The Junk Yard

The neighborhood where I grew up looks so different today then it did when I was little. You see, when I was little my parents and my grandparents lived in an area that was considered the industrial area of town. One could hear trains coming down the tracks or the jake break from a semi truck groan and complain as it ascends to a factory near by. Today, the area has been improved but most of the factory buildings are no longer running and I only hear a train once a month chugging it’s diesel bootie down the track.

Factories lined the river valley and polluted the waters. Business such as a sawmill, machine shop, fiberglass factory and the railroad. The biggest contributor to the ill health of the river was a junk yard down the street. Piles of smashed of old cars were piled one on top of each other. Oil and other fluids baked together in the summer sun to make it’s own form of paved roads. Cracked glass glistened in the sunlight. The smell of rotting cotton car seat material lofted from the insides of the crushed cars that were piled high on top of each other. Pollution, debris from the factories was my playground as well as fields of green.

Growing up in this environment was normal. This is what my reality was. Poverty looks different in different cities but in our small town, we lived in the wrong side of the tracks. I wasn’t one to make many friends out of embarrassment of home life. Our house after all was a black tar paper structure with nothing finished on the inside. Matter of fact, the walls were rough cement and the rough wooden floors Would leave slivers in naked feet. Only those I really trusted were brought inside the meager abode. Poverty was normal and not normal.

I have four main friends who I trust with all my might. Each one of them accepted me and my living conditions without a flinch. The memory I am about to share happened when I was about fourteen or fifteen. By this age we were already partying fools. In another story I had written, I called us, “street rats” and it has stuck. Anyways, I could score just about anything I wanted to enjoy because I knew many people who were willing to “help” me out. So, the four of us had many good and bad memories as a result.

This Summer morning the phone began to ring. Becky could stay the night which meant we could party the night away. She and I rode bikes everywhere we went. Once plans like this were made we had a fourteen mile bike ride just to get to each other’s house. We always met in the middle then move on with our day. As Becky and I rested from our rides, plans were made and Becky and I flew into action to execute the goal. We gathered wood for a fire and hauled it back to my house. Step one done. Step two, score some beer and get some snacks. Step three, erect the tents for people to crash. Those were the plans.

Obviously, we were not old enough to drive so off on our bikes Becky and I went. Finding a buyer was not hard at all. We went directly to her brothers for help. One did agree but he couldn’t deliver until dark. One must be careful when doing illegal deeds ya know. Happy with the arrangement, we handed over our money and headed home with our bikes.

The tents were erected and the wood broken into smaller burning pieces. Snacks were placed on the table as the sun set over the bay. The sun would be setting late for the summer days rules were at hand. As the skies darkened our excitement grew and friends would be arriving soon. We were ready for the nights events except for one thing, the beer.

The meeting place was behind the main building of the junk yard. This spot was easy to hide things because of its location. No cars passed behind it so no one would see a package of beer sitting in the shadows. There was a street light near the bridge that spands the Bear River. The light illuminated the area just enough to see the drop to occur. All we had to do was wait.

Becky and I sat and waited out in the midst of the rusty cars for our package to be delivered by her brother. The roar of a motorcycle came down the hill, cross the bridge, and pulled into the back lot of the junk yard. The tires crunched in the gravel and stopped. We watched the him unload the brown bag with the beer and placed it on the ground. A moment later, he was back on his bike and off he went.

In the junk yard, there was path trampled enough to be navigated If one practice care. One must remember all the places where you had to step over something in the path. There was an old drive shaft that laid over the trail and some old car parts big enough to trip on were embedded in the ground. Becky and I made it down the path, to the building and grabbed our treasure. With a smile we headed toward the junk yard to go home.

About 30 yards into our trip, red and blue lights began to flash and headed toward the junk yard. When we saw it coming towards us, we knew we had to run. We had to sprint to the trail or get caught. With headlights from the police car blinding us, we booked it to safety of the junk yard trail. I had never ran so fast nor jumped so high over that drive shaft As I had done that night. After fifty yards, we were past the point where we couldn’t be followed. Yes, we escaped!

Exhausted, from effort and weight of the beer in my our arms, I began to waver and sure enough, I fell face first into the oil and glass laden pathway. The fall happened so quickly that Becky could not avoid a collision. Becky‘s falling weight smooshed the beer onto me. I heard, “Crunch, Spurr” and the coldness of the beer sprayed me in my face. If the officer could see us from a distance he would have laughed to watch the beer spraying all over me. Uncontrollable laugher began and my bladder let loose. What can I say, it happens. We sat laughing uncontrollably for many minutes.

Becky and I laid there assessing our damage. Amazingly enough, the ground was so saturated with the oil that the sharp edges were not a danger. The surface was hard as concrete yet sticky like the baked on oil on an old cookie sheet. Disgusting but I was so thankful that I didn’t get glass embedded into my skin. Two damaged cans of beer was consumed on the spot. We sat there hidden in the tall grass sipping away at the two beers. As we calmed down and gathered our wits we were able to reaccount what had happened. We celebrated our escape and each sip was our reward for our escape.

The trip down the old abandoned railroad track was filled with two giddy girls cackling in happiness. As we approached the house, I could see that our guests were arriving. I went up to my house to change my clothes and Becky went to the fire pit and began to tell the tale of the junk yard escape. Laughter rang through out the night whenever she and I looked at each other or when another person showed up and the tale was told once again. Once again, the shenanigans of Sheila was successfully delivered and we had a wonderful night with friends.

My home life was not the best of circumstances but the memories of the activities such as these is a part of the happiness of our home. Yes, mom knew what was happening and often said she would rather us there being safe. I guess that was the wisest way to handle the mischief I was up to. I am thankful for her understanding that shenanigans like this would happen. I am glad she provided a safe place for the “Street Rats” to be together making special moments such as these. Thank you mom.