I got to go to my very first wrecking yard today. It was great. And huge.

I drove way out to Roy (right in the heart of America's #1 county for meth labs!). The attendant told me I didn't have to go back with him to find the part. Silly man. So we waded together through a maze of hundreds and hundreds of cars. Some were mere skeletons of transportation. Others looked considerably better than what I currently drive. But I didn't tell my car that.

It was the attendant's first day on the job, and we were in a land that required an experienced guide. I had the feeling people have entered there never to emerge. I began looking around for Elvis, or at the very least Tupac. At about this time, a cowboy-moustached, mullet-headed sherpa appeared to show the way. It's probably for the best because I was about to bust out my Elvis-Tupac-Amelia Earhart bird call, and I'm not sure the world's ready for it.

We wove through chaotic rows, and then I stood there contentedly, soaking in the atmosphere, enjoying the sound of tools, and only briefly contemplating the possiblity of being mugged-and-stuffed-into-some-old-Corolla-trunk. A shiny "new" tail light and slightly scratched hubcap effectively diverted me from this more sinister turn of thoughts. We were off again, returning victorious hunters.

It's good I left when I did, too. Slowly, the sum total of all the metallic carnage began tallying into the human implications. The realist in me began seeing cars from which no one walked away. With deep gratitude and a free hubcap, I drove away, thinking gently about traveling mercies.