For the record, we never thought a junkyard story would be so difficult to deliver. We didn’t think it would involve subterfuge, spy cameras, live bulls, watchtower guards, insufferably choking smells, and this continuous post-traumatic stress disorder. We thought it would be simpler—much simpler—but when all is said and done, we survived and what doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger. Well, either that or it infests our internals and kills us slowly, like those cancer-causing colored marsh-mallows in Lucky Charms.
Who Cares About the Rules Anyway?
Did you know that most junkyards don’t allow cameras inside? They especially don’t like those big heavy ones that journalists carry—you know, the ones with the mongo lenses for extreme close-ups on all the incriminating battery acid and oil seeping from the cars into the earth’s crust. We found that out when we got to our first pick-a-part. We also found out that our very sharp, very newly redesigned, and very influential (typically) Super Street business cards made matters worse. We were turned away before we could say, collectively: “Do you smell that?”
If it wasn’t for Moe (who, by the way, is our latest FNG), we would’ve been half-way to Jack in the Box, but he was on a mission. A mission to find a Datsun 510 coolant reserve bottle to jury-rig to his turbo Datsun truck’s homemade water injection system. And, since I did bring along my super-small spy cam, we thought we’d give it another go—on the undercover tip—through another entrance on the opposite side of the yard. So, we dropped the hefty two-bucks-per-person entrance fee and meandered in, attempting to blend in with our slum gear (Moe’s The Who’s Quadraphenia tour shirt told us more about him than we ever dared to ask).
But, even in our masterly disguises, we were overdressed for the occasion. It seemed like the only way to blend in was to grow an instant keg belly, throw on a wife beater, pull it over your newly bloated stomach, wedge it comfortably between that and your man-boobs, and develop a rocking side-to-side gait in place of normal walking strides. It didn’t take me long to realize why the pick-a-part or pull-a-part (These are self-service junkyards.—JT) occupies the lowest rung of the automotive step ladder.
Inside this particular pick-a-part, cars sat in rows, all stripped and dead-looking, nothing more than baking shells on concrete blocks. In the middle of all this we found a pen housing two giant bulls, a flock of roosters, and two overgrown rabbits. Right beside that sat a cruise missile. It’s fake. We think.
Apparently, the owners were going for more of a theme park junkyard. What exact theme they were going for is up in the air. In addition to the farm animals and prop-artillery, we saw two post-apocalyptic assault trucks and several other very random, very large, and very anti-civilization vehicles. Perched on two towers were sentinels, in Nazi war camp fashion, guarding against theft and worse—cameras.
Even with the spy cam, photography was tricky and involved a careful bit of the old distract-and-snap. Anyway, after poking around a few cars, we started to feel as if the name pick-a-part should be renamed pick-a-part-if-you-can-find-a-part-worth-picking. There are diamonds in every rough though, and we did unearth a clean hood from a Nissan 240Z, a set of VDO gauges from a Porsche 924, a factory turbochargers from a Dodge Charger, and a coveted Nissan Turbo valve cover to replace those Nissan OHO covers. Alas, FNG Moe didn’t come away with any useable coolant receptacles for his injection system.
Next up was Blue Motors, a Honda and Acura specialist. Unlike the pick-a-part, Blue Motors didn’t smell and there were no farm animals, sentinels, or threatening attack vehicles. It was remarkably clean as a matter of fact. Best of all, the Super Street business card held some clout. Andre, who owns Blue Motors, was kind (and fearless) enough to let us onto his property to poke around. Moe temporarily abandoned his quest for pre-’80 vehicle parts to help us spot several key finds: Civic Si seats in mint condition ($400 for a complete set), a center console with cup holder ($50), an LS block ($600), distributors ($50-$100), and ECUs ($125).
The other specialist yard we visited was Checkered Flag. Again, we flashed our business cards and smooth talked our way past the proprietor and into the yard. In terms of makes and models, Checkered Flag plays no favorites. Just behind the counter and indoor storeroom, we found a horde of powerplants, everything from Miata motors to Toyota 4A-GEs to Nissan SR20DEs. In the dustbowl of a yard, we found the shells from which the parts came from and some chassis prospects for our future race cars: a ’93 Prelude, a ’93 MR2, an S14 240SX, and an S13 240SX.
More Undercover Work
After exploring three junkyards, we felt that we had completed what we set out to do and a whole lot more. We had sneaked behind the defenses of a maximum security pick-a-part and made it out alive. But we still had one mission left to complete: Moe’s water injection device. We knew that the only places that had cars and parts as old as time itself were the pick-a-parts. So, we donned our undercover gear, grabbed the spy cam, and ventured back into the breach.
The second pick-a-part was pretty much like the first one, sans eclectic themes. The smell was familiar and wife beaters were just as prominent. Being experts of espionage at this point, we were in with no problems; within minutes, Moe stumbled upon a 510 wagon with the coolant reserve bottle intact. And for only five dollars (compare that to approximately $125 for similar equipment from a dealership). Yes, everything was going exactly as planned, that is until Moe stopped on our way out of the compound. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he said, as an unearthly white pale beset our faces. We knew what that meant…
Inside your run-of-the-mill pick-a-part, there’s only one place to go: the porta-potty, which is a euphemism more than a description; that potty goes nowhere, except on its side, and has been nowhere but there in the pick-a-part for the better part of a century. It has neither been cleaned nor sanitized. It is a death chamber and Moe was heading in. We stood some 30 feet away, squint-eyed and stone-faced in disbelief.
After two minutes, Moe emerged. In that split second, with the door open, we were overcome by a bowel-clenching stench so unexpectedly vigorous and sharp that we almost crumbled to the dusty ground. It was the warped smell of evil. We quickly recovered and scattered out of range. We could only guess as to what it smelled like inside with the door closed—not that we would ever want to know.