Junkyard
My life is a junkyard.
I had to go to the junkyard the other day to look for a couple of shoulder harness mechanisms for the Honda Civic station wagon Sean just got. The only thing wrong with them is that the previous owner’s black lab had chewed through the shoulder harness webbing, and it looked like the best way to repair them was to replace the whole mechanism. I called the Honda dealer and they were about $180 apiece new. I called two junkyards and both said they’d sell them to me for $20 each if I pulled them out myself. Bill, the guy we got the car from, showed me how the devices fit in the car, and it looked simple enough.
I drove to McGhee’s on Raymond Road behind Kellogg’s. The building near the road seemed to be abandoned, and my knock on the door elicited no response. I looked around and saw a rutted dirt road leading down and behind the building, so I got back in the car and drove down to another building on the south end of the junkyard. I parked and went inside; there was a guy at the desk who was covered in dirt and grime, as was every surface, inside and outside the building.
“Help ya?” the guy said, somewhat aloof but friendly enough. I showed him the parts, and he seemed fairly certain they had them out there somewhere. “Grab yer tools,” he said. We got into a small car and he took off at breakneck speed through the junkyard, flying over giant ruts and potholes, through corridors of junk cars neatly sectioned off like city blocks, missing jagged protrusions of scrap metal by inches, whipping around corners, finally skidding to a halt a good half-mile from the building, pointing to a rust heap and said, “there’s your car.”
I hesitantly got out, wondering if he was going to abandon me there. I didn’t particularly relish the thought of having to hike back to my car carrying my heavy toolbox and whatever parts I could salvage. But I quickly realized that the car he showed me didn’t have the right part, so I got back in and we sped off in search of another one. As I surveyed the junkscape, I half expected to see squatters amid the rubble, like in those vast shantytowns on the outskirts of Mexico City, salvaging every scrap of anything that might possibly be fashioned into shelter, or sold.
The parts were not to be found, and the guy expressed his disappointment at letting a customer go empty-handed. He dropped me off at my car and was gone in a cloud of toxic dust. I drove to Whispering Oaks, just across Raymond Road on Bower Street, back in a neighborhood that appears to have no zoning ordinances in place. Some of the houses seem pretty well-kept, if modest, then you turn a corner and there’s another vast junkyard, complete with junkyard dog. “Anybody know whose dog that is?” I hear a raspy voice from inside the grimy corrugated building that seems to be the office. Then a woman’s voice, cackling bawdily at something someone on the other end of a phone is saying. She glances at me as I walk in but doesn’t acknowledge my presence for awhile.
It occurs to me that I don’t really belong in this world, any more than I belong in a room with nuclear physicists. Other people are coming and going, all seeming to know what they’re doing, while I stand there awkwardly; I couldn’t have felt more out of place if I’d been wearing a tutu. The office and everything in it, including the people, the walls and furniture, is coated with decades of grime. The woman finally gets off the phone, and I show her the part; she remembers my call, and pages the owner, who’s out in the yard somewhere. He gives her directions to the car that should contain the part; I walk out there, but the only Hondas I see are so dilapidated, it doesn’t seem possible that they could contain any useful parts. A small green Honda Civic is packed to the gills with hubcaps. Various other cars are similarly being used to store a lot of something that will have to be removed by anyone that intends to get inside to do any work.
I amble back to the office to ask if there are any other Hondas in the lot, and he seems surprised by my question. “No, they’re all right there. Should be easy enough to find.” I mention that none of those cars had the right part, and he sort of snapped “I’ve got over 2600 hundred cars out here and I can’t know about every seat belt.” “Whose dog is that?” he growls to no one in particular. I left.
I’ve decided I’ll try and stitch the danged seatbelt together.
My life is a junkyard.
I had to go to the junkyard the other day to look for a couple of shoulder harness mechanisms for the Honda Civic station wagon Sean just got. The only thing wrong with them is that the previous owner’s black lab had chewed through the shoulder harness webbing, and it looked like the best way to repair them was to replace the whole mechanism. I called the Honda dealer and they were about $180 apiece new. I called two junkyards and both said they’d sell them to me for $20 each if I pulled them out myself. Bill, the guy we got the car from, showed me how the devices fit in the car, and it looked simple enough.
I drove to McGhee’s on Raymond Road behind Kellogg’s. The building near the road seemed to be abandoned, and my knock on the door elicited no response. I looked around and saw a rutted dirt road leading down and behind the building, so I got back in the car and drove down to another building on the south end of the junkyard. I parked and went inside; there was a guy at the desk who was covered in dirt and grime, as was every surface, inside and outside the building.
“Help ya?” the guy said, somewhat aloof but friendly enough. I showed him the parts, and he seemed fairly certain they had them out there somewhere. “Grab yer tools,” he said. We got into a small car and he took off at breakneck speed through the junkyard, flying over giant ruts and potholes, through corridors of junk cars neatly sectioned off like city blocks, missing jagged protrusions of scrap metal by inches, whipping around corners, finally skidding to a halt a good half-mile from the building, pointing to a rust heap and said, “there’s your car.”
I hesitantly got out, wondering if he was going to abandon me there. I didn’t particularly relish the thought of having to hike back to my car carrying my heavy toolbox and whatever parts I could salvage. But I quickly realized that the car he showed me didn’t have the right part, so I got back in and we sped off in search of another one. As I surveyed the junkscape, I half expected to see squatters amid the rubble, like in those vast shantytowns on the outskirts of Mexico City, salvaging every scrap of anything that might possibly be fashioned into shelter, or sold.
The parts were not to be found, and the guy expressed his disappointment at letting a customer go empty-handed. He dropped me off at my car and was gone in a cloud of toxic dust. I drove to Whispering Oaks, just across Raymond Road on Bower Street, back in a neighborhood that appears to have no zoning ordinances in place. Some of the houses seem pretty well-kept, if modest, then you turn a corner and there’s another vast junkyard, complete with junkyard dog. “Anybody know whose dog that is?” I hear a raspy voice from inside the grimy corrugated building that seems to be the office. Then a woman’s voice, cackling bawdily at something someone on the other end of a phone is saying. She glances at me as I walk in but doesn’t acknowledge my presence for awhile.
It occurs to me that I don’t really belong in this world, any more than I belong in a room with nuclear physicists. Other people are coming and going, all seeming to know what they’re doing, while I stand there awkwardly; I couldn’t have felt more out of place if I’d been wearing a tutu. The office and everything in it, including the people, the walls and furniture, is coated with decades of grime. The woman finally gets off the phone, and I show her the part; she remembers my call, and pages the owner, who’s out in the yard somewhere. He gives her directions to the car that should contain the part; I walk out there, but the only Hondas I see are so dilapidated, it doesn’t seem possible that they could contain any useful parts. A small green Honda Civic is packed to the gills with hubcaps. Various other cars are similarly being used to store a lot of something that will have to be removed by anyone that intends to get inside to do any work.
I amble back to the office to ask if there are any other Hondas in the lot, and he seems surprised by my question. “No, they’re all right there. Should be easy enough to find.” I mention that none of those cars had the right part, and he sort of snapped “I’ve got over 2600 hundred cars out here and I can’t know about every seat belt.” “Whose dog is that?” he growls to no one in particular. I left.
I’ve decided I’ll try and stitch the danged seatbelt together.
posted by Ron at 1:50 AM
