Rich In The Junk

It was a wasteland of filth and scum with intermittent bouts of rusty metal and oily puddles; and it was cold and damp such that no fire would warm bones or skin. The place caused a subconscious drive to avoid avoid avoid, at all costs, even politeness.  But between the bars and grime, overlooking the weeds and heaps he stood, proud as a new father caressing his grimy baby with a love few will ever know. He couldn’t understand why it bothered others to the point of disgust; it was all matter, in different forms, in different places, different patterns. If they could just stand it for five minutes they might see a way through the maze. He wondered why was it noble to have the soil in your hands as a farmer or love the iconic shots of construction workers grasping tool and material but low, the junkyard and me are seen as scummy. 

He wore overalls with grease all over them. He had grease under every fingernail. He smoked. He coughed. He wore a greasy ball cap over greasy hair under a flaky scalp. He chewed tobacco when he didn’t smoke and his teeth had turned an ingratiating orange.  Like owners who come to resemble their pets, he came to resemble a junkyard, disparaged parts to some and inexpensive saviors to others. 

And he was smart. He made a fortune. For he had the ability to see different things; he had the ability and/or willingness to see the patterns in junk, to see the money in junk, to see the ability to house the junk and sell the junk and move the junk, make space for the junk. So, turn your back he thought, look away, raise your nose, don’t get your hands dirty, I can always wash my hands and when they are clean, I can get them dirty again handling all my junk money.