i drove my companion of 21 years to the graveyard this afternoon, and left her there to be picked apart by carrion. i thought it would be a painless process, because the day started with me walking around the corner to find that she had been towed. you can’t leave a car on berkeley streets for over 72 hours without moving it, and i had not noticed that it got tagged. there was a fair amount of sweet, sweet pain involved with having to ride my bike over to the police station, pay them to release the vehicle, then back on the bike to head over hustead’s tow to pay THEM to release the vehicle. the golf wasn’t at THAT lot, of course, so i lifted my bike onto the back of one of their haulers and caught a ride to a dusty wrecking yard.
as i pulled the identifying papers, ATM slips, insurance documents and such out of the car, i found a memo from wardrobe on the indian runner, and on the flipside my dad had blocked out a scene from the second unit work we had done together. i was in a hurry so i wonder if other artifacts are there to be found by scrapheap archaeologists.
a manager at the pick n pull junkyard where i spent an hour and a half would not let me take pictures, and it probably would have caused static with the other patrons. also junking their cars were some serious thugs with questionable paperwork and a pair of guys whispering in the corner with a career’s worth of tracks running down their arms and spilling out into active spots on their hands. i have spent a fair amount of time in pick-a-parts with my dad over the years, but i had never experienced the waiting area for people bringing cars in. there was a indian family that looked moderately well to do, and a father who was finally unloading his daughter’s beater after years of hearing how she would one day restore it. a guy from louisiana who was seriously overweight sat in the heat and shot the shit, complaining that the dating scene in the bay area sucks. compared to what i’m not sure, but i assured him i agreed. i didn’t ask him how much action he got when he worked in a meat packing plant pushing racked carcasses around. they were nice people and we had plenty of time to talk as we waited. the presence of the bangers and junkies and a large group of flies circling in the slightly cooler air under the overhang created a desperate and slightly dangerous vibe.
when the wait was over i drove the car around to the gate and got out, left her running. they pasted bar codes on the quarter panels and marked up the windows with grease pencils, then a guy hopped in and started revving the engine. i returned to the waiting area and watched as he floored it and veered around the yard. considering the hassle i had gone through with the towing, i anticipated being unsentimental. as the golf passed out of view for the last time, i teared up.