John talks about his Suburban all the time. We were walking downtown one day, talking about random stuff, when he started talking about his Suburban.

“When I have the third-row seats down, I have over 8 feet of room to store stuff,” he told me out of nowhere. He always tells me that he can put a twin-sized mattress in the bed of the Suburban and sleep in there, but he never does.

“I can have a twin-sized mattress in the bed of my truck too,” I said, but John says that I can’t have a twin-sized mattress on my truck bed because it's too short. “I can extend the bed a foot then,” I say.

“You can't extend the bed of your truck; it would just fall apart,” said John.

“No, it won’t,” I argued, “I'll put a perfect weld on there, and then it won’t go anywhere.” Then I added, “All of your welds are terrible.”

To which he replied, “I can weld better than you!”

I replied in a yell, “No, you can’t. You can’t even keep your hands still. All you do is shake your hands.” That's when he used his most common excuse: “I can’t help it; it's because of my autism.” 

“That's your excuse for everything,” I replied, knowing that it was true.

“Hey, it's not an excuse; it's a disability,” John said as we were nearing my truck.

As we turned the corner and saw my truck, John said, “Let's measure your truck bed to see if you  can fit a twin-sized mattress.”

So I grabbed my tape measure and measured the bed of my truck. The tape measure read six feet.

“I told you your truck bed needs longer; twin-sized mattresses are 7 feet long,” he said, thinking he won the argument. 

“Well, I can add another foot on the bed of the truck,” I said. 

“No, you can’t. That’s not safe, and it’s illegal,” John told me.

“That's not illegal. It’s just a suggestion,” I told him.

He replied, “Whatever; you can’t do that.”

I never said that I was actually going to do it, but that's when he asked me, “ You know what we should do for your truck?” I did not know what he was going to say, so I asked him what he thought I should do.

“We should add a moon roof on your topper.” Said John.

That’s not a bad idea, I thought, but I said he could try and do it to his suburban first, and then I would think about doing it to my topper. “I’ll have to weld it because you have shaky hands,” I told him.

To which he replied, “Yeah, yeah, I know I do. I was going to have you weld it for me anyway.” 

As we wrapped up our talk and were getting ready to leave, we drove away with the windows down and the radio to max volume, looking like a bunch of idiots jamming out to Morgan Wallen’s song “Last Night.” We drove downtown, we stopped at a gas station to fill the tank on our vehicles. We fueled the trucks, went home, and did it again the next day.