Scrap yards - a place where cars smell like lawn mowers and an old refrigerator is a decent commodity, a place where most of the patrons are men of all ages but only a select-income level, a place where the regulars to whom this is a job, know the routine, and the new-comers are constantly looking around, reading signs and asking questions, a place where the insistent beeping, the scrapping of metal and the sound of straining motors running, blend in well with the odorous scent that is part exhaust, part sweat and has a touch of garbage topped off by a hint of cigarette smoke, a place women shouldn't go. A place where a good pair of dark sunglasses can save you from having to make eye-contact with anyone and thus avoid the realization of the place you've unsuspectingly entered.
I drive up just before noon and proceed right on up to the entry, thinking, piece-of-cake I'll be out of here in 10 minutes tops and on my way to the more important things awaiting a hard-working, no relaxation needed, several jobs at a time holding, college-instructor turned design whore whose finally taking some time off. However, the guard at the gate informs me that this is the lunch part of the day when the scrappers go away and the recyclers go to lunch. I'm sorry - did he say Lunch. Having not had a "lunch-break" in years and frankly loathing the idea of breaking for a meal, I plead with him, "sir, can you just unload this junk and I'll be on my way". He responds, "ma'am, its lunch time come back in 30 minutes." Well since I'm in a location not on any maps of town I've ever used, I decide rather than wait it out in a very itchy local, I'll head home - check some emails and then come back. A short drive home and a saddening lack of email later, I realize that it is indeed summer vacation and for once time is on my side, and I head back to scrap metal heaven or hell depending on who you ask and mentally make afternoon plans to pick up two new swimsuits, one for boarding and one for swimming workouts ala Mark Phelps.
As I near the place, I come face to face with my biggest fear, bigger than my fear of snakes, cockroaches and serial killers combined, a very very long, exhaust-filled line of disenchanted scrap metal savants. I think to myself "you have to be kidding - who the hell waits in lines to recycle scrap metal." Well as it turns out I do. So I get in line and wait. Had I known I'd spend the next three hours going from this long but fairly quickly moving line, to the dead-end line, to the get out of your car and hope the man behind you isn't a convict line, I'd have bailed then, but like I said I was a scrap metal virgin and the line seemed doable - like all those lines at amusements parks that only suck when you realize you stood in line for 2 hours to ride a 45-second ride that upset your sinus cavities and has you feeling like you're going to either puke or pass out.
Line number one moved at a decent clip, still a stop-and-go, but nothing too painful especially since I was operating under the misconception this was the only line. I move through ok and make it to the scale where I get my "haul" weighed and the guy directs me to some junk pile “straight back” in scrap-metal hell. I was wondering at what point the junk fairies were going to come and unload my scrap. The weigher bursts my delusional bubble with a quick - "we don't unload ma'am - you have to do that yourself." I flabbergastidly exclaimed, "sir I can't possibly lift this stuff on my own." He gave me a twice-over, exhaled loudly and said he'd send someone my way. I put the truck in gear and moved ahead and quickly realized I had no idea where to go or what to do. There was a giant pile of scrap ahead which the man in front of me was backing into to unload his haul and off to the right, a "semi" was trying to squeeze in between two large piles to have its bed lifted clean. While I was caught up watching one man direct traffic as the semi's back end was briefly lifted up by a giant forklift, a truck bypassed me and took my scrap spot. I was a little peeved about this, but I now knew the answer about whether two trucks could unload at once or whether I was supposed to wait my turn. The traffic-director deep in the belly of heap hell told me to "go ahead and back her on in." I tried and there was no space, another semi kept angrily waving at me and the speedy scrapper who took my place was flagging me down from the rear. On the verge of panic, I rolled down the window to see what he wanted. Speedy scrapper said he'd overheard the scrap weigher saying some lady needed help unhauling, he offered to help me - no fee needed - cause I was a lady. While at first he made me a little nervous, he was indeed the savior of my dreadful day. He helped me back my load up to the pile, unloaded it and even retained the profitable recyclable pieces, which could earn me close to $100.
This speedy scrapper saved my rear as my initial mission was to not only unload the junk but the get money for it - something I had long forgotten. Seems that navigating scrap metal yards is not in the curriculum taught at girl-camp and thus this was my first and hopefully only rodeo. Had I come home empty handed I'm sure I would have been lectured to on some level for not doing it right and thus the saying goes, "if you want something done.... " my point exactly. Anyway, speedy scrapper helped me unload, save the valuable goods, get out of the scrapyard, and tells me what to do with the valuable goods. As I proceed to the exit gate I ask tubby scrapper, who appears to run the front gate, for more instruction on the valuable goods. He tells me much to my disappointment that I need to get in the aluminum line, which can easily be spotted by its lack of movement and its patrons who are all hanging out of the doors or windows gasping for air with the blank-stare associated with total misery on their faces. I hit the panic button, I'm not good in lines and tend to get panicky in situations where there is no immediate exit. So I called the husband - gave him a run down and asked what to do, offering up the fact that I could come back tomorrow. He points out that I'm already there and asks what else do I have to do today. Seeing the point he can clearly make from clean-across town behind a desk in a well air-conditioned office where the risk of cancer surely is not imminent, I think maybe he's right and head to the back of line number two. Line number two just so happens to be located between line number 1 and a big fence with no possible exit once you enter. UGH!!!
I pull into place thinking this will be good for me, I can learn to sit still, be patient and not panic - it'll be like therapy. This non-panicky theraputic mindset lasted about two minutes up until I decided that praying the rosary would be an excellent use of my time for various reasons. About three decades later I notice that the two trucks in front of me must know each other because everytime we stopped - they get out and chat it up like good ole boys at a construction site. Must be nice to have friends in hell. In the first truck is a father-son duo, of which the father continuously picked and scratched his rear end with no regard to the fact that others could see him. I found this both disturbing and entertaining. While I'm waiting in line number two and watching the man in front of me scratch away, I noticed tubby scrapper making a round through the lines checking on things. He saw me, gave me a grin and a "so I see you decide to wait it out." Seeing an opportune moment of clarity awaiting me I asked him what do I do once I recycle my valuables. He then tells me about line number 3 which I was previously unaware of - a line so long they had a sheriff doing traffic detail. YIKES!!! So I keep waiting and burning through rosary beads, sweating profusely as I refused to roll the windows all the way down as a safety precaution, low and behold it’s my turn at the recycle area. They take out what little valuables I have, put them on a scale and make me stand by it so they could take my photo for security reasons. I'm thinking Great now there is documented, identifiable proof that I've spent the greater part of an afternoon at this fine establishment.
Finally I get my yellow tag, hop in the truck and drive round to line number three where the coveted cashier's office is. Que the heavenly rays of sun and the angelic choir - I'm almost done. Until I realize this last line is one in which you have to physically stand shoulder to shoulder with your fellow scrappers. I park, slowly descend out of the truck and proceed with caution making sure to lower my secretive sun shades that allow me to survey my surroundings without anyone sensing my apprehension. The line wasn't too long, as I was about 8th from the front. I stood there as more and more people piled in the line, one young white man wearing a shirt with a rebel flag on it. I thought this might be a bit concerning to the other line-standers but alas no one seemed to care as we were all nearing the end of what can only be referred to as an ordeal and cash was at hand - literally. I stood there looking around constantly aware of my surroundings thinking I have two degrees, am gainfully employed at a university and I'm standing in line with men who are discussing gunshot wounds. Turns out the young boy in front of me, roughly 18, had been shot numerous times in his backside and seems to be ok. A guy a little further back had a buddy that got shot "all up in the chest back in 78" and survived. Come to find out the young boy's father who is very very old knew a lady that got shot in the head and survived. What a tale.
The moral of my story besides the sarcastic humor derived from such an event is that you can learn a lot by standing in line at the scrap yard. You can learn that it gets less scary the longer you stay. You can learn that the workers are actually nice and helpful. You can learn that they sell praulines at the cashier window. You can learn that your life is incredibly easy and virtually pain-free. You can learn the value of your education and upbringing. You can learn the degree of pain and suffering in the lives of those around you - those you refused to make eye-contact with - those who for them this is their only source of income. You can also learn that we don't need to go to third world countries to save the world, we can start right here in our scrap yards. If I ever find myself back at the scrap yard standing behind the very very old man and his young son I will try one of those praulines they seem to love so much that they sacrifice two of their hard earned dollars to enjoy and pass on my scrap yard capitol in a small effort to help them in their daily fight to simply survive. My scrap yard hell is their scrap yard heaven where everyone knows them and chats with them and where they can sell the stuff they work hard collecting, five sometimes six days a week, in their attempt to make a honest living. Afterall, one man's trash is another's treasure.
