Junk Yard, Part II

So I already said that the radiator didn't fit, right? and that I had to buy a new one? It turns out that you can't even salvage Jeep radiators because the clips are brittle and break about 1/3 of the time when you try to restore them. So the radiator/junk yard/salvage thing was
pretty much a bust. So if an experience is worth a thousand words, then I think I've pretty much paid this one off.

The radiator was a '91, by the way, and it wasn't a Laredo. So it was the wrong radiator for my Jeep. Too small, too lightweight, but the guy would give it to me for $40 - down from $125. Not bad, but if it didn't work, I would be out for the labor, and for what? May as well buy a new one, I remember thinking. And I did.


Let me say a little about the stuttering guy. There's not too much to say, other than he was very friendly. And in order to say anything more about the stuttering guy, I really should say some more about Farmington.

Farmington, NM is in the Northwest corner of the state. It's the largest city in the four-corners area, and its population is primarily Hispanic and Native American. Anyone else in the region - who is not overtly oriental - is considered "Anglo." I have never seen a black person in Farmington. When I lived in Durango, I took exception to the word Anglo - which was used to define me who has not a drop of Anglican blood in his body. I suppose it would be the same way a Mongolian would feel about being called Japanese. Somehow I expected Americans to be ignorant of other cultures more than their own, but really I'm not even sure if this makes any sense.

Farmington is basically blue collar and very blue collar. Things are slow, there's lots of alcoholism, and I think only one strip club. Carol lives up in Aztec, the next town to the north. Aztec is a lot smaller and a lot weirder, in that way only a littler town can be. There are all the serious Jesus people, but there are also a whole mess of big time New Agers and UFO people. Until recently, they even had a UFO sighting storefront on Main Street. You could walk right in, look at photos, maps, and I think a couple of meteorites.
Well, that's gone, but there is a new herbal shop that moved up from Farmington and the Maiden & the Crone bookstore which also sells some botanicals. There's the Thai place, Rubio's (Mexican), and the Atomic Bistro which is not open very much but is the closest thing to the Columbus Avenue Bakery in Northern New Mexico.

Speaking of Atomic, that may be part of the problem. Supposedly there's some kind of nuclear experimental area near Farmington where they had some kind of underground bomb go off as part of a tourist thing. Not really sure, but it wouldn't surprise me one bit. New Mexico is every bit the weirdest state in the Union. And if it's because they're all microwaved, then that's as good an explanation as any.

So what I'm saying has a little to do with class. I have been told that I overextend myself to feel brotherly with my fellow man, regardless of education, wealth, or social caste- perhaps to a point not necessary. I often find it difficult to tell people where I'm from when I'm out of New York, because it defines me a little too narrowly - something I'm usually anxious to get out of, a definition that is. In a weird way, the problem gets even worse when I meet New Yorkers outside of New York. Where are you from? The City. Oh me too. What part? The Upper East Side, you? Oh, Far Rockaway. And all of the sudden I feel like Louis the XIV. So it's an issue, and it's one we haven't fully worked out as a culture and I haven't fully worked out as an individual.

But I had a moment, up there with the stuttering guy on the top of lot 6 as I watched him clip, unscrew, and generally yank my radiator from the deceased Chrysler. We talked briefly about where we were from and what the hell was I doing all the way the hell out here. And for a moment I saw it very clearly how I was passing through but for him this was his world - and this junkyard in particular where he seemed a tolerated guest, and yet it seemed to him as much home as anything. What must it be like for a stutterer in blue collar Farmington? Where would he find his place? Likely on the edge of the society, and that's precisely where we were. He was undertaker and exhumer all in one and he was here in his own human niche in the econo-motor world. And I stood on my class as easily as ever I have in my life. The young aristocrat from New York City out in the desert, and it was all very fine.

The part was the wrong fit for my Jeep, so the whole experience had a parenthetical quality to it. And yet it was just that, like someone opened up the wrong veil for a while so I could see behind, then closed it up like the back of a magician's trick. Just a touch of Oz here in the Land of Enchantment.