Another Failure At Trying To Help Someone Out In Life.

I was smoking a cheap cigarette outside of work next to all the shopping carts, at nine o'clock.

The front end manager, Joyce, who has short, you know it's dyed brown hair, and is considered a bitch by all of the cashiers but likes me for some reason, walked outside, lit up a cheap cigarette, scanned the almost empty parking lot, then looked at me.

"Mv, is that my truck?"

There was a white, beat up, late 90's Ford pickup truck with a dented quarter panel in the corner of the parking lot next to the entrance with its lights on and engine running.

I knew she drove a pick up truck, but never paid attention to the color, make, or what it even looked like.

We have been working together now for two years.

I took a drag from my almost finished cig.

"Maybe, I mean it could be your pick up truck, but I'm not really sure."

Smoke coming out of my mouth along with the words.

She looked puzzled. Face scrunching up creating more wrinkles. Eyes confused. Upper body wrapped in a bright pink zip up hoodie with white flowers that a twelve year old would wear.

She hacked up a cough on her next exhale, and look at me again.

"When the hell did my truck get here?"

I snubbed out my cig. I didn't have an answer.

"I don't know. Really wasn't paying attention. It could have just pulled in. Or maybe it was here for like five-ten minutes, maybe longer. I don't know. I'm sorry."

I snubbed out my cig and started to walk back inside towards the deli, while she put her bright pink hood up, hands in pockets, with the her cig dangling out of the corner of her mouth as she made her way to the truck in question.

We didn't say good-bye. And I was back in the deli before either of us knew the answer.

I didn't see her for the rest of the night. Or the truck.

I never have any answers.