toward Bill at a desk off to the side. He was talking with a young couple seated across from him. He straightened. “You must be the Wellses. I’ll be with you in a minute.” And he handed me a stack of papers. “Study these while you wait.”

Spence said, “Thanks. We’ll be in the waiting room.”

He led me to a wide hallway—his mini office while his old Maverick underwent service. On one side, doors led to a utility room and bathroom. Chairs lined the other side. A counter, with Ford pamphlets and a coffee pot, spanned the wall at the end.

Spence plopped onto a chair.

Sitting beside him, I inspected Bill’s papers. “These are window stickers.”

He took the top set. “I want the least amount of accessories.” He read and chuckled. “This is Bill’s gray Maverick. It’s loaded with accessories.”

“There aren’t any red trucks, but one’s green.” I handed the paper to Spence.

He squinted. “No. It has a drop in bed liner. They cause rust in our climate.”

“These two are blue,” I said scanning the last two sets. “One is a twenty twenty-five with two minor accessories—a first aid kit and tow hitch. The other is a twenty twenty-six and no extra accessories.

“Velocity Blue is pretty.” Spence inspected the last papers. “Let’s see what deals Bill offers.”

Bill lifted his chin to peer through the bottom of his eyeglasses and read the fine print for the blue Mavericks. He rubbed his eyes, typed the VIN numbers into his computer, and read more. He tapped on his calculator and scribbled numbers on paper. “With the dealership’s extra thousand dollars off the twenty-twenty-fives, that model is less expensive.”

He clinched the deal.

The Brookville, Pennsylvania dealer had the twenty-five Maverick in stock. Bill called. “We want your truck.” Hanging up, he patted the papers on his desk and asked us, “Will Friday work for pick up day?”

Spence winced. “I’m driving to Cleveland Friday. How about Thursday?”

Bill held both hands in the air. “Pick up the Maverick Thursday.”

Spence in His Blue Maverick

Act Four – Maverick Pick Up

When I pulled into the dealership parking lot Thursday, a mechanic was dusting a Velocity Blue Maverick in front of the building. “It’s here,” I said.

Spence stared. Speechless.

Inside the building, we settled at Bill’s desk. He shook our hands. “Jason will do the title transfer and take your money. He’ll be free in a few minutes.” Bill rolled his chair back, pulled off his glasses, and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “The eye doctor said I needed these but . . .” and the fellas talked about useless eye glass prescriptions. They switched to stories about their first Maverick pickups. Since Bill bought his a year later than Spence, he only waited nine months, not three hundred ninety days. Bill pantomimed dialing and holding the phone against his ear. “I apologize that you’re the one answering the phone. Why can’t Ford figure out how to transport my truck from the freight yard to the dealership?”

After forty minutes, Jason, a slender man, jogged inside and over to us. He panted. “Sorry I kept you waiting. Please come with me.” Perhaps this job, which kept him running, caused his thin frame.

We followed Jason to the other side of the showroom. His office had a door.

He shoved documents across the desk and said, “Sign here.” We signed.

I wrote a check.

And we were back with Bill, outside beside the new Maverick.

Bill handed Spence a fab. “There’s no key.”

“No key?” Spence fingered the fab.

Bill chuckled. “Get in. I’ll show you.”

Spence slid behind the steering wheel.

From the passenger seat, Bill said, “Keep the fab with you. Step on the brake and push the start button.”

Spence followed Bill’s directions and, voila, the dashboard lit.

As I leaned in the open driver’s door, the sun warmed my back.

Bill demonstrated more features.

Spence peered at the new gadgets.

With more handshakes, Spence could drive his Maverick home.

“I’ll follow you,” I called over my shoulder walking toward the Subaru.

The Velocity Blue Maverick sparkled in the sunshine—easy to follow through Titusville. Out of town, however, Spence pulled away from me as if he were a races car on a speedway. He’d traveled this route more often than me. I sunk my teeth into my lower lip, clutched the steering wheel, and floored the gas pedal. Wasn’t he concerned about deer or state troopers?

I couldn’t maintain that pace driving around unfamiliar curves. I slowed and let him enjoy his new Maverick. I could meet him at home. Once I cleared the twisty road through the wooded hills and passed into farmland, I spotted the Maverick proceeding at a pokey pace. He must have checked his new rear view mirror.

We managed the rest of the trip in tandem.

Spence in His Blue Maverick

Act Five – Maverick Upgrade

Spence has bonded with his blue Maverick.

When I asked what he likes about this pickup, he launched into a list.

“The push button starter. It’s easier to see out the back. And it has a better back up camera.”

Now, if Spence doesn’t encounter an interfering tree or motorcycle . . .