Dad’s truck sat alone in the very back of the lot, its dark blue finish gone hazy with sun damage and grime. My heart fluttered at the mere sight of it.
Getting it out was going to be a feat. The entrance was gated and locked. The exit was blocked by a chain and manned by a guy in a check-out station, and that was the only way out of the fenced compound.
I stood around and watched as a little red Toyota pulled up to the exit booth. The driver handed over some yellow form that the guard looked over and stamped before climbing out of his booth and undoing the chain that blocked the way.
Twirling the key in my hand, I went up the front walk and entered the building. The place looked was kind of sleepy. A wall of glassed-in counters separated the customer service area from a sea of desks, most of them empty. Either half the folks who used to work here got laid off in the government cutbacks or they were out to lunch.
A lady with blonde curls and a pastel pants suit strolled through the room. “Be with you in a sec, hon.”
So I just stood there and twiddled my key. Posters advertising auctions were pinned to a bulletin board. I went down the listing, relieved to see no dark blue, 2003 Ford F150s.
The lady sauntered over.
“Alrighty. So how can I help you?”
“Yeah … um … my dad’s truck is being released from probate. I’m here to pick it up.”
“Name and license?”
“Um … Moody. His name’s Roy. But it was actually under my mom’s name … Darlene. The license plate is YNG4VR”
“And you are…?”
“Me? I’m James. Their son.”
She moused around and typed something on her keyboard. She squinted at the screen.
“Is it a Ford truck? Model year 2003? Dark blue pearl metallic?”
“Yup. That’s it!”
She gave her head a quick shake, her eyes turned down, a frown set like concrete. “Says here it’s impounded and going up for auction on the 17th.”
“Well, that’s a mistake. I’m here to pick it up.”
“You got a DTTP? Can’t let you have it without that.”
“What’s that?”
“A Decedent Transfer of Tangible Property—the county’s new consolidated form. Replaces the old affidavits.”
“Uh. How do I get one?”
“You should have already been given one if it’s been released from probate. The court clerk should have issued one after the ruling. I assume your case has been heard?”
“Uh … yeah … I … uh … told the lawyer.”
She sighed. “I meant heard by the judge, as in a hearing. I’m authorized to issue them here, but first I’d need an order from the court.”
I shuffled my feet and looked towards the door. “Yeah. Well, thanks anyway.”
She smiled sympathetically. “Probate takes time. It really helps to have a good will. You’re never too young to have one, I always say. Life is precarious.”
I walked away, but couldn’t bring myself to leave the complex just yet, not with Dad’s truck just sitting there in the lot. I cut though the shrubberies and made my way into the back lot. It was packed with every kind of vehicle imaginable—Chevys and Audis, Smart cars and Porsches—just sitting out there, frying in the sun.
