Stories in the Junk Yard

In the small town of Malvern, Arkansas, USA is a junkyard, called Walter’s Wrecking Yard. Walter Battle is the owner and his motto is, “Other’s folks misfortune is my gain.”

One crisp October morning, Keith Smith headed down to the junkyard. Now he was a pastor of the local church and didn’t normally spend much time in the junkyard, however this day there was something that he needed for his car and he figured the cheapest place to get it was the junkyard.

While driving his car the previous week, he had hit a pothole in the road and lost one of his front hubcaps. He had gone to buy a new one, but the new ones were so expensive and therefore he decided to go to the junkyard and have a look.
He wheeled into the parking lot in a cloud of dust, parked his car, and proceeded into the small office in the concrete-block building.

Walter and his friend Ray were sitting around the gas stove, drinking a cup of hot herbal tea and listening to some nice classical music.

“Hello Keith,” he said, “What can I do for you today?”
“Well, Walter,” he replied, “I’m looking for a hubcap for my car.”
“You lost it, huh?” Walter mumbled.
“Yes, the second one on the same vehicle.”
“Was it a pothole?”
“Yes, I didn’t see it until the last minute and then it was too late to avoid it”
“It happens every time to people.”
“Do you have a spare?” asked Keith.
“I believe you will find one of them tacked up out there on the back fence,” Walter pointed out the back door as he took another sip of his tea.

Keith stepped out the door into the yard. It was about a two-acre lot, wall-to-wall with damaged cars, surrounded by a two-metre board fence. Along the back perimeter of the fence, hanging corner to corner, were hubcaps. Hundreds. Thousands of hubcaps. Every make and model you could think of.

He strolled along the fence, scanning the array of gleaming chrome discs until he spotted a hubcap that matched the ones on his car. He took them off the nail and walked back to the office.

Just before he walked in the door, out came Walter, “Did you find any?”
“Yes.” He held up the hubcap. “This should do the trick. What do I owe you?”
“How about five dollars?”

“Sold!” said Keith, as he searched for the money in his pocket. He took out a five dollar bill and handed it to him. “Thanks, Walter.”

“No problem, Preacher.” He smiled and stuffed the money in his shirt pocket. “Any time you need another one, you just come back here, ok?”
Just then a horn honked. A tow truck pulled up outside the fence.
“Excuse me a minute,” said Walter. He made his way to the gate in the fence and swung it open. The tow truck pulled forward through the opening into the yard.

“Where do you want this?” the driver hollered.
“Put it over there!” Walter pointed. “Next to the blue Camaro!”
The driver followed instructions and expertly deposited the car, a late-model green Pontiac, in the desired spot.

“Fine! Fine!” shouted Walter, making an okay sign with his hand.
After unhooking the car, the driver walked over with a clipboard and handed it to Walter.
“You need to sign this,” he said, “It’s for the insurance company.”
“Right,” said Walter, as he scribbled his name. “You have a good day now. Be careful.”
The driver climbed into the cab of the tow truck, waved and was gone.
It was then that Keith began to notice the twisted, green Pontiac. “Boy,” he commented. “Somebody really totalled that one.”

“That somebody was Lucas Ivy,” said Walter. “He crashed into a tree while coming home drunk from the bar down at Donaldson.”
“Really?” Keith asked in surprise.
Walter nodded.
“I bet he got real hurt from that accident,”

“I’m sure he did,” replied Walter. “They’ve got him down at the funeral home right now.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, graveyard dead.”
“That was an awful high price to pay for one careless moment.”

“Yes, it was.
Unfortunately he should have known better. The police had stopped him and charged him five times for driving while drunk. He even had his license removed for a while. Finally his habit killed him.”
There was a long silence before Keith spoke again. ‘There’s not much left of his car.”

“Keith, if these cars could only talk, the stories they’d tell… Look over there.” He pointed across the yard to a mangled black Dodge. “See that Dodge? Jackie Crawford was driving back from North Hampton on the interstate highway and fell asleep at the wheel. They buried her the Christmas before last. She was only 26 years old and left behind a husband and two small children.”

Keith shook his head.
“And look over there.” He pointed to what was left of a blue VW. “Some guy from California ended his life in that car. He went to pass someone on Highway 9 and hit a huge truck head-on. It killed him instantly. And there. The silver Firebird. Bobby Joe wrapped that one around a telephone pole not more than a kilometre south of here. He was drag racing with Gravitt’s boy, Bill.”

Suddenly Walter’s expression changed. He seemed as he was holding back tears, unable to speak. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose. “But here’s the worst of all.”

He directed Keith over to the back corner of the yard. Walter stood with both hands on the door, peering through the shattered window of a crushed blue Chevy Nova. He hung his head.

“This here is my boy’s car,” he said slowly. “One rainy night six years ago he was headed home when he went into a skid and off the Ouachita River Bridge. He was knocked unconscious and never got out of the car.”

Keith stood silent. Speechless.
Big tears rolled down Walter’s cheeks now as all the memories welled up in him like a flood.
“Martin was a senior at the high school. A good boy. I have never gotten over it. I’ve never been able to scrap this car, even though the engine is good and it has a lot of salvageable parts.”

“I’m sorry,” Keith said quickly.
He took a deep breath and signed. “No use me getting all teary-eyed. It won’t bring him back,”
He stood resolutely and brushed back a tear. “Keith, if folks could only realize the dangers out there on the highway at every curve. It only takes one careless moment to destroy a life. People’s words and actions can never be undone once they’re done. When you’re operating a machine, like a car, you have to constantly be on guard. Am I right?”

“Right,” agreed Keith.
“Yes, each one of these cars has a story behind it. Most of them are real-life tragedies.” He shook his head and walked back toward the office. Keith followed.

“Listen, Keith,” he said as he turned. “I don’t know what’s got into me. I’ve got to run down to the parts store and pick up a carburetor. Then I got to run over to Gil’s shop before noon. You look around or whatever.”
“Yeah, thanks,” responded Keith. “And, Walter, thanks again for this.” He held up the hubcap.
He smiled, turned, walked through the office, and was gone.

Keith walked over to the green Pontiac the tow truck had just brought in and peered through the broken window. On the passenger’s side, on the floor was a carton of cigarettes, a few crumpled cans of beer and a loose piece of paper. He reached down and picked it up. It was a note from Lucas’ wife. “Luke, I’ve gone to pick up Rachel from the babysitter. I’ll have supper waiting. Don’t be late. Love Erma.”

“What a shame,” he thought, tossing the paper back into the car.
He walked into the office. Ray was still sitting by the stove. He glanced up.
“Did Walter show you Martin’s car?” he asked.

Keith nodded.
“Did he tell you the whole story?” He took another sip of his tea.
“What do you mean?” asked Keith.
“About the argument he and Martin had the night before he was killed,” said Ray.
“No,” Keith said with a puzzled look on his face.

“Well you see, Martin and Walter had a terrible argument over some little thing. It was fierce, really fierce. In fact, he slapped Martin and told him to get out of his sight.”
“Are you serious?” Keith asked in surprise.

Ray nodded. ‘Then Martin died that very night in the wreck. It was terrible. Walter nearly went out of his mind. He loved that boy. It tore his heart knowing that the last word he said to him was an angry word and the last touch he had of his son was a slap. And do you know what the argument was over?”

“No, what?”
“A fuse. A lousy fuse!”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” said Ray as he continued. “They argued over a fuse. Martin was supposed to go up to the auto supply store and pick up a fuse for Dr. Jones’ Volvo. It was an odd size, 1 suppose. Well, Martin had forgot and the doctor came by to get his car and it wasn’t done. Walter got angry and said that Martin was irresponsible. Martin talked back, and that’s when Walter hit the boy. Anyhow that’s how Ed Tunks tells it because he was there.”

‘That’s really sad,” is all Keith could say.
“Walter told me he would give anything if he could take back those final words or live that afternoon over again.”
“Ray,” Keith said thoughtfully. “Now I know what Walter meant when he was talking to me out in the yard. He told me that people’s words and actions can never be undone once they’re done.”

“Yes, I guess that should teach us something, don’t you think?”
“Like the Bible said, Ray, ‘So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.’ [Psalm 90:12] Life is short. Any of us could be taken at any time. We must live each day, each moment, as if it were our last. Guard the things we say. And guard the way we drive. It’s only in a careless moment that we say or do things that can never be undone.”

Ray was solemn, but nodded in agreement.
“Well, I should be going,” said Keith. He waved and headed out the door.
Ray stood and walked to the open doorway. “Preacher,” he called out, “you drive careful now, hear? I don’t want to see your car in this junkyard!”
‘Thanks, Ray, I will.”