“Yes!”
Cuchulainn cheered himself on at the wheel. Sugar's tail slapped against his leg, her head poked happily out the cab window, and the truck's mixing drum rotated behind them. This was their greatest adventure yet.
Cuchulainn's fondest boyhood memory was his first cement truck sighting. It was too incredible for his little eyes. It occupied space and time in a way his senses could not comprehend. It was a lumbering juggernaut compared to his tricycle, which bruised his ego, but he was in such awe that he accepted it. From then on, he would see these marvels and slip into reverie. They were great machines, yes, but also a symbol of the working class and their unknowable overlords. He asked his uncle for one, of course, and was gifted new toy cement trucks every year of his life. Now, he gleefully placed his favourite one on the dashboard. How surreal!
“We are dreamers, Sugar!” he said. “But some dreams manifest!”
The workmen must have noticed it was missing by now. Well, he had tried to be polite about it. He only wanted to learn! They were terribly rude and lazy and neglectful and this was really their fault. If he had a cement truck (and now he had one), he would not lose it. He knew its worth.
He rumbled through the streets and waved at his gawking neighbours. He was heading straight home to quickly make his uncle take a picture of him parked in the driveway. Then the real joyride would begin.
“You are a good girl, Sugar!” he said. “And a loyal friend. But you must tell me in earnest…”
He pulled her in from the wind.
“Do you think I threw that foreman too hard into the sewer?”