The Junk Yard Broker

Relieved to have found a fuel stop, I steered my car into the gas station's rugged drive, and assumed a parking spot on the unlined pavement. This was the first station in miles, and I had just traveled from the Gulf with my mother, putting us at the cusp of the Southern Texas Plains. It was early afternoon, and there was still a ways to go before we made it to Central Texas— my collegiate home. Michelle (mom) hopped out for a quick smoke.

I was left to reflect on my week. I had just spent Thanksgiving break in Dallas, only to be catapulted into a long road trip weekend for a baby shower hosted by soon-to-be parents: my twin brother & beloved sister-in-law. I was ready to be home and in bed watching whatever stress-free tv show Netflix would try to throw my way. Final exam week was approaching fast, and I needed rest. The driving I had done so far had me appreciating the Texas landscape that differed from home's never ending shopping centers on i35. Had this been a solo trip, I might have pulled over to photograph the landscape's current state of reclaiming; barns and businesses stood long abandoned, vulnerable, and engrossed in the growing vegetation.

I grew a little sad, considering I had my camera with me. As a full-time college student, when do I ever have time to road trip in my home state? Muchless photograph on the road?

Just like that, as if the universe heard me, I looked up to see an old GMC truck pull into the rigid lot. The driver invented their own parking space at the face of the lot's muddy exit. Standing before our vehicles, loomed a store front sign on a dusty, metal pole which creaked with each gentle gust of mid-afternoon autumn air. The truck's bed was rusted beyond belief, and hanging on to its life by what I can only term as 'zip-tie status.' This truck seemed close to death, and beyond it. How it held itself together and ran was astonishing. And yet, there it sat, resilient in the parking lot, displaying all of its character to myself as its only onlooker.

Could this be my one photo opportunity?

Certain my only hurdle was a mother rounding up children in the parking lot, I retrieved my Canon 6D Mark ii from the back seat, locked my car, and navigated towards the passenger door of the rusted GMC. At its wheel, an older gentleman sat waiting with the truck windows slightly pitched.

I breezed over, giving my best effort to be seen by the driver as to not startle him. When I reached the passenger side window, the driver exhibited a rather distrustful look, as perhaps anyone should when being approached by a stranger in a parking lot. Wielding a camera rather than say a holy book or baked goods for a cause, I took no offense at how uncanny my approach was.

Speaking over the glass, I made my inquiry.

He took a moment, registering my request, before replying with, "Well, Sure. Do you want me in the truck or outside of it?"

"Whatever you are comfortable with. If you do not want to be in it, you do not have to be." Truly, I hadn't even thought about photographing the truck to feature the gentleman within it, but I liked the prospect. I am a portrait photographer after all.

"I do not mind being photographed," he said, followed by a muttered, "I think."

This was more than the photo opportunity I had planned for. I wrapped my arm within my camera strap to create a kind of confine and met my right hand with the camera's handle.

My camera was now apart of me, as I was now apart of it. A usual ritual.

On the way to support the base of my camera, my free left hand flipped the power switch. As I prepared to fire, I realized too late and certainly upon habit, that my lens cap had yet to be removed. I was caught. Embarrassed, I quickly popped the cap from my 50mm f/1.2 lens and slid it into the back, left pocket of my worn American Eagle jeans.

Ready.

Aim.

Click.

As if summoned by the moment, he began to tell his story. A truck with so much character had a storyteller of an owner, and the moment was all too good.

I quickly interrupted him to request if I could record his story.

"I want to remember this," I told him. He enthusiastically agreed, and waited for me to pull out my phone to record.

He began again with his story, and so too did an afternoon with 77 year-old Junk Yard Broker, Wendel.

25 years ago, Wendel built his GMC truck out of junk.

Through the years, the GMC has seen 7 motors, “over a million miles,” and roughly 20,000 cars towed “on record.” Wendel made sure to emphasize 'on record'.

“I’m a junk yard broker," he said. "I buy heavy equipment, cars, and dispose of all of the cars, maybe sometimes on location. But if you look at the bed, you can see how I’ve dumped them off. The dips are in it, all the way down to the ribs. That is the tell-tale sign that it has done its job. I’ve run out of gas, I’ve driven it with my acetylene torches down in the carburetor and run down the street with acetylene-- which is dangerous. You can’t go fast and its a waste of time, but yes - I’ve been through 3 transformations, 7 motors, and the same rear end. It’s a badass.”

Now at the driver’s side of the truck for this on-the-fly interview, I caught sight of Michelle approaching from the station’s corner store. She sparked-up a cigarette from a brand new box of Misty Light 100s as she walked. In a matter of seconds, she was in between our vehicles, careful not to interrupt. Small clouds of smoke dissipated behind her.

Her eyes were legible. What the hell are you doing missy?

Soon after, a woman sporting a rockabilly-esque hairstyle approached the vehicle, crossed Michelle’s path, and tossed a plastic bag through the passenger door, straight into Wendel’s lap. As Wendel fished out a can of chewing tobacco and salsa for his breakfast tacos, he turned to her and began shouting over the women's exchange of hellos.

“Honey!” He shouted. “I told her a story about this truck, and she is going to photograph you! I asked her when you get in.”

I had a good laugh, as Wendel’s demeanor at the beginning of our encounter had shifted greatly from distrustful stranger to storyteller of a modern epic. Unfortunately, with how spontaneous things ended up being, we never got around to photographing Wendel’s girlfriend.

Because, he invited us to his museum.

"I've got a museum of cars. You and your mom can come visit, if she will allow it. You can take photos for your portfolio and leave any time you'd like."

He quickly turned and yelled through the passenger window:

"CAN Y'ALL COME OVER FOR 20 to 30? SHE WANTS TO COME OVER AND LOOK AT THE MUSEUM."

I laughed. We did just that.

He privileged us with a tour of the site. There were impressive lines of vehicles that stretched for what seemed like miles. All different makes and models. A few Model Ts. '22s and '24s. He showed us a motorcycle he was building by himself in a makeshift garage inside of a tree house.

Before we had left the station, the last thing Wendel had said on recording was that his house had recently burned down.

"Its only about $200,000 in damage with no insurance. I'm living in my camper right now. Little old camper. Airstream 3500. I just put a chrome wheel on it today," he said half-optimistically.

Aside from the heavy burns, broken glass, and lack of walls or insulation- the fact that the home was still standing was a good sign of Wendel's handiwork.

We talked some of photography, which self-prompted the quest to find a telephoto film lens in the house. He instructed me not to follow as some of the flooring was dangerous to traverse. A short while later, after some clashes here, and thuds of debris moved there, Wendel emerged with a large camera lens. The glass retained a stain from the smoke on its corner, and parts of the metal had warped from the heat of the house fire. He handed it to me for inspection, and together we marveled in silence at its transformation. I think we had both pondered if it would still work, and what photos could come from it if it did. I handed it back carefully, and then he abruptly chucked the lens into the front yard.

Thud.

It took its resting place in front of his Cocoa-cola lawn chairs and prized, wooden donkey.

The following photographs are of his house that had burned as well as precious items that had been recovered. Notable to me was his collection of presumed Hot Wheel cars that while scorched, retained their shape. Through his openness and hospitality, not only was I able to see neat cars from a time I had never known, but I was able to see the resilience and character built within this 77 year-old veteran and Junk Yard Broker.