Reedsy

Jim is a scrapper, both literally and figurately.

Both are critical to his survival in one of Missouri’s most poverty-stricken counties.

It is a mild mid-December morning and the couple, as usual, are walking the country road to nowhere.

They see him from a distance. He bends over to inspect something on the ground, rearranges a few things, then stands up, takes a few steps forward and leans over to do it all over again.

It is a routine seen many times.

Over the last two years the couple have interacted with the scrapper numerous times, usually consisting of a simple recognition of each other’s presence.

“Hi Jim.”

Smiles. Waves.

“How are you guys doing?”

Head tilts up. Pretends to care. Waves back.

“Doing good. How about you?”

Still smiling. Still waving. Still walking.

“Same old, same old.”

Head tilts down. Hands resume work. Conversation over.

Their interactions are typically brief, sometimes pleasant, and sometimes just an exchange of pleasantries.

“The walkers,” as they are called by residents on the road to nowhere, don’t know Jim well. But then, he is not a big talker and is no doubt still wary of the retired city slicker husband-wife duo who regularly walk by his house.

They have, however, managed to piece together intel on the man from their personal interactions, a Google search and neighborhood gossip.

Not that long ago a sheriff’s deputy described him as a white male, age 55-65, short, wiry, balding, and wielding a full beard, more salt than pepper.

Neighbors have also been helpful in their observations and opinions of the man.

“I hate the guy.”

“He has no pride in himself or his property.”

“He’s a redneck and a prick.”

Despite the couple’s personal observations and input from other sources, however, Jim is still largely a mystery to them.

But that will change with today’s interaction.

They see him and he sees them. As always, the walkers are prepared to initiate the ritual with a brief greeting, a smile and a wave.

But will today be pleasant, the alternative or something in between? As it turns out the walkers are needlessly anxious. In fact, Jim himself speaks first.

“It’s good to be home,” the scrapper says with plenty of eye contact and a big smile.

Even though the grin reveals an empty mouth except for a handful of brown teeth, it is the real deal. He is painfully giddy with joy and shares it unashamedly with his guests.

Today, the scrapper has the look of a football player taunting the enemy after a big play. Despite being told by his mother at age 12 that he will either end up in prison or a hospital, he is here and not either of those places.

Against all odds he is back where he belongs: “Home.”

On the surface it seems like an odd thing to say. After all, his mobile home is now a crispy black skeleton of what it once was having burned to the ground months earlier. Some of the light green siding and blue metal roof remain, but not much.

“I went to the County office and they said I can’t stay in the house anymore. They said it’s ‘dangerous’ and ‘uninhabitable.’”

The scrapper shakes his head and says, “Stupid…”

The giddiness is gone. His voice trails off as anger pours silently out of his mouth. It seems clear Jim has just censored himself out of respect for his guests.

“Oh, man…sorry to hear that.”

While the carcasses of the scrapper’s two dead pit bulls are allowed to stay where they lie—at the foot of the back door now covered with frantic scratch marks—the owner himself cannot legally reside there, much less even enter. 

The walkers already know from neighbors and online sources that the official cause of the fire is yet to be determined.

Some believe it was electrical. In fact, one person who lives up the street described the mobile home as “a real dump,” a place that almost certainly had faulty wiring.

Another theory is the perpetually simmering burn pile in the back yard, just a few yards from the house.

And then there is speculation about Jim’s ex-wife or maybe an ex-girlfriend. It seems the scrapper has had numerous very public domestic duels with both over the last several months.

While he may know or suspect how the fire started, he has kept it to himself. According to the local paper, the owner of the house is “not eager” to cooperate with the authorities.

In fact, neighbors told the walkers that when asked how it all happened the man’s only response was a shrug and a curt but diplomatic, “What’s done is done.”

Even though the walkers do not have a clear picture of who Jim is and what makes him tick, they do know him well enough not to be totally surprised by what they have just seen and heard. It seems obvious the scrapper is not about to submit to oppressive government rules and regulations.

He needs to be “home,” in his element, rummaging through endless piles of litter and junk on his own land.

After all, his yard is a goldmine of potential income in the form of recyclable metal. He is a scrapper in the literal sense. That is, someone who scrounges around for metal to sell at one of the many scrapyards in the area.

If he wants to earn a living, he hauls other people’s junk back to his place, digs through it to find recyclable metal and then hand delivers it for cash.

In his world metal equals money. No junk, no metal, no payday.

For Jim’s more upscale neighbors, however, the fruits of his labor negatively affects everyone else. They do not see the value of abandoned vehicles, appliances, couches, camper shells, tires, rusting barrels full of who knows what and, well, just about anything one might find in the city dump. 

Most of the neighbors only see declining home values due to the stench and stigma of rural poverty.

“I hate the guy.”

“He has no pride in himself or his property.”

“He’s a redneck and a prick.”

With no homeowner’s association in the boonies, Jim has the luxury of living life more on his terms than on the whims of others. As the walkers have been told many times, even though the County has responded to numerous citizen complaints over the years the scrapper has somehow managed to stay afloat.

As a result, he is regularly dissed both to his face and via social media. Even though he cannot afford internet access or a smart phone, a “friend” has kindly shared the vitriol spewed about him on Facebook.

The walkers, however, do not have to live next door to the scrapper and have not had any personal run-ins with him. So far, they have been neighborly and cautious and avoided incurring his wrath.

But today their curiosity is peaked, so they take a chance and ask an obvious question. Obvious to city slickers, anyway.

“So…where, exactly, is ‘home?’”

He immediately points to the faded beige RV with powder blue trim parked in his front yard. Truth be told it kind of sits on the edge of the road as well. Back in the day the rig was a sweet abode for the camper’s owner. Not so much anymore.

“Pretty sweet, huh?”

His grin returns in all its glory, a grin that cannot be contained or tamed.  

His response, in the form of a question, demands an answer.

“Yeah…yeah it is, Jim.”

The walkers are glad for the scrapper and return the smile, but their enthusiasm is a bit forced. The realities of rural poverty are still something they are learning about.

They did, however, already know he had been living in the RV at a fellow scrapper’s house for the last two months. Word gets around.

Thanks to a few frayed extension cords compliments of his buddy’s double wide, he even enjoyed the luxury of electricity that provided the essentials of life: TV and a coffee pot.

But yearning to go home, he apparently convinced his friend to tow the tired RV back to his own land. The same piece of turf now regarded by the County as “dangerous” and “uninhabitable.” 

But hey, home is home, junk and all, and the smile on his face is the real deal. Yet the walkers secretly wonder how he will survive the coming winter.

No electricity, clean water or septic tank. Not exactly a recipe for success with frigid weather right around the corner.

Despite the circumstances, Jim continues to grin and even explains his long-term plans. For whatever reason, he seems to trust the couple, at least on this day and in this moment.

“When I get my insurance money, I’m going to build a 4-foot by 8-foot building and live in it.”

“That’s cool, Jim. Very cool.”

Their response is genuine, but both walkers are even more puzzled by the new information.

What insurance company would ever knowingly cover such a dilapidated mobile home surrounded by trash and junk as far as the eye can see?

Why does the scrapper want to build what sounds like a big shed and then live in it?

And isn’t living here—in an RV or eventually in a new shed—some kind of violation in the eyes of the County?

But the walkers say nothing. Jim’s obviously excited about his future and they are not about to ruin his day.

Besides, asking too many questions would probably be a mistake. The couple concluded long ago that the scrapper does not tolerate people who do not respect his privacy and are eager to pick fights.

Even though the walkers know better and do not want to spoil Jim’s victory dance, one of them cannot resist the urge to ask yet another question. While it may be dangerous to do so, it is too obvious to ignore.

“What about electricity? I mean, do you have electricity?”

Translated, “How are you going to survive the winter in that piece of crap?”

They are immediately relieved that the scrapper is not offended by the question. In fact, he is eager to provide an answer.

He nods, grins knowingly and points with pride at a portable, rust-covered gasoline-powered generator.

“All it needs is an ignition coil and a flywheel key. Easy peasy.”

Despite its advanced age, the scrapper is confident it can be repaired. In fact, it will be repaired. By him.

“Easy peasy.”

After hearing him cheerfully and confidently lay out his plans, the walkers realize that Jim not only makes a living scrapping, but he is also a scrapper in the figurative sense.

A devastating home fire, two dead dogs, prohibitive County regulations, sub-zero temperatures and surly neighbors are not about to stand in his way.

Home is home and nothing and no one is going to tell him what to do and how to do it.

All he needs is a camper, a gas-powered generator and, presumably, a working space heater.

“Very cool, Jim. Very cool.”

“Thanks.”

Sensing that his guests are genuinely glad for him and not out to hurt him, Jim decides to share more good news with his guests.

He looks to his right and points to his burgundy 1991 Ford F-150 pickup truck. The bed is filled with a tangled mess of metal including a Direct TV satellite dish, a Hotpoint washing machine and bedsprings.

“Gonna take a load to the scrap yard today.”

“Oh, yeah? Which one?”

“Top Dollar Recycling. I’ve tried other places but they’re the best. Travis, Clint…hell, all of them…all good people.”

Even though his plates are expired and must hold the driver’s door shut with his left arm hanging out the window, Jim cannot wait to drive into town in search of a payday.

But the couple now realize that the scrap yard is more than just a place to sell his stuff, more than just an employer of sorts: It is a place where everyone knows his name and admires his resourcefulness and grit.

While the County and neighbors view him as a loser and a menace to society, at Top Dollar he is respected and appreciated.

The scrapper is happy this morning, abundantly so. Perhaps happier than he has been in a long time. Certainly happier than the walkers have ever witnessed.

He has overcome the odds.

He is confident of success.

He is not only surviving but thriving.

“It’s a good day. I’m home.”

“We’re glad for you, Jim. Good luck.”

One of the walkers reaches out and shakes hands with the scrapper. The walkers are genuinely happy for him and sense that he knows it.

The conversation now over, the couple resume their walk down the country road to nowhere.

As they do, they are serenaded by the sound of whistling behind them. It is the whistle of a person who has just suffered a beat-down by the school bully but managed to stagger to his feet and walk away, head held high.

The walkers conclude this is not the first time Jim has risen from the dead, nor will it be the last.

According to the scrapper, today is “a good day.”

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