RUDIMENTS, pt. 240
Making Cars
I learned to juggle valuations.
That sounds like a trendy thing
to do, now, but back in 1963,
it wasn't done - especially, I
guess I should say, in the bowels
of a boy's seminary. Catholic
doctrine proclaimed things to
be one way, and that's that. No
deviation. It soon became
apparent to me that they were
wrong; very wrong, in their
dead-reckoning by stars that
no longer existed. Like starlight,
all those ancient and tribal
meanings and lines of thought
were still in thrall to light that
was far off and old, and had
originated many, many, years
before. It probably reached us
a little bit off-course, and, for
sure, out of breath and out of
meaning. If time bends things,
as it surely does, than the merits
of each unknowing moment
which came to us was being
misinterpreted and misunderstand.
And passed on to us, in that
erroneous state, as doctrine, and
belief and reality. Those are the
things I saw and noticed, and the
ones that really irked. I hated error.
-
This became most apparent to me
one night - as part of the seminary
crew of whatever - cleaner-uppers,
gatherers, scavengers - we'd ended up
with a truckload (1952 Chevy pick-up
truck, driven by some black-guy,
round-faced priest) of scrap metal
and debris. It was determined that
the next evening we'd be taking this
truckload of scrap into Camden, to
a scrap yard, salvage-yard, for
weighing, dispersal, and payment.
That was cool; I'd never before
known that they even did that
stuff. So, there was the driver,
myself, and three other kids, and
this truckload of junk. I forget the
exact arrangements, but myself and
two others ended up riding in the
open truck bed with all this junk.
We were supposed to find a way to
be sure nothing rolled out, or got
blown around, and, it was hoped,
we'd find a way to somehow sit
or make ourselves otherwise
comfortable. I remember it being
dark out quickly, maybe a November,
or a late February. It was chilly
but not terribly cold. Nor am I
sure exactly how far off Camden
was, 25 miles maybe : I knew
nothing of it, what roads existed,
nor how long it took.
-
We made our way to Camden as
darkness entered in. It got dark
quick, I recall, and the lights of that
small city were already on, everywhere.
It was quite a site; an exposure in
fact, for me - still a young kid, in
a large-by-comparison city. I was
taken. We my have talked a bit
among ourselves, but I can't
recall. Our route took us actually
'around' Camden more than right
into it. All the scrap heaps and
junkyards - and there were many -
were on the outlying areas. The
place we were headed, I'd been
told, was an old scrap dealer with
whom they'd dealt for years, Max
Weiskopf, [or Weissman, I forget;
nor do I really know the spelling],
Scrap Metal. He was a short,
brusque, cigar-chomping,
no-nonsense guy. He took the
order slip or weigh-station thing,
whatever it was, looked the load
over, grunted, looked over the
truck, and us, said 'get out'
and had the truck driven off
about 100 feet or so over to
some sort of scale. I think they
weighed it laden, and then
un-laden, after being emptied.
I don't know what metal it was,
iron scrap steel, or blends or
aluminum, or any of that.
We didn't have to handle
anything - there were people
there for all that. We boys
just stood around, looking
things over, sort of reveling
in our free time, unleashed
and untethered, to take in
the sights and sounds of
something else, anything
else. I myself was watching
very carefully, and noting.
-
In the seminary a certain
whiteness prevailed. Students
there were white. Not much was
ever said at all about race; we
never had to face that off, in
those race-years, '62-'66. The
driver of our truck on this trip
was black, an oddity in itself.
(I remember this priest fellow,
as black only because I used
to get fascinated, as he spoke,
by the think pinkness of his
tongue. It was quite noticeable).
The workers in these junkyards
were all black. In fact, I realized,
driving out, Camden itself was
a huge, black enclave. As we
slowly passed, in and out,
along the deeply jutted and
rough dirt rads and lanes which
led to these junkyard areas, there
were rambling old houses, down
on their luck but inhabited still,
as well as shacks, sheds, and
other marginal domiciles, along
with dogs, wrecked cars, debris,
old furniture, and piles of junk.
On each of the houses that had
a porch (most all of the large
ones did), there were people.
They were just hanging around,
hanging out, as if Summer was
neigh and they were standing
or slouching around waiting for
ice cream. The truck slowly plodded
through, with us, maybe a little
uncertain and nervous, in the back
in the half-light of lamps and
porches and occasional streetlights.
The people simply stared, endlessly
staring; gaping at us. It was, except
for the lack of any 'real' heat, like
driving through some part of the
wilds of Alabama. I realized, in
a flicker, and by design, a strange
and secret relationship between
things that I'd not realized before.
Unspoken codes, secret meanings.
Our driver was black. All these
people were black. (Of course,
we boys were all white). Was our
driver chosen because he was
black, to deal with these workers,
and locations, more easily? Was
this Weisskoff guy one of those
literal, old-world, Jewish guys
relegated only to this dark
underworld of junk, scrap-heaps,
ghetto areas, and black people?
Anyway, all those ideas jumped
out at me that night. Unspoken
codes, secret meanings.
I had a lot to learn.
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