Destined, it seemed, to never let the sound of failure irritate his ears, the unnamed searcher in oily coveralls turned down around his waist to expose his and grubby V-neck undershirt rummages the heaps of once new, though now discarded steel and rust. The lenses in his bone-rimmed glasses from decades-past reflected a shimmering glare from a midday sun. “What year son?”
“‘49”
He pulled at his chin then continued his hunt, pausing from time to time to rediscover odd accouterments or trim pieces in the dirt or complete cars buried under other cars. He stood on the rear bumper of an old Lincoln from the ‘30s and looked far off into the rear of the property using his hand as a visor to shield the sun. The Lincoln’s petrified suspension creaked and eased slowly downward with his weight. He digressed, pulled his coveralls up and over his shoulders and zipped the front closed showing a scarcely visible ‘Ed’ embroidered over the left breast pocket.
“I had ’a ’50 or ’ah ’51 couple years back… could ‘a sworn it anyways. What exactly did ‘ja need from it anyhow?”
“A driver’s side door if it’s any good – maybe a front seat if it’s not too bad.”
He squatted low on the hood of another car of unknown make. He looked through the stacks of sedans and pickups piled three to five high in one-time symmetrical rows.
“Shewt, you’be lucky if it’ll have the paint on it the way things rust ‘round here.”
“Yes sir, I figured as much but ya gotta start somewhere right?”
He didn’t answer. He stopped, peered at the ground for a few moments then picked up a broken antenna he found near a pile of debris. He leaned his shoulder against the front end of an antique fire truck and lifted one of his boots to his knee. Using the broken antenna he scraped some mud from the bottom of his boot sole and cursed the clay dirt.
“It’s like having a flywheel attached to yer leg sometimes… I musta’ walked this yard a thousand times this spring. Folks been comin’ up from downstate looking for parts for their Hondas and SUVs and such and I haven't got much of them newer ones... Hell, I still don’t know what S.U.V. event stands for.”
He turned and smiled, the yellow-brown tint of his glasses hid the squints in his eyes.
“Do you smoke?”
“Not so much.”
“Just as well I guess…”
He leaned his back against the side of a school bus from the ‘40s and shook a long brown cigarillo from a paper pack. He lit and inhaled and exhaled appreciatively, spitting on the ground with the first taste.
“…I started working out here as a teenager in ’48 or ’49. My Pa bought the land and started collecting folk’s broken tractors and farm implements – started sellin’ the parts real cheap then got himself into automobiles and from there the place just sorta got outta hand! This used to be corn fields you know?”
He gestured to the yard with his smoldering cigarillo.
“Long time back there was a big aluminum coach bus around here someplace, not quite like this one...”
He banged on the school bus’ fender.
“...Me and my kid brother made this big-to-do fort inside that old thing… it was one of them fleet liner buses that folks’d take across country and such. I think it had a busted transmission or some such thing… Carl and I’d play in that thing for hours and when Pa started callin out for us we’d climb up on the roof and yell back at him from way across the yard… seemed like you could see for miles standing on top of that old coach… Kind of a silly lecture on nostalgia but it just sorta popped up.”
Age could be seen on the gentleman’s tanned forearms and hands as well as the front of his neck, dry and wrinkled from hundreds and shaves. He picked up his shoulders and brought the cigarillo to his mouth again with his callused fingers. His nose wrinkled and loosened. He spat on the ground again.
“In ’50 me and Carl gotta hitch with Uncle Sam that landed our two asses one-way tickets to Korea. ‘Course Carl got attached to the Army’s 24th early on and I was linked up with the 8th all the way in Pusan… They got him at Osan in July of that year. My folks and I got letters about him being taken for POW in Taejon but after all the dust settled it turned out not to be the case. I had some difficulties with that for some time afterwards – even when I got back stateside.”
The man’s head lowered and he stared intently at a rut he had scribed in the oily ground with his boot heel.
“Carl was big guy! …Much bigger than me. He had real blue eyes from our Ma and was… well, he was the best kid brother a fella could ask for. I think about him every time I walk way back in here… the smell of the clay and the rust and oaks all remind me of Carl and that old bus fort I mentioned. Ever happen to you son?”
“Yes sir, sometimes.”
“It does come on strong at times... Well, I don’t mean to bore ya son with my recollections. What year was that coupe?”
“’49”
“That’s right…”
Walking down a pathway flanked by bend and twisted automobiles the gentleman turned once again to the young man.
“What’da certain smells and places remind you of son?”
“Oh, my older brother Edward... You ready?”
“Yes sir... I do believe I am.”
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