Junk Metal Trio

I carried a heavy box of items from a food pantry to a pickup truck.

“The white one,” said an older, long-haired man behind me pushing a rolling cart laden with grocery bags full of additional items.

I approached the truck. It was a rusted and dented Ford adorned with a faded logo and slogan for a flooring business. I checked the truck’s tags—expired years ago.

The bed of the truck was crammed with an assortment of junk metal contraptions, from barbecues to lawnmowers. The metal was piled several feet higher than the cab of the truck. Nothing was secured by bungee cords or rope. There was no tailgate.

I set down the box and looked inside the cab of the truck. Two older people, a man and a woman, were twisted together, apparently asleep, but with their eyes open.

That didn’t seem possible, but then again, there’s a lot of this going on in America these days if you bother looking.

It is impossible for me not to bother.

I looked at their faces. The woman’s was white and creased. The man’s brown and grooved.

Those faces will never leave me.

I picked up the box when the rolling cart man caught up to me.

There was no way the pantry items would fit inside the cab and that was before a driver took the wheel.

I was directed me to place the box in the bed of the pickup.

How could it fit in there?

We stashed the items inside the metal and then wrapped electrical cords and bent metal edges to secure the load.

I asked about the scrap metal, how much they might get from it. The man didn’t know. That was the sleeping man’s gig.

It was time for me to go.

“Thank you brother,” said the man.

“You are welcome,” I said.

I saw the man getting into the truck.

There was no way it was going to leave the parking lot.

I saw the truck leave.

The trio was still on the move, still trying in America.

I admire that. It’s called mettle.