L.A. Affairs: Goodbye to the White Truck, and the American Guy Who Owned It
By Elaine Lipworth
“I’m just an American guy in a pickup truck,” Stephen Beech said on one of our early dates. It was Valentine’s Day 1993, and he was dropping me off at my Santa Monica apartment. Even then, he was trying to dissuade me. He explained he wasn’t looking for anything serious, and we were from different worlds: he a property manager from Philadelphia and me, a British journalist living in L.A. On top of that, while he wanted to remain single, I was actively searching for a partner and to start a family.
But I’d already realized that the tall, introspective man I was falling for had a lot more to him. He played classical guitar, was funny and philosophical. I’d met him at a master’s program in spiritual psychology at the University of Santa Monica. The fact that he drove a pickup truck just made him more appealing.
There was clearly an attraction on his part too. After all, there we were kissing in his blue truck outside my apartment. So, we kept dating and that blue truck took us everywhere: coffees and dinners, scenic drives along Pacific Coast Highway towards Malibu or, farther north to visit friends in Ojai. I learned more about his reluctance to get involved. Stephen and his first wife had lost their little girl to cancer. He was trying to recover and rebuild his life without the complications of a serious relationship.
However, something about our relationship had an undeniable momentum, and by October, I was pregnant. When our daughter, Chace, was born in August 1994, we drove home from the hospital in the blue truck. When we bought our Santa Monica house, Stephen used the truck to haul everything we owned. He used it to haul paving stones for the yard and plants from the garden center. By the time our second daughter, Ava-Rose, arrived four years later, the truck was still going strong.
Eventually, though, it started to break down. I arrived home from work one day just as Stephen was pulling up outside in a gleaming, brand-new, white Dodge pickup. Stephen didn’t get excited about much, but he was smiling broadly as he took me for a spin. Payments were $400 a month, a big chunk of his salary, but well worth it.
The truck quickly became an integral part of our lives. There were lively conversations in the front seats and back about school, friendships, and politics. There were also fights about music: should it be Radio Disney or the classical station, KUSC? Often, the consensus was “The Weight,” our favorite song by Stephen’s favorite band, the Band.
Most mornings, he’d take the girls to school — Ava invariably leaving the house in a panic, eating the bowl of oatmeal her dad had made her for breakfast on the road while finishing her homework. He took Ava to fencing competitions all over California. He took both girls to ballet, and he used the truck to cart equipment when he volunteered backstage for the Westside School of Ballet’s production of “The Nutcracker” every year. When our daughters were teenagers, he drove them and their friends to parties, happy to be the designated parent collecting everyone in the early hours and making sure they got home safely. He was always putting the truck to good use helping out friends and neighbors.
There were often surprise presents delivered in the truck. One birthday, it was a purple wisteria tree; one Valentine’s day, a vintage O’Keefe & Merritt stove. But my favourite memories of Stephen and his truck were more everyday, involving countless chance meetings around Santa Monica. I’d be walking our dogs, Puck and Chaucer, and Stephen would just happen to be driving along the same road. He’d slow down, left elbow resting on the open window, and stop for a quick chat: “What’s up?”
The truck was emblematic of the man. Trustworthy. Enduring. Reliable. Safe. Strong. Until it wasn’t.
On March 12, 2018, Stephen called from work to say he wasn’t feeling well. He was shuffling and unsteady on his feet. I suggested he go to the ER to get checked out.
That was the last time Stephen drove his truck. He was admitted to the hospital, had a brain scan and was diagnosed with a brain stem tumor. His health quickly declined. My Strong American Guy in a Pickup Truck could no longer drive. After three major surgeries in quick succession, he was in a wheelchair and couldn’t walk.
Stephen gave the truck keys to Chace, who’d moved back from New York to help care for her dad. (Ava was in her first year at college.) Chace drove us in the truck to oncology appointments until it became too difficult and Stephen needed to be picked up by private ambulance.
Over the next 3½ years, Stephen gradually lost his ability to talk, eat or breathe independently. But he remained courageous and optimistic. Like the sturdy white truck, Stephen’s spirit and will to live were strong.
Today, almost four years since Stephen lost his battle with brain cancer, it’s time to say goodbye to the truck. Chace has already spent thousands of dollars on repairs, so we’ve made the very difficult decision to donate the truck to charity.
Some of the deep grief I’ve experienced since Stephen was initially diagnosed with an incurable glioma seven years ago has subsided a little, but it’s back. I miss Stephen and I’m sad that I won’t see the truck when I go for my morning walk.
On a recent Sunday morning, I decided to hose it down and wash away the ingrained grime. I’m sure that wherever he is, Stephen is rolling his eyes, having a laugh at my careless use of the hose, as I ended up soaked. I’m equally sure there’s a wry smile as he watches me take the truck for a drive (my first) along our road, encouraged by Dave, our next-door neighbor. “You have to drive it once,” says Dave, and so I did.
I’ll miss the white truck: resilient, kind, and generous, just like the American guy who owned it. But it’s time to set off on my next adventure, knowing that Stephen’s spirit will always be beside me in the passenger seat.
The author is a senior writer at Thrive Global. Prior to Thrive, she wrote for U.K. and global newspapers, including the Guardian, the Times, the Telegraph and the Mail on Sunday. She also was a TV correspondent for the BBC and other U.K. networks.
