Trucking with the Duchess

I venture across the River and over into Virginia, that bastion of bigotry and citadel of conservatism. As I drive, I’m amazed not only by the number of cars still sporting “W” and “Bush/Cheney” stickers, but by how arrogant and rude those particular drivers are in traffic. Why am I surprised?

Driving a truck might jack up the testosterone levels, but, interestingly, it also mellows you out on the road. I’m serious. It’s sort of like how the biggest guy in the bar never picks the fight. He doesn’t need to because he’s secure in himself. It’s like that when you drive a truck.

But I digress. I’m driving to Virginia to visit my dear friend the Duchess of Chilmark. She’s in exile in Alexandria, you know, until the summertime when she’ll once again reign over her windswept, hilltop, duchy on the Atlantic, criss-crossed as it is with magnificent old stone walls, beach plums, and Queen Ann’s lace. Ticks are a problem, but who cares? When you’re with the Duchess in Chilmark, you travel back to a more gentile era where the roads aren’t paved and everyone drinks their gin and tonics from old mayonnaise jars.

The Duchess hasn’t seen the pickup truck yet, so we’re going for a short drive. Like good old-school WASPs, we fix a cocktail for the road. Actually, we just pour some red wine into a very small go-cup. Not enough to really raise our alcohol blood level, but just enough to suggest a sense of romance and wickedness. The Duchess has dressed for the ride and with her scarf, I think she looks very much like CIA spy Valerie Plame.

She tells me my anti-Bush sticker is too small and too subtle. “What good is it if the jerks can’t see it?” she says. She does approve of the hand-crank windows and the big bench seat. We don’t drive very far. Just to the new Whole Foods Market to pick up a few items I've been needing. Out here I can easily maneuver the big truck into a parking spot.