Fall of Nations

Maldonado's Wrecking Yard

The Bronx, New York

Summer, 1980 

What can I do for you, sonny? Domenic Maldonado looked up from a desk piled  high with receipts, phone messages, and Chilton auto repair manuals. He was wearing a greasy pair of farmer's overalls, and clutched an unlit cigar stub in his mouth. He needed a shave, as he always did, and he stank of grease. A filthy German Shepherd was curled up under his desk; only its grease-caked feet protruded.

I'd like a job, sir. Anything will do, as long as it's around cars. I love cars.

How old are you?

Twelve. Almost thirteen. I know it's not legal, but I'll work cheap and I won't tell anybody you're paying me. I'll tell 'em.....

Never mind. Nobody comes around here anyway. I need a kid to clean up around the office. You can start tomorrow, but you gotta do a good job. You screw my place up, and I'll sic old Killer here on you, and he'll have you  for lunch.

The boy just stared, petrified. Maldonado stared back, expressionless. Their eyes remained locked until Maldonado thought it had gone long on enough.

Just kidding, sonny. I ain't very good at making  jokes. Now run along and come back tomorrow. Wear some old clothes. It's dirty around here.

Thanks a lot! the boy blurted out, and ran for the door. He couldn't wait to tell his mother that he had gotten a job.

Hey kid! Maldonado called out.  You got a name? The boy spun around; the look of ecstasy on his face was astonishing. Domenic had never seen anybody so happy in his life.

Yes, sir. It's Connor. Cory Connor.

Maldonado's Auto Wrecking was on Baychester Avenue in the Bronx. Cory could either walk to his new job or catch a bus, which he did every day after school was dismissed.  He did any odd job Dom could come up with all summer long, and when school started in the fall he continued to work afternoon and weekends. He learned how to take phone orders, and how to make out the order forms for the dismantling crew. Soon, Dom had him doing basic book keeping as well.

You're a smart kid, you know? Dom told him one day just before his fourteenth birthday. You oughta start thinking about what you're gonna do with yourself down the road.

Maybe I'll open a junk yard, Cory said. Or a gas station. Anything, really, as long as it's got something to do with cars.

Stay outta the junk yard business, Dom said. You got more on the ball than that.  Look at me, for Pete's sake. I mean,  I do all right moneywise, but you wanna  be like me when you're sixty? You could do a whole lot better if you try.

What do you think I should do, then, Dom?

Maldonado jerked a finger over his shoulder. A calendar hung on the wall behind him; its star feature wasn't the usual half naked girl, it was Monarch Motors' top of the line Northern Star.

See that calendar? A man name of Barclay Wells owns that company. They build cars up in Tarrytown. Get a job with that company. I guarantee you'll make it big with them.

Cory looked at the name on the calendar. He had heard of it, a small company that made expensive cars for rich people.

But they're small, he said. Wouldn't I be better off at one of the Big 3?"

Listen to me! Dom bellowed. A meaty fist crashed down on his desk. Forget about  the Big 3! My yard is full of their junk,  most of  it not even ten years old. You said you love cars, didn't you? When's the last time you filled an order for junk parts off a Monarch?

Never, I guess. I don't remember doing any.

"That's right, and you know why? Because we ain't got no Monarchs out back. Ain't never had one since I been here, and  never will have. If you want to be in the car business, that's the place to be. Ain't no man ever lived turned out a better piece of machinery on this Earth. Don't screw around with Big 3 junk; it's for suckers to buy, poor people to drive, and junk yard dogs to sleep under.  Go where the real cars are. Go with the best."

Is this Mr. Wells hard to work for? Cory asked.

You say you love cars? Dom smirked. "Well, Barclay Wells is cars. He'll either make your life, or end it for you. You remember that when you sign up with Monarch. You either make it there, or you don't make it all in this industry."

That sounds hard, Cory said.

"You want it to be easy?" Dom scoffed. Then  go do oil changes for GM. Don't you dare set foot in that Monarch plant unless you're willing to give everything you'll ever have for the end results, like Wells himself does. But you believe me, boy, when you do, you'll know you been in the car business.

When Cory turned fifteen, Dom called him into his private office.

I'm throwing you outta here, he said. I got a nephew who needs a job, and I'm giving  him yours.

Cory was dumbfounded. To think that after three years.....he never got to finish the thought. Dom started to smile.

I'm putting  you on the dismantling crew a year early,  he said. Time you got your hands dirty. Besides,  you get a belly full of how them  Detroit bums slap their iron together and you'll never want to go to work for them, I guarantee.

Cory was ecstatic. He was finally going to do real work, on real cars. What fun it would be. 

You dirty rotten filthy piece of scrap iron! Cory was stripped to the waist, pouring sweat from every pore of his sun-scorched body. He picked up a tire and wheel  and heaved it through the already broken windshield of an early 50's Ford sedan with a maniacal scream.

The object of his rage was the Ford's near perfect front bumper, which he had spent the last two hours trying to remove, by hand, in the blazing July sun.

Temper temper, a voice said from behind him. A pile of grease and dirt which housed a human being was walking up behind him. He, it, pulled a welder's cart.

It was Cal Greer, master of the torch. No dirtier human lived; he could probably have soaked in kerosene for a week and still come out filthy. He pointed at the stubborn bumper, an unlit cigar clenched in his blackened hand.

How long you been at this? Cal said, a vicious twinkle in his eye.

Two hours. Where were you?

Busy. Now step aside and behold a genius at work.

Cal  lit the acetylene torch, lit his cigar with the flame, and crawled under the car. Two minutes later, the recalcitrant bumper was lying on the ground.

Teach me the art of the torch! Cory was on his knees, bowing up and down with outstretched arms. Oh Great One, impart your wisdom to this poor wretch!

Cal just shook his head. Not today, he said. You gotta be sixteen. Until  then, it's the breaker bar zombie crew for you. Go buy some Liquid Wrench. With that he walked away, dragging the magic that was his torch set with him. Cory shook his fist in the air.

White man's trick! he yelled.

Cory turned sixteen that fall, and he learned how to use the torch. It was added to his mechanical virtuosity, an endless bag of tricks that enabled him to reduce a complete automobile to a pile of parts in a few hours. His education was almost complete.

I want you up in the front office, Dom said one day. In sales. Jerry retired and nobody else in  here has your brains. I'm  sure you had enough of pulling cars apart by now.

I guess I have at that, Cory said. I'd like to try something different.  Maldonado looked at him curiously.

You been thinking about what I told you before? He pointed at the new Monarch calendar he always had on his wall. Cory nodded.

I have, he said. I graduate next year, and I plan to try for a job there.

You'll get it, Dom said. I'll make sure of it. I'll call Barclay Wells myself if need be, but you'll get that job, mark my words.

Staying on at Maldonado's had never been an option; both of them knew it. Even though he loved the gruff old junk man like a father, he knew he couldn't stay.

Thanks, he said. I won't let you down. Dom waved him off.

I know, kid, I know. Just come see an old junk man once in a while, okay?

The next year was a blur. Cory graduated and finished the summer at Maldonado's, giving Dom time to find a replacement. In the meantime, he sold the used cars out front, including a  Chrysler 300C to  a curious German fellow who wanted a job at Monarch, too. When the time came, Dom threw a going away party and handed Cory an envelope.

What's this? Cory asked.

Your future, Dom replied. If you still want one.

Cory opened the envelope; inside was a business card attached to a piece of stationery. Both  bore the name of Barclay Wells. It said, simply, On recommendation of D. Maldonado, hire this man. It was signed with one of the most famous scrawls in the industry, and was intended for Cory to present to the Monarch personnel director.

Cory was speechless. He managed a thanks but could say no more. Finally, it was here. The page had turned on his life, and the current chapter was gone forever. He was on his way.

Monarch Motors Personnel Department

October, 1985

––––––––

Clarence Jackson was the Personnel Department representative Cory saw when he went to Monarch Motors to apply for his job. A brilliant young man of 28, Jackson had battled his way through poverty and the streets and gangs of Harlem to emerge with a Bachelor's Degree in Personnel Management from the City College of New York. With only four years' seniority, Jackson was already being touted as the natural replacement for the soon-to-be-retired Director of Personnel. He was on his way out of his office at a run  when Cory came in.

Have a seat, Clarence  panted as he sprinted by. Be right back.

The personnel office was a madhouse;  Jackson's assistants were yelling back and forth  and tossing files onto each others' desks while they tried to keep up to the never-ending ringing phones. Cory took one of the chairs lined up opposite Jackson's desk. Five minutes later, Jackson ran back in with a huge pile of folders in his arms.

If you're too busy, I could come back later, Cory said sympathetically.

Nah, that's all right, Clarence grinned. It doesn't get any calmer than this. He unloaded the armful of files onto a table and sat down. He lit a cigarette and appraised his latest applicant with a squinty grin. Got your stuff with you?

Yes, Cory said. I brought what they said to bring. He waited while Jackson stared at him, smoke curling from his lips.

It ain't gonna fly over to me by itself, Jackson drawled.

Oh, yeah. Sorry. Cory handed the folder to Jackson, who picked up a standard job application form. He liked to fill them out himself so that they were legible; half the people who wanted to work at Monarch couldn't even read, much less write.

Name; last name first, first name last, he said absentmindedly.

What?

"Your name, troop, Jackson said. Say it backwards."

Oh. Connor, Cory.

O'Connor? Did you say O'Connor? Jackson asked.

No, it's just plain Connor.

Crazy  white people, Jackson muttered under his breath.

Excuse me? Cory said.

Nothing, Jackson grinned. Just a little racial commentary, is all. Jackson took Cory's file and looked through the various documents. Suddenly his head snapped up.

Where'd you get this? He held up the note from Barclay Wells.

My boss at the junkyard got it for me. Mr. Maldonado. He knows Mr. Wells, I guess. Did I do something wrong?

"No, it's just that we don't get too many kids your age walking in here with personal recommendations from Barclay Wells, is all. You must be reeeeeal good at tearin' them old Chevies apart, Clarence smiled. He went back to the file, and after a minute looked up. No military, he  said. You forgot your Selective Service registration card. Gimme. I'll make a copy."

Cory looked at the outstretched hand with the wiggling fingers, while Jackson continued to look through the file. I don't have one, Cory said. I just turned eighteen. I didn’t register yet. The fingers on the outstretched hand suddenly stopped wiggling, and Jackson looked up.

Great, Jackson said, slamming the file down on his desk with a gesture of finality. Okay. We got a problem. Wells don't hire nobody without they been in the military. He don’t like investing all that money in an employee just to see him trot off to the Marines or something.  That only leaves us one alternative, because the old man wants you. He held up the note as proof.  And what the old man wants, he gets.

What's the alternative?

Clarence grinned and fired off a perfect military salute.

You're kidding, Cory said.

Nope. We have a friend in the Army Reserve;  he's the Commanding General. He used to inspect Jeeps for the Army, right here in this plant. He'll get you a slot if we ask him to.

Cory swallowed hard. "You want me to join the Army?" he asked incredulously.

Just the Reserves, Clarence said. You go to a regular Army base for sixteen weeks training, then you come home. After that you go to a weekend drill once a month. You get paid, too. You wanna do this?

Cory thought for a minute. Well, if that's what it takes......

Sure, he said. I'll do it.

Okay. I'll set you up with a local unit. I'll see if I can get you into the motor pool so you can stick to your trade. I'll call you when I get a date for your physical.

Cory thought about it all the way home. The Army, of all things.

The Armed Forces Entrance Examination Station was in White Plains. Here, a team of doctors from all branches of the service determined whether or not a prospective inductee was fit for Uncle Sam's meat grinder. It was joked that if you could stand up and breathe, you could pass the physical.

Cory joined fifty or so other young men who were in turn  poked and pulled at, asked to cough and provide a urine sample. Not both at once, moron! was heard to ring out more than once. Cory would then submit to a rather loose head to toe inspection.

When the physical was completed, everyone lined up in front of  a Navy Commander's desk for a final review of the results. The Commander gave them a cursory glance before stamping them.

Hmmmm, he murmured. This doesn't look good. Come with me, son. He ushered Cory over to the audiology station and spent  five minutes examining his ears. Okay, back to the desk, he said, looking through the rest of Cory's forms. You have quite a hearing loss on one side, the Commander said. Didn't you ever notice it?

Yes, sir, I did, Cory replied, but I guess I'm used to it. I didn't think the Army would care.

The men you would have to serve with would, he said. Especially if you had sentry duty in a combat zone and their lives depended on your hearing. Get the picture now?

I never thought of that, Cory said. What happens now? Does that mean they won't take me?

The Commander laughed. Only if the Russians are coming up the Hudson, he said. He put Cory's forms in a tray and motioned for the next boy to step up to the desk.

Now what, he thought on the way home, the Army doesn't even want me. Would Barclay Wells?

"What? You flunked what?" Clarence Jackson was amazed at what he had just heard. It couldn't be; they'd take anybody.

I flunked my physical. They don't want me, unless it's World War Three or something.

Jackson sat back in his swivel chair and appraised the pitiful human specimen before him. He shook his head in disgust.

I don't get it, he said. Perfectly good white boy, and they reject him. What happened, too many brothers join the Army this week?

Cory didn't know if Jackson was joking or not; it was a riddle which would take him years to solve.

Well, no, most of the guys there were white, actually.

Too stupid to go to college, Clarence quipped as he lit another cigarette. So what's your particular malfunction? You wear pink panties or something? You look healthy enough to me. If I was in charge of those physicals, you'd be humping an M-16 by the end of the week.

I have partial deafness in my right ear. That won't keep me out of here too, will it?

That? Heck no, that ain't nothing, Jackson drawled. Half the guys on the plant floor can't hear nothing either. Noise down there make you deaf anyway, so you got a head start. Just get used to looking dumb and saying 'what?' a lot, and you'll fit right in.

Cory laughed. You make it sound like torture. You ever work in the plant?

I did six months down there. Wells makes everybody do it. He even had a vice president mounting tires one time.

He sounds like a peach to work for, Cory said.

He isn't, Clarence said evenly. Most of the great men in this world aren't. Wells will  kick your behind  from one end of the place to the other just to see if you can take it. The ones who can are the ones who reap the rewards, so to speak.

What happens to the ones who can't take it?

Clarence shrugged. Not my problem. All I do is process them out of here.

That's encouraging, Cory said. I guess I can look forward to getting the third degree then, huh?

Yeah, Clarence grinned. It's a real torture chamber  down there. Hope you enjoy it. He reached for Cory's file, and assigned him a clock number.

You never worked at Maldonado's, Cory laughed. This place should be like Disneyland compared to that.

Yeah. Well, welcome aboard, Goofy. Clarence stamped the date on Cory's file; November 10, 1985. He was officially an auto worker.

Disneyland it wasn't; the assembly line floor resembled  a cross between a hospital operating room and Marine Corps basic training. Cory couldn't believe how orderly and clean it was, or how dreadfully noisy. Everywhere he looked he saw activity, always executed with that effortless motion exhibited by people who were experts at what they did. For him, it was a joy to behold; he would be working with competent people.

More joyous to behold were the cars that rolled off the line to be driven away by white gloved technicians. He had only seen Monarchs from a distance, and to stand next to a brand new one was a thrill he found hard to describe. The car he viewed as part of his training course was a Northern Star. It was absolutely breathtaking; now he knew what Dom had meant.

As an authority on junk, Cory realized that what he was looking at could never reduce itself to the condition of the rusted hulks he and Cal Greer had cut up for scrap weight. This kind of car would fight a neglectful owner, and it would win. It would fight the weather, and the bad roads, and the bad drivers, and the ravages of time, and it would win again.

I am Rechsteiner. You remember me? The voice came from Cory's right side, and jarred him out of his reverie. He turned and looked into the smiling face of the German to whom he had once sold a used car at Maldonado’s

Sure, I do! Cory exclaimed, pumping the offered hand. I  sold you that big Chrysler 300. So you got a job here after all, huh?

Yes. Quality Control.  You were right. Monarch is best make.