with light.
“Jiminy Christmas,” says July’s Dad (whose name is simply
and sensibly John), “he’s got every light in the place on.”
“Maybe he’s trying to flag down passing UFO’s,” I offer.
John Petersen chuckles. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Bob Wray is
an odd duck. A truly nice man, but odd.”
We watch as a trio of random-sized dogs fans out from the
garage that dominates the northeast corner of the long yard. The place is
several acres in size, but doesn’t look like any wrecking yard I’ve ever seen.
Not that I’m a junkyard aficionado, but anyone who owns a Harley is more than
passingly familiar with them. This one’s peculiar, even at first glance. There
are no dizzyingly vertical piles of car corpses or randomly scattered body
parts. Bob Wray’s junkyard is relentlessly horizontal and scrupulously tidy.
The wrecks, viewed from the Petersen’s front porch, are laid out in a grid of
neat, even rows.
“You suppose he has a Harley carburetor?” I muse.
“Who doesn’t?” Lee asks. “Question is: is it any better than
the one you’ve already got?”
“I have four. You can never have too many carburetors.”
The lights at Wray’s Wrecks dim as suddenly as they came on.
“Huh,” says July.
“Gin,” says Lee.
I rub the matryoshka in my pocket and reflect that
perhaps the old Church Fathers are right: card games are demonic.
Saturday we look up old friends and old haunts. The area
has changed radically since I lived here. Grass Valley has sprouted strip malls
and department stores while the downtown area has been tourist-ified. Where
there were once hardware stores and other such homely establishments there are
now trendy restaurants, boutiques, and art galleries. There are old-fashioned
street lamps, lots of cobblestone, planters and even a freestanding cast iron
clock stationed at the main intersection. The art deco theatre has been
completely refurbished.
Oddly and comfortingly, it is still the town I remember—a
nice place to have grown up, despite the fact that it’s still lacking in . . .
well, color, not to put too fine a point on it. I’d been one of only five
Asian-American kids in high school and the other four were Chinese from local
families who’d been here since their great-grandparents worked the mines and
laundries. Now they own restaurants.
I comment on this to July as we wander Nevada City after
lunch.
“Still the whitest county in the state,” she admits,
grimacing. “In law enforcement circles we’re still a ‘white enclave.’ That’s changing though. More African American families are moving
in, and the Chinese and Maidu, who’ve been here forever, are coming out and getting
more involved in the community. The Maidu just opened a new cultural center.”
“That’s
great.”
“It’s too
slow for my partner, though. Mike’s
been talking about going back down to the Bay Area, too. Taking his family
someplace more diverse.”
“Tell him to come on down. I’m sure my dad could set him up
with a job.”
“He should set you up with a job. Why don’t you let him? You really should
be a cop, Gina. Aren’t you
willing to give the Academy another try?”
“Sure, but I doubt the Academy would give me another
try. I was bad at following orders—remember? And unable to lift fully grown men
given to a high fat diet.”
“So what’s
next?”
“Wray’s Wrecks. I’d still like a carburetor.”
Bob Wray turns out to be a tall, bear-like black man who
could be thirty-five or sixty. There is a little gray in his hair and a bald
spot in the crown of his head, but his face is ageless except for a tiny set of
pleats between his brows. These give him a quizzical expression, as if he’s waiting for the punch line to a
long and convoluted joke.
Bob leads us through the wrecking yard to the ‘Motorcycle
Department.’ From the triple-bay garage with its large office and storage room,
we cross a gravel parking lot to a wide gate in the chain link
“Jiminy Christmas,” says July’s Dad (whose name is simply
and sensibly John), “he’s got every light in the place on.”
“Maybe he’s trying to flag down passing UFO’s,” I offer.
John Petersen chuckles. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Bob Wray is
an odd duck. A truly nice man, but odd.”
We watch as a trio of random-sized dogs fans out from the
garage that dominates the northeast corner of the long yard. The place is
several acres in size, but doesn’t look like any wrecking yard I’ve ever seen.
Not that I’m a junkyard aficionado, but anyone who owns a Harley is more than
passingly familiar with them. This one’s peculiar, even at first glance. There
are no dizzyingly vertical piles of car corpses or randomly scattered body
parts. Bob Wray’s junkyard is relentlessly horizontal and scrupulously tidy.
The wrecks, viewed from the Petersen’s front porch, are laid out in a grid of
neat, even rows.
“You suppose he has a Harley carburetor?” I muse.
“Who doesn’t?” Lee asks. “Question is: is it any better than
the one you’ve already got?”
“I have four. You can never have too many carburetors.”
The lights at Wray’s Wrecks dim as suddenly as they came on.
“Huh,” says July.
“Gin,” says Lee.
I rub the matryoshka in my pocket and reflect that
perhaps the old Church Fathers are right: card games are demonic.
Saturday we look up old friends and old haunts. The area
has changed radically since I lived here. Grass Valley has sprouted strip malls
and department stores while the downtown area has been tourist-ified. Where
there were once hardware stores and other such homely establishments there are
now trendy restaurants, boutiques, and art galleries. There are old-fashioned
street lamps, lots of cobblestone, planters and even a freestanding cast iron
clock stationed at the main intersection. The art deco theatre has been
completely refurbished.
Oddly and comfortingly, it is still the town I remember—a
nice place to have grown up, despite the fact that it’s still lacking in . . .
well, color, not to put too fine a point on it. I’d been one of only five
Asian-American kids in high school and the other four were Chinese from local
families who’d been here since their great-grandparents worked the mines and
laundries. Now they own restaurants.
I comment on this to July as we wander Nevada City after
lunch.
“Still the whitest county in the state,” she admits,
grimacing. “In law enforcement circles we’re still a ‘white enclave.’ That’s changing though. More African American families are moving
in, and the Chinese and Maidu, who’ve been here forever, are coming out and getting
more involved in the community. The Maidu just opened a new cultural center.”
“That’s
great.”
“It’s too
slow for my partner, though. Mike’s
been talking about going back down to the Bay Area, too. Taking his family
someplace more diverse.”
“Tell him to come on down. I’m sure my dad could set him up
with a job.”
“He should set you up with a job. Why don’t you let him? You really should
be a cop, Gina. Aren’t you
willing to give the Academy another try?”
“Sure, but I doubt the Academy would give me another
try. I was bad at following orders—remember? And unable to lift fully grown men
given to a high fat diet.”
“So what’s
next?”
“Wray’s Wrecks. I’d still like a carburetor.”
Bob Wray turns out to be a tall, bear-like black man who
could be thirty-five or sixty. There is a little gray in his hair and a bald
spot in the crown of his head, but his face is ageless except for a tiny set of
pleats between his brows. These give him a quizzical expression, as if he’s waiting for the punch line to a
long and convoluted joke.
Bob leads us through the wrecking yard to the ‘Motorcycle
Department.’ From the triple-bay garage with its large office and storage room,
we cross a gravel parking lot to a wide gate in the chain link
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