An Island of Tacos

Yesterday I climbed into the wrong Toyota Tacoma for the fifth time in the last few years. A delightful scent struck me when I opened the door. My car had never smelled so fantastic! And who had been so kind as to place the small bunch of flowers in the cupholder? Before I set down my coffee, it struck me. This was not my truck. My own gray Tacoma was parked a few spots away.

A quick scan of the West Tisbury Free Public Library parking lot revealed three additional Tacos, as they’re known. Plus another perched precariously in a tree. You’ll usually find several Tacomas parked at up-Island Cronig’s. While walking out of that store one afternoon I watched a man climb into my truck, then fiddle around in frustration as his key failed to work in the ignition. I could have alerted him to the problem, but he had a reputation as a pugilist. Plus, it was funny. 

There are approximately 11,232 gray Toyota Tacoma pickups on Martha’s Vineyard, according to the Trump Administration’s new Office of Supportive Statistics, an incredible AI service that allows you to generate numbers to bolster any idea or economic policy you like. And sure, that count might seem high, given that the year-round population on the Island is less than double that total, but it feels right. And with statistics, that’s what really matters. 

When our family moved to the Island, I didn’t own a truck, so I mistakenly bought a Ford F-150. These vehicles are very large. They are ideal for people who actually work in the building trades, not fragile, aspiring poets who only pretend to be in construction on social media. 

Driving that beast felt like walking around a small house in giant shoulder pads. I was always bumping into things. Bushes, trees, other cars. Once, my mirror clipped the mirror of another truck in the Squibnocket parking lot. Before I could apologize to the surfer-owner, he yelled, “Go back to Connecticut!” Which was weird, because I’m not from Connecticut, and I don’t think anyone would mistake me for a banker. Still, I felt bad. So, after I apologized profusely, and we determined that no damage had been done to his mirror, I offered to go to Connecticut anyway, as punishment. Thankfully, there was no room on the ferry, even with the born-and-raised surfer’s insider Steamship connections. 

The advantage of the F-150 was that other drivers of large trucks assumed I was one of them, so they’d kindly wave me through at difficult intersections like Five Corners. But the parking lot incident rocked me. Connecticut? There is no greater insult to someone born on Long Island. And so I promptly switched to the Tacoma, which is more of a junior-sized pickup. I named mine Marvin, because construction guys always give their trucks fun names, and he has really grown into himself. 

After a few years on the Island, he’s now tastefully dented, with a set of classic West Tisbury pin stripes down the right side. A cracked right rear bumper adds to his charm. His bed is short but well-stocked with swim gear, and typically I keep a few 2x4s or pine boards stacked in the back so other drivers think I’m in the trades and wave me through. 

Marvin is perfectly sized, too, so I’ve mostly stopped bumping into obstacles, dents and scratches aside. If you happen to climb into the driver’s seat by accident one day, don’t worry about it. Relax. There’s usually gum in the center console. Ideally I’ll be standing nearby, laughing.

Gregory Mone lives in West Tisbury.