"Junkyard Kids" by Nancy Wiltbank Johnson

Junkyard Kids

by Nancy Wiltbank Johnson

May 15, 1998
(From a writing assignment titled "Part 6: Write From Your Life")

Maxina was my best friend in junior high. She often came to my house but I'd never been to her's. Although we both lived in the outskirts of our small Texas town we were from different worlds. I lived in a nice middle-class neighborhood. Her run-down neighborhood was behind the Bronco Drive-in Theater, infamous for its rated X offerings. Maxina said she could watch the movies from her backyard but she had to wait until her parents were too drunk to notice.

I had seen the outside of Maxina's house often. The school bus we rode drove down her lane and stopped at the small gray shack. The yard was filled with broken cars and piles of old wood and metal parts. The kids on the bus called it the junkyard. Maxina would joke back, "You think this is bad, you oughta see the inside." I wanted to scream at them for their rudeness but was too shy.

I wasn't surprised that day when Keith Orchard, the pampered son of a dentist, stuck his head through the bus window and yelled at Maxina and her three tangled-hair siblings as they were exiting, "Bye bye, trash kids." His friend Sam Workman piped in, "Have fun playing at the garbage dump."

The bus started rolling forward but suddenly the driver slammed on the brakes. I looked up in surprise to see a tall bony man shoving open the bus door. The noisy bus became silent. As he pulled himself up the steps I recognized Maxina' s stepfather, Paul Henry. He had often picked Maxina up from my house. Mr. Henry stood, stoop-shouldered, glaring at us all. He was holding an open can of Del Monte sweet peas. I wondered why until he spit a thin line of black saliva into the can. His lower lip bulged out, covering a tightly held wad of tobacco.

After shifting his tobacco deeper into his mouth he spoke with a slow, Louisiana drawl that was smoother than our own twangy Texas accents, "Now ya'll kids shoulda been taught some manners. Ya' ll ain' t no better than my kids. I expect them to be treated with respect. My kids are good kids, better'n most of ya' ll. No, they don't dress as good as you but they don't have the same shitty smart mouths ya'll have neither." As his anger grew his voice rose to a high-pitched whine that sounded strange coming from the mouth of this fierce-looking brown man. "Maybe our house ain't the nicest but I work damn hard to put this roof over their heads and I ain't takin' no crap from a bunch of snot nosed. . ." His voice trailed off as his initial anger made way for the embarrassing notion that perhaps he had made a spectacle of himself. He turned to climb out of the bus mumbling, "If you all are so damn rich why don't you go and buy you some manners. . . My kids are ten times better than the lot of you rotten little. . . "

All the kids on the bus watched in amazement. I felt ashamed even though I knew I hadn't done anything wrong. I felt ashamed of being from a well-to-do family and having things a little bit better than the Henry's. I was included in this group of spoiled brats. It was the first of many times that I would be embarrassed to have money, be white, have education. I knew I got special privileges and didn't do anything to deserve them. I knew I came from a group that oppressed and I didn't know how to extricate myself from it. I didn't want to be judged for the sins of the group.

The kids silently watched Mr. Henry stumble towards his house over the uneven dirt that was his front yard. The driver put the bus in gear and took off quickly down the lane. We were all quiet until someone giggled nervously. Suddenly the whole bus burst into hilarious laughter of relief. We were still in sight of Maxina's house and Paul Henry, when Sam Workman, brave from the laughter, stuck his head out the window and yelled, "Nice meeting you, Mr. Garbage Man!"