Author’s Note: One final story courtesy of Detroit History Tours. Back to behind the paywall tomorrow. If you’d like to keep receiving daily fiction, please upgrade. The archive is massive. It’s like adding a library to your home for only a couple bucks a month.
***
The truck lugnut was gleaming, looked brand new. Kyle Hesch started to step over it. The reverse beep of a forklift distracted him, he hesitated.
Big, crudely painted signs and one pro sign screamed Pick at Your Own Risk.
Kyle stepped on the lugnut , it kind of dug into his instep.
He had gotten lost coming to Hank’s U- Pick-Em Parts. Felt like he lived in these yards, searching for a side mirror for his 77 Cutlass.
Meant to change into his work boots, was wandering the yard in his Chucks.
They made replacement kits for the mirrors, but he really wanted the car to be all original.
He had second guessed himself before.
Guy from the GearGrinders said he swore he saw a demolished 77 at Hank’s.
Kyle got a late start, got lost.
A woman with a small black softsided tool bag wandered between a Fiero and a…what was that thing? An almost entirely stripped Maverick?
Kyle looked at her, looked away. Looked back.
Super pretty.
Wandering.
“You lost?” Kyle asked.
The woman turned and her face donated some of the pretty to annoyed.
“No, actually, I’m not.”
Kyle grimaced.
“Sorry. I got lost coming here.Must have been projecting.”
The woman gave the tiniest nod. More you’re not worth my time than you’re forgiven.
She took a wiper blade off the Fiero.
Kyle smiled.
“That’s hardcore. You still have a Fiero?”
The woman looked up.
“What? No…ohh…yeah, it’s a Fiero. No. Mind your own business.”
Kyle felt the palpitation of a guy who could try to apologize but would just dig deeper and say something dumb. His truce flag was walking away.
He wandered silently, hot, thirsty, left about 56 ounces of some blue slushy thing in the car.
Was gonna quit when he saw the passenger side front headlights and split grill of a 77 Cutlass. It was factory Buckskin. He needed a deep red Firethorn, but if the sideview was intact he could paint it.
Kyle ran forward as though the car was a lost pet.
The corner he first spied was amazing.
It went down from there.
Not downhill.
Straight off the cliff.
The passenger side, which he didn’t need, was cracked and hung from a very dry wire.
The driver’s side was gone, almost all of it, mirror included.
Kyle patted the car like one would comfort a mangy stray they’re never bringing home.
He walked away, dejected.
It was about the journey, the hunt, sure, but he was so, so close to having a contest ready 77.
They weren’t beloved models, but it was his, it was…a quest.
He walked with his head down until he saw small feet ahead.
Tan ankles. No socks.
The woman who already hated him.
She was holding an old metal filter housing, before GM switched to plastic, looked like a fender cap to a 70’sToyota and some hoses.
“You must be used parts shopping for the whole neighborhood.”
The woman’s shoulder’s spasmed and she turned.
The annoyed face was pointed directly at Kyle.
“I make art. Multimedia, reclaimed stuff. Shadow art sculpture. Doesn’t matter the make or model. I know what it is when I see it.”
Kyle said “oh” like he still didn’t understand.
Filter housing might be a Camaro’s. Those were still collectable cars.
“But, like…you’re taking something someone might need to get a car running. Like, super important to them.”
The woman smiled as though it was the only way to keep her anger from redlining.
“I don’t take. I pay for them like anyone else.”
“But some dude might need a–”
“I make art,” the woman repeated, “Multimedia, reclaimed stuff,” almost matching the tone and cadence of the first time she said it. “Shadow art sculpture.”
She reached in the back pocket of her jeans and whipped out a business card.
“There are links to photos of the work.”
Her face softened and she looked like the woman Kyle saw before he opened his mouth.
Kyle said thanks and locked his eyes on her.
When he opened his mouth to say something she reached in her bag and pulled out a small pry bar. Then she turned and put her head under the hood of a Skylark.
Kyle walked away, looking at the card.
Julie Depinnia.
He stopped.
The late afternoon sun cast his shadow onto the Skylark.
He tried to think of something witty or sweet to say.
Julie looked up, prybar in hand.
She smiled.
“Look at the pictures. Don’t call the number.”
***
My favorite thing to do.
Three dollars. Spend a few hours. Always looking. Sometimes getting ideas.
Cheaper than a coffee and more enjoyable.
Occasionally leaving with upgrades my vehicles did not have from the factory.
Not a common sight to find a woman there, but when you do, they are not looking for a boyfriend.
Generally, the only interaction is if someone needs a tool or a quick hand. Else, it's pretty quiet.
We had people running from all over when three of us tried to start an engine (they said it was OK at the gate).
Never pictured you as one who darkened a boneyard.
Very well written. I felt I was was there.
I never thought of that. The junk someone uses for art could be so sone else’s’ Dead SeaScrolls