1987 Ford Ranger

So there I am riding shotgun in a train hell-bound for trouble, which is to say an '87 For Ranger with a freak named Jerry behind the wheel. You've got to expect great things to happen on a trip involving a dude who drives a pepto-pink colored mini-truck whose theme music is by Weird Al Yankovic. Jerry's truck is typical of minis that were built back in the late '90s as it was body dropped 6 inches and could only fit 16-inch wheels inside of its square wheel openings. Leg and headroom were more of an afterthought than a necessity during the hack session on Jerry's truck. In fact, the floor wasn't entirely whole and there were big holes in the cab corners where the body drop had been less-than-expertly executed. Because of radical body drop and the Ranger's nasty front wheel negative camber, Jerry became well acquainted with the local discount tire shop by his house. Because of the radical body drop and the 10-inch subs that were mounted behind the Integra bucket seats in the cab of his truck, my right leg became well acquainted with the passenger-side window. I spent most of the drive to New Mexico slouched down in the seat with my right leg stuck out the window just to maintain some level of comfort.

As we crossed the border into New Mexico, we stopped at this massive junkyard that was situated only a few hundred yards off of the westbound side of interstate 10. I'd passed this yard many times during my travels and had never had time to feast my peepers on the treasures held within the barbed wire-laced fence. Our large caravan of one let out a collective hiss as the truck laid down hard in the dirt parking lot of the junkyard.

It was nearly 7 p.m. and the guy sitting in the rocking chair on the porch of the adjacent house looked dead, or at the very least, extremely sleepy. We peered through the holes in the fence, gleaming over the vintage '30s through '70s sheetmetal that was unmolested by rust thanks to the dry climate. It was too much for us to bear. We should've left right then and there, but less than 10 feet from us sat a '59 Chevy El Camino, a truck that we've both lusted after for many years. Jerry hopped the fence before I could even offer up a reason on why we should venture into the yard. We both made a beeline for the Camino.

Neither of us ventured any further than back of the bed. Lucille was perfect. She had not a single dent, ding, or missing piece of trim or glass. We both stood in awe, slack-jawed at the site of our holy grail. For a moment, we tried to rationalize a reason for staying in New Mexico an extra day. I touched the driver-side tail fin just as a pit bull leapt from the shelter of a '57 Nomad's interior. At least it looked like a pit bull to me. It was hard to see while I ran toward the fence like a crackhead after a piece of rock. The dog bit Jerry right on the left ass cheek and he let out a shriek that would have made a metal head proud. I jumped back over the fence, but Jerry didn't make it. He was perched atop a '49 Merc' with the menacing dog pacing back and forth between him, the Merc', and the fence line. I yelled at Jerry and told him not to dent the roof of the Merc' and then I remembered that Jerry was about to become Kibbles 'n' Bits for our new friend. There wasn't a rock in sight that I could have thrown to distract the dog, so Jerry hit him with one of his shoes and then hauled ass for the fence. The dog regrouped after the shoe attack and leapt at Jerry as he was climbing the fence. Jerry continued the shoe assault by smacking the dog upside his head with another size 12 Converse and made his getaway. We both hopped in his truck and bounced for the freeway, laughing our asses off at the thought of a beagle chasing us and the loss of Jerry's shoes.

Now Jerry was shoeless, so we had to stop at the next offramp to find him some suitable attire. He picked up a sweet pair of floral print flip flops from Wal-Mart and we were once again on our way. His new flip flops reminded me of a certain Billet Accessories Direct employee who has a weakness for floral print luggage, but I'll save that one for another column.

Now that Jerry had some new kicks, we continued onward, screaming down I-10 at a whopping 70 mph when a cop pulled us over. I didn't even think twice about it because we weren't doing anything wrong, and for once I was just the hapless passenger and not the driver being hassled, so I kept on playing a game of Pac Man. Oh yeah, Jerry's got an old-school 6-inch TV (not a monitor, but a TV!) in his truck and a super old Atari game console stuffed into his glovebox. The cop pulled us over for no apparent reason, but asked Jerry to step out of the truck anyway. A field sobriety test and vehicle search later, and officer Nothin'-Better-To-Do gave Jerry a ticket for having the TV in his dash. Oh yeah, and he said he should arrest Jerry for wearing those lame ass flip flops, too. Thank god we were only half an hour away from Roswell, the infamous home of Area 51; aliens, anal probes, and our destination. See ya next month!