I could have sworn I had posted this but looked and couldn't find it.  Don't write stuff that you don't want to come true.  Check it out, the 'old blue van' story exists in a green van at a state park in washington.  No lie!  This story was inspired by both my families 'old blue' suburban that went EVERYWHERE and did EVERYTHING and by an old van that was parked at the 138/I-15 interchange for a year...

Here is a pic of the 'green van man/banjo guy' to prove it!

The old man chose his new life carefully.  He knew it would be his last; the doctor had said six months to a year, but treatment might prolong it.  

“Prolong what?” the old man had asked.

“Your life,” the doctor said.

“Oh, you mean the pain,” the old man clarified.

The old man liquefied his assets, paid bills, and organized his accounts.  No family meant no will and no strings.  He tried to remember his brother and got as far as his sticky black hair before he had to sit down with a headache.  The seat back was straight, he leaned into it and rested his elbows on the table in front of him.  He planned for the months to come.

The van was an old blue Chevy; with rust for wheel wells and two cracks running horizontal the length of the windshield.  The old man walked around the van and kicked the tires; the rubber was bald and gray.  He stood there for a moment, scratching his head while the salesman starred off into space.

“I’ll take this one,” the old man said.

“Why don’t you look around?” the salesman suggested, “We have a lot of models to choose from here on the lot.  This old blue here isn’t going to last but six months to a year.”  He patted it affectionately.

The old man smiled, “Perfect,” he said.  

Together they walked back to sign the papers, the salesman had to adjust his stride to match the old man’s.  The salesman held open the door while the old man shuffled to the counter.  Pen in hand, the salesman went through the particulars while the old man nodded.  Then he gave the pen to the old man, who wrapped his bony hand around it.  Ink leaked onto his thumb and left a smudge where he signed his name.  The old man exchanged the pen for the keys, and a shake of hands sealed the deal.  The salesman watched the old man walk out of the lobby.  He had to squint in the glare of the sun but could see a smile on the old man’s face as he hobbled away to his new van.

That night around the dinner table the salesman turned to his wife of thirty years and said, “I sold the blue van today.”

His wife stopped eating and looked out of the window into the dark night.  “Wow,” she said, “I have so many memories of that van.”

“I know,” the salesman said and put his hand on hers.  He squeezed and felt the warmth of her skin.  He glanced at her face and saw a tear slide down her cheek.  “Good old blue,” she said.

The old man took to ownership of the blue van like static to a dryer sheet.  Everyday he set himself a new task; he had thirty days before the new owner of the townhouse showed up.  He cleaned the van, on the inside only; there was years of accumulated dirt and goo to remove.  The old man left the outside of the van alone, he didn’t want to risk flaking off any of the oxidized paint.  He put new sheets on the mattress in the back of the van and piled it high with thick, soft blankets.  It was as if he were building a nest and the more pieces of material he could add the better.  A few pillows topped it off; a cocoon of comfort.  

The old man packed two milk crates full of oatmeal, sardines, pasta, crackers and other dry goods.  The milk crates fit perfectly under the bed, as if the bed had been built with that purpose in mind.  He stowed a flashlight in the glove compartment and a map under the visor.  The first aid kit fit in the console, he made sure it was full of band aids and Neosporin.  The last thing the old man did was to stash pain pills near the bed.  The bad days were getting worse and he did not want to deal with the hurt.

And that was it.  He drove off from his home of twenty years and did not look back.  The day he left was cloudy and overcast and made the desert look soft.  He heard noises in the engine compartment as he drove and something clunked when he hit potholes on the road.

The news reporter stood in the shade of the porch, he was interviewing a woman who commuted to work down in the valley.  “I saw that blue van.  It was parked at the end of the road by exit 142.  You could see it as you drove from the highway onto the freeway.  Anyone could see it.  It was in plain view,” she said.

“Did you ever wonder why it was there?” the news reporter asked.  His hair blew in the wind as he scribbled information on a memo pad.

“I guess so.  Sort of.  But I was one my way to work and I was always late.  Then the rush hour blues would kick in and I would forget about it.  Plus I couldn’t see it on the way home; only on my way to work, by the time I had been to meetings and luncheons I could barley remember where I was off to next, let alone think about some blue van parked in the middle of nowhere.”

The news reporter encountered apathy on many assignments and this one was no different.  As he drove to the next interview he picked at his cuticles.  They bled and he had to wipe his fingers inside his coat pocket.  The thought of an old man, dying a painful death, holed up inside a dilapidated van made him unsure of his own humanity.  The old man had lived 80 plus years, known people, had family, possibly had pets and then packed up and come to the desert to die.  As far as the authorities could tell, he had no living relatives and since he had left enough money to take care of the van and his remains, it was a closed case.

“Yeah, the blue van, parked out there in the desert.  I heard about that.  Some old guy died in there, he was dead for a week before anyone thought to check.  Thank god it was winter.  Wonder what his story is?”

“Were you ever worried that your store was in danger, that you might be robbed by the owner of the blue van?”  The reporter eyed his scabby fingernails as he waited for the store clerk to answer.

“Nah, we get robbed once in a while but it is usually yahoo kids on their way to Vegas.  They drive nice cars and are in and out so fast you don’t know what hit you.  As soon as that guy turned off the motor to that van we knew we were safe.  Never saw him though.  He didn’t come in to buy anything.  Although I think he used the hose out back to get water.”

By that time it was old news.  The paper ran the story, not much was disclosed.  The van had been towed and impounded and the body taken to the morgue.  Local residents labeled the spot, “the blue van location” and stayed clear of it.  Some of the carpools that passed the area merging onto the freeway discussed it lightly during their drive to work.  

“What happened to that van?”

“I heard some guy died in it.  He was really old.  I read about it in the paper but they didn’t explain many details.”

“Why would you choose to die in a rusting old van?”

“I don’t know but the article said that he had been camped their three months or so.  Aren’t the police or the welfare authorities supposed to check on things like that?”

One lady that drove by the spot two times a day taking her kids to school and back silently chided herself for not stopping to see who was living in the van, or at least calling the fire department and having them stop.  She felt a slice of guilt every time she drove by the “blue van location” for the rest of her life.

The wife of the salesman kissed him as he left for work.  He looked into her eyes, “I sometimes wonder what happened to that old man that bought old blue.”