Wading through Junkyards
On April 9, I celebrated my quarter century birthday wading through junkyards. Alan and I set off in the morning in search of fuel tanks. We walked into the office trailer of the first yard of the day and met a junkyard hand behind the desk. He sat on a stool, his grey t-shirt not quite covering his big belly that hung over his belt, his sparse beard left a shadow on his cheeks and neck. We asked about fuel tanks for the bus. He lifted his eyes from his computer just long enough to tell us that they probably don’t have what we’re looking for, and we’d have to wait until the boss got back for permission to walk through the yard. Alan and I looked at each other and exchanged perplexed looks before making our way toward the door.
As we turned away the man said, “You can try the yard up the road. They got some bigger vehicles that might have what you’re looking for.”
Two sets of inquisitive eyes followed us up the driveway. I sent them a smile, called out a greeting, and told them why we had come. The slender man with a long gray beard hanging over his black t-shirt asked what the tanks were for. Alan told the story we had told countless times before about our vegetable oil-powered bus that could use some extra fuel capacity.
“No kiddin’,” said the bearded man. After a pause, he directed us toward some large fuel tanks in the back of the boneyard.
We walked down rows of rusting decrepit cars, some stacked into piles, like a hasty mass burial.
“This is not a junkyard, this is a graveyard,” Alan said.
We found the tanks right where the bearded man said they would be, but they were too rusted to use. We took the opportunity to explore.
We next headed toward the town center, finding another junkyard not far down the road. Just inside the gate two men in black t-shirts with blow torches and sledge hammers ripped apart old radiators to scrap the copper fittings. Once again, we told our story, asked about tanks, and wound up sitting and talking about biofuels and the politics of big oil for the better part of a half hour. The two men sipped on Bud Lights as they worked.
“Friday, drinkin’ day. Hey, an’ we recycle too,” one man joked, tossing an empty can on the growing pile.
After joking, rapping about politics and life for a bit with Charlie and Son’s, Alan and I walked into the labyrinth of scrapped cars and trucks. Strapped beneath a broken down tractor-trailer were two tanks that looked like they’d work. We clamored around under the chassis spraying degreaser on the rusted bolts to let it sit over-night.
Once home, I climbed underneath the bus to drain the oil pan. As black oil poured onto my hands, 
I heard my uncle mention something about a cake. My mind had been so caught in the tasks that needed to be done before our journey west, I had forgotten it was my birthday. The birthdays that once seemed so important were just distant memories. Now, I feel only a moment older with a new number for which people pay too much attention. But, tradition can sometimes be wonderful.
Mary’s eyes lit up, a big smile across her face. My sister looked around the room at each person unable to speak, but her unreserved emotions were written clearly across her face. On this occasion, she expressed amusement and the excitement at the flicker of candle flames and the crowd singing in unison. At some point over eighteen years, Mary figured out how to blow out the candles without spitting all over the cake. As she blew out the last candle, she immediately smiled and clapped as everyone joined in the applause.
My parents handed me a gift and a card. They never listen when I ask them not to buy me gifts. My father shrugged off the comment as if to say, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course we are giving you something for your birthday.’ I opened the card to find $150. I thanked them.
“You have a long trip ahead of you,” said my mother.
Aside from the fact that they provide me with so much already, there is another reason I ask my parents not to buy me gifts: I abhor the notion of buying gifts because society says we need to spend money to say I love you. I have my guitar, plenty of vintage thrift store clothes from “Salvation Armani,” my laptop and a stack of books that still need to be read. I don’t need anymore material possessions. They handed me a wrapped present. Once again, they must have thought I was being disingenuously polite, and once again they bought me a gift I won’t use.
“Bronson Arroyo? You got me a Bronson Arroyo CD?” I said in disbelief.
The sweaters I won’t wear, the grooming kit with the fancy toe-nail clippers and nose trimmers that I won’t use, and the gifts that might be useful someday but are totally unnecessary only bothered me a little. But, this was just silly. Bronson Arroyo is a pitcher who happens to resemble me. While I was getting my hair braided on the beach in East Africa, Bronson Arroyo was winning his first
World Series with the Red Sox, 
pitching with his blonde hair braided in cornrows. Upon my return home, I couldn’t braid my hair without getting called Bronson twenty times a day. It was frustrating and sort of a joke amongst my friends and family. But why my father bought me the CD of played out cover songs from some dude who happens to look like me boggles my mind.
After cake and ice cream, I went to the gym, the few moments of my day when I can stop thinking. Sometime afterward, my birthday came to an end while Alan worked on the bus into the early morning.
“You will be thirty before you know it,” my father cautions me, testing to see if I will settle down and get a “real job” soon. “You’re sister is 26 and a doctor. Your brother is 23 and will have his masters in six months.”
If someone asked me five years ago where I would be on my twenty-fifth birthday, I would never have guessed I would be foraging in junkyards for parts to my vegetable oil powered bus. I couldn’t have predicted the string of events and influences that brought me here, but right now, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.
“Law school will still be there in a few years. This is what I need to do now.” I told my father, who seemed reassured by my response.