I stopped for gas outside Tampa thinking about coffee, the road, and the chairs under the tarp in my truck bed. Then a man in a red Lamborghini decided my old pickup was the funniest thing he had seen all day.I stopped caring what people thought about my truck years ago.It is older than most people working at gas stations. The paint is shot. The radio has been dead for years. The driver’s door only opens if I lift it first, then yank.After thirty years in construction, I care more about whether something runs than whether it shines.I was driving outside Tampa with twelve rocking chairs under a blue tarp. I had built every one. Wrapped at the legs and runners with moving blankets so they would not get scratched on the drive. I keep a few donation flyers in the console.

I pulled into a gas station because I needed fuel and coffee.I was halfway through pumping gas when a red Lamborghini screamed into the lot.A guy climbed out wearing sunglasses that probably cost more than my tires. His wife got out on the other side holding a tiny white dog.He looked at my truck and laughed.”Damn,” he said, loud enough for everyone. “I didn’t know these were still on the road.”Do you think it came with the Civil War?”There was a space behind me closest to the store. He swung in there anyway, so tight behind my bumper that I knew I would not be able to back out.I stared at him. “Seriously?”He shrugged. “We’ll only be a minute, old man.”Then they walked inside laughing.I stood there gripping the handle, not to say something that would make the rest of my day worse.When they came back out, she had an iced drink and he had a bag of chips. She glanced at the tarp in my truck bed.”What do you even keep under there?” she asked. “Scrap metal?I looked at her once and said nothing.