"Did you bring a hardhat?"

I spent this day laboring next door, carting large pieces of metal out to my old truck to haul away. The bent and battered pieces of the ancient kitchen cupboards went into the truck, as did the old refrigerator from downstairs. The old gas range and oven went as well. I struggled for some time with the other refrigerator—the Frigidaire brand with the tiny freezer up top—but only managed to get it outside the basement door. I flopped it over on its side and left it there. The thing is just too fucking heavy to get upright with one person—especially if that one person is me. At least no one will be tempted to invade the house with the old Frigidaire standing—or lying—sentry in front of the basement door. I may ask for help one day, or I may just cut the thing up into pieces and cart it off like that. On a whim, I opened the heavy door before moving it and looked inside. The interior had been cleaned some thirty years previously, the owners deciding to store it away properly. But inside one of the food-storage drawers was an odd find: A memento from the Baltimore Colts 1969 team. They’d had a luncheon of some kind, and the menu was there in a little booklet. The point of the whole exercise was to honor one of the Colts’ “Unsung Heros” from that year. The honorees from previous years were also mentioned, and I assume that the man honored on this occasion in May of 1969 was actually a team member. I don’t know who else he would be. Also in the little drawer was a booklet of recipes provided by the people at Frigidaire, and an original warranty card dated from 1941—the date the fridge was bought new. I saved these things before dragging the heavy coolerator outside.

With the truck loaded I was past due for a shower. The day was hot, hovering around ninety degrees, with a good dose of humidity to round things out. My labors hadn’t been exhausting, but had been dirty. Dirt is something I’ve resigned myself to in the renovation of the house—it’s part of the deal. So I was dirty and looking forward to ridding myself of the load of scrap metal. This meant a trip to the local scrapyard, a place I don’t get to visit all that often. As a result, any outing there is an occasion for much anticipation and maybe a little anxiety. The anxiety comes in part from wondering how exactly I’ll manage in the huge scrap-processing facility. Will I be directed to a place where newcomers go—neophytes to the world of scrap? Will they seat me in a dingy little room, with a snack machine that has few selections, and gives up the ones it does have reluctantly? I imagined myself seated there, maybe another new arrival to the world of scrap seated in one of the other well-worn and faded chairs. They would play a video on a grimy television, orienting us to this new and dangerous world. An announcer, a specialist in voiceover for industrial films, would say:
“Hardhats must be worn at all times in the scrap processing area. Always be alert to dangers around you.”
Then the old film would show an image of a hardhat or maybe some men standing around wearing the things.
“Always follow directions. If unsure, stop and ask someone what the correct procedure is. Above all: BE ALERT!”

I would turn to the other person in the room, ask in a nervous and friendly way:
“Did you bring a hardhat?”
“No one told me nuthin’ ‘bout no hardhat,” he’ll say.
“Yeah, me neither,” I’ll respond. And that will be about the extent of our bonding there in the little room with the video and the malfunctioning snack machine.

At the scrap yard, it turns out, they expect visitors to keep a sharp eye out, to pretty much take care of themselves. Given my experience, a video might not be such a bad idea.


The yard was closed when I arrived around four in the afternoon. The folks who run the enormous operation, taking in hulks of cars, old washing machines, stoves, pieces of engines and engines in their entirety and large, unwieldy colossi of rusted metal, call it a day at three o’clock precisely. They start their activities at nine in the morning. I found these business hours rather attractive, and thought it might be nice to go into the salvage business. So I arrived with my truck loaded high with its variety of scrap, metal destined soon to be bundled into large quantities weighing many tons and sent possibly to Asia or other parts of the world to be blasted into molten steel once again, formed into new products, maybe even a stove or refrigerator. Two men there directed me to the entrance, but told me that the place was closed. They’d run out of gas waiting in line for their turn to come up, but I gathered they’d had a chance to unload, judging by the empty late-model Ford pickup they were standing next to. The one man, smiling with few teeth to show, admired my load of scrap, saying that I had maybe a good seventy-five dollars to show for my efforts. He offered to take it for me, saying he would bring it around the next day. I told him that, since I’d already gone to the trouble of loading it up, I may as well see the few dollars the scrap people would give me for it. Besides, I wanted to get inside the place, see what it was like, take a look around. He understood completely, wished me well, and said that at least now I knew where the place was. For sheer convenience, I couldn’t really complain: The huge scrap-processing yard was only about four miles from my house.

So I drove the city streets west, back in the direction of my place. But I didn’t turn to go back home; instead, I drove the old truck to my brother’s to park for the next couple of days. I wouldn’t be able to return tomorrow--the day was already spoken for. I would be able to return maybe on Wednesday, maybe not. I had a psychological problem with returning home with this load of stuff. When I’d pulled out of the driveway earlier in the day—after the scrap yard had closed, but before I knew it—there was an air of finality to the act. This junk had left the place forever; returning with it meant that the junk had beaten me, had somehow won a contest that I couldn’t even begin to describe, didn’t even know existed. I would simply drive the junk someplace else, leave it there for a while, see how that worked out. My brother would be pleased no end.

Earlier in the day I’d stopped at the car repair shop to ask about my van. They had performed an inspection, had noted a few things wrong with it, quoted me around two hundred and fifty bucks to repair the things. I wanted to make sure what was included, wanted to ascertain that one other thing—that I’d added on and was not part of the inspection process—was included in the estimate. The shop’s owner assured me that it was all included. I said ok, and told him in an offhand way that if anyone needed a van that mine was for sale.
“I need a bigger truck,” I told him.
He immediately responded that the shop was getting ready to look over a van that a longtime customer had brought in. He had his doubts about this van, didn’t think it was going to check out ok.
“If we condemn this other van, I’ll have this guy give you call,” he said.
“Ok,” I said, and left my name and number and a few particulars about my white Ford van.

Later in the day, after I’d dropped off the truck at my brother’s, showered, and was getting ready to go eat, my phone rang. The man with the other van said the shop had condemned it, told him it was a junker—not worth buying. This man’s name was Marty and he wanted to see my van right away, wanted to know if I’d already brought it back into the shop to have the repairs done.
“No—but I can meet you there,” I told him. “I just need a ride home after leaving the van.”
“Ok, I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” he said.
“The van is dirty,” I replied. “I haven’t had a chance to clean it up yet.”
“That’s ok,” he said, “I just want to take a look.”
I met him at the shop, told him my price, said that I couldn’t really budge from it, and offered him the chance to take it for a ride. I already knew what he was prepared to pay for the junker van, so I felt confident that he would buy mine. It cost much less. Besides, it was a decent van and I felt it was a good price.

We drove down the road and back and he said he would like to buy it, would finalize the deal the next day. He said the van was for his wife—an artist.

”Oh? What kind of art?”
“She paints wine glasses, bottles, old window glass. You oughtta see some of her stuff.” I thought it sounded perfectly dreadful, had a terrible image in my mind of little flowers daubed onto these different objects. I decided to keep my thoughts to myself. No point in pissing off the man who was to buy my van.

Fine, I said. I made sure that he knew I would be in the DC area all day, working on a job, but that I would call him when I returned home. He gave me a ride back to my house, told me he was a very spiritual person, and turned up the music on his religious radio station to emphasize this point.
“Good deal,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”