One More Reason Why It's Good To Ask Questions.

I stopped by a friend's house today to borrow his pickup. I am moving and have a large bookcase. He was very kind to loan me his truck. I know my friend fairly well, but I didn't know anything about his truck. But he said I could borrow it for an hour so I dropped by, picked up the keys. He said, "It's the black one."

Now this is critical to the story. What he meant by "it's the black one," was different than what I understood him to mean. What I now know is that he meant "it's the black key." I thought he meant "it's the black truck." This is an important distinction.

So I happily thanked him, went out the front door, down the street to the black truck, unlocked the door, and climbed in. Inserting the key into the ignition, I worked the switch for a couple minutes. The truck, being black, was very warm inside. Something wasn't working. I looked around the steering column for a safety switch, something that would release the key so that I could start the engine.

I adjusted the angle of the steering wheel. I pressed on the brake. I made sure the automatic transmission was shifted to "park". I put my seatbelt on. I repeated all of the above. No luck. The key wouldn't turn.

At this point I began to get a little irritated. Stupid locking ignition. Also at this point, I remembered that my friend had asked me as I picked up the keys whether or not I could drive a manual transmission. Silly question, I thought as I wiggled the automatic transmission lever.

Five minutes of trying and nothing. I was frustrated and quite warm now. But I was stumped and finally I got out and walked back down the street toward the house.

Inside, my friend said, "Did you put the clutch down all the way? Sometimes it gives me trouble." Silly him, I thought. His truck doesn't have a clutch.

Here is the point where things start to get strange. Set on solving the problem, he and I walk out into street. I go one way and he walks the opposite direction, toward a...green truck. Jen says something in a kind of strange voice, but I don't really hear her because I am looking down the street at the black truck that I was just trying to start. From my vantage point, the street seems to be filled with oversized, angry, Latino guys who are all frowning darkly and gesturing in my direction.

My first thought is to look away, climb in the green truck, and move on as quickly as possible, but that only lasts for a very short moment. Leaving quickly would obviously not look good at this point. I begin to walk slowly up the street toward them. One is examining the door of the pickup. One is standing in the middle of the street staring at me. One is on the far curb. He's staring too. Another couple are hanging out the front door of the house. They all look like they could toss me over a house with one arm.

As I get close enough to speak, I decide to start with "I am so sorry" which doesn't seem to do much because at that moment a lowered gray pickup comes roaring down the street, stopping on a dime about 15 feet in front of me. Big Guy #2 standing in the middle of the street walks over to the driver's window and gestures at me. The driver of the truck is a young guy, but obviously used to respect. He looks me over slowly through the windshield. I can see him pointing at me through the glare of sun on the glass. He says something to Big Guy #2.

I decide I'd better talk fast. "I'd like to apologize," I say. What were you doing in his truck, the guy in the gray truck wants to know. Under the circumstances, that's not an unreasonable question, I guess. I explain the whole borrowed truck mistaken identity thing and carefully point out the fact that the key to my friend's GREEN truck down the street does a fine job doubling as a lock picker for the expensive, monstrous BLACK truck in question. They all seem a little slow on the uptake which requires me to go over the details again. I emphasize the "sorry" part.

At this point, Jen shows up looking pretty and innocent which seems to help the whole situation.

A little more time passes and then, for some reason, the posse begins to relax. Apparently the fixer in the gray pickup is satisfied by my explanation. Now that I know I'm not going to get beat up, or worse, I can take care of the other tricky part. Sorry, very sorry, I say, but there's one other thing: I've left my sunglasses sitting on the passenger seat of the truck. There is a long pause. Finally, one of them nods.

I show him how my key opens his door like it's my own truck. "Aw, shit," he says. But I decide not to stick around to discuss it with him. Sunglasses in hand, I nod and make haste down the street.

And that's why I mention that, if you have a question, it's almost always better to ask it.