Dump-Trucks And Eyesores James L. Cowles (c) Copyright 2026 by James L. Cowles

Photo of  Danny courtesy of the author.

I admit, I was afraid of Randall. After all, he was three years older than me, and although he was small, he was tougher and rougher than a cob, so I wanted to stay on his good side. I was a skinny kid, and when I dropped Arlene's hand, and she would threaten to tell her brother, it put the fear in me. That was a threat I did not want to happen, and it usually worked for her to keep me in line. Sometimes we would run into other kids as they walked to school, and I was glad to have girls meet up with us, so they could talk with Arlene, and let me disappear. After all, there was that cute little girl, Janet, that I really liked, and I did not want her to see me anywhere near Arlene, and especially holding her hand.

All of my sisters were married by the time I was seven, so I basically grew up alone, watching all the happenings across the street at Arlene’s house. In my teens, I watched as the girls’ dates picked them up. All of those girls became more attractive when they reached their teens, and they had lots of guys hanging around. Admittedly, they looked a whole lot better to me, but I think I was A bit stunted when it came to relationships with girls. I was a shy kid, but I did get to know Randall a whole lot better after I reached my teens, and we became buddies of sorts. I remember how he had this dream of owning a dump truck, just like his uncle, who would often visit, driving his big, ugly truck. It looked pretty ugly to me, sitting there on the street, and everyone on the block hated to see it parked there. But it was only temporary, so the neighbors pretty much tolerated it. But then one day, Randall came home driving his own dump truck. He was as proud to own it as if it were a new Cadillac. He washed it and cleaned it up, but to me, it was still just an ugly dump truck. Of course, I never told him that; after all, I was an intelligent kid. Anyway, I watched as his love affair with that old truck blossomed, and he would brag to me about it, and how he easily got jobs hauling gravel and dirt, making lots of money. However, the neighborhood was not as enamored with the truck as Randall, because instead of parking it in the driveway, he parked on the street, right where his uncle always parked. When he looked at it, he saw beauty; when the rest of us looked at it, we saw ugly, an eyesore of the highest magnitude. It was the color of rusty red, with bumps and scrapes all over it, and little rust spots that spoke of its many years of demanding work. The bed looked like it may have been black at one time or another, with extensions made of dried out wood at the top, so as to increase the load it could carry. It was the kind of truck you would want to avoid getting behind, especially when it was full of rocks or dirt. You would be bound to get dinged. I think I may have ridden in it a time or two, but only to stay friendly with Randall.

Now then, looking back, Randall had a right to be proud. He was barely nineteen or twenty years old, and he was a “Proprietor,” already. A small businessman making a surprisingly good living. But the sentiment on our street was that he had created a permanent eyesore that no one liked. Not that our neighborhood looked all that great, but when you saw that truck parked with mud all over it, or so dirty you could not see even a hint of red, everyone wanted it moved out of sight. One night my friends, Danny, Darrell, Mike and I, were bugging around on our street at night, which we often did, and I made the mistake of telling them what all the neighbors thought of that old truck. Danny was the daring one of our gang, and laughing he grabbed the good-sized rock Randall had slid under the front tire of his truck, which was apparently used as a crude emergency brake, and heaved it high into the air over the top of the truck bed. It came down with a “BOOM” that the whole neighborhood could hear, and Randall popped out of his front door in a flash, jumped off the front porch over overgrown bushes, and was in the street, all in less than thirty seconds. He saw me first, but all he did was give me a mean look as he passed, and he ran right passed me toward Dan, who had made only a slight move to turn and try to escape before being nabbed. Now, Danny weighed at least two hundred pounds, and Randall, maybe 150 pounds, soaking wet. I swear, Randall got him by his collar and lifted him off the ground.

I remember hearing Danny hemming and hawing, trying to explain that that rock could not possibly have hurt the truck, and how sorry he was that he had thrown it in the bed. But Randall said that Danny had removed the Rock that was holding the truck in place, and if it had started to roll, it could go downhill and would likely end up right in the middle of Crittenden Drive. “It could kill somebody, dumbass!” I could see the fear in Danny’s eyes, but he got off with a good talking too, as did I. Darrell and Mike had long since disappeared, and I remember the truck disappeared after that. That little episode must have scared Randall, and he found a safer place to park his truck.

In later years, Randall worked at the Gulf service station, back in the days when someone would come out and pump your gas, wash your windshield, check your oil and water, and even put air in your tires. After I was long gone from the neighborhood, I heard that Randall had been bitten by a rattlesnake, and almost died. It seems that during one cool evening, someone pulled into the Gulf station, and Randall, performing routine service, opened the hood of the car. When he reached to check the oil, a snake sunk its teeth deep into his arm. It apparently was seeking warmth, and had wrapped around one of the radiator hoses. They got Randall to the emergency room pretty quickly, but he almost died, and it took him several months to fully recover.

I never saw Randall again after that, and I wonder what happened to his old truck. Danny and I got together a few years ago and laughed about the time he became the hero of Chicopee Avenue. The neighbors loved him for what he did. He has gone on to walk the golden streets now, but we were buddies all of our lives. Dan, if somehow you are reading this, most of your stunts didn’t turn out nearly as good as this, pal.