The Alchemy Project - Chapter 1

Chapter One

Sweat soaked the collar and armpits of Damon’s tee shirt. September heat and the pressure to land a job had overwhelmed any resistance his roll-on could offer. He’d dropped off resumes with managers of stores and businesses all over the Norcross borough, but the scrap metal yard was the only place to respond. A month in Atlanta had reduced his life’s savings to a poker hand of small bills and rent was due soon. Without a paycheck, Damon would have no choice except to admit defeat and move back to his parents’ house in Pennsylvania, shamed and exposed as the helpless child his father insisted he was.

The man conducting the interview and walking tour of the scrap metal yard—he’d introduced himself as George without adding a last name, department, or title—was older and heavier than Damon, but hadn’t rushed the tour to get back to his air-conditioned office.

“You really are eighteen, right?” George’s question seemed more matter-of-fact than condescending, a kindness Damon appreciated.

“Yes, sir. Graduated high school last spring.” Damon was tall and a close beard covered most of his jaw, but he didn’t look much older than his years. His lean build, shaggy hair, and tee shirt wardrobe gave away his youth. Since he didn’t look like a grown man, he tried to carry himself like one for the interview, doing his best impression of a stoic adult.

“Cards on the table,” George said, “we don’t try that hard to verify the information on the job applications, but I can’t let a minor work here. It’s too fucking dangerous.” Despite his casual swearing, George’s tone was friendly. “These machines crush and chop up metal, so flesh and bone don’t stand a chance. You can really fuck yourself up.”

Damon nodded and held eye contact under his borrowed hardhat, unsure how else to demonstrate his eagerness to stay alive. Every stop on the tour of the fifteen-acre scrap yard had looked dangerous. Inside the front gate—the only gap in the tall, razor-wire fence that surrounded the property—men in face shields used cutting torches to butcher an old school bus. In the back corner, farthest from the road, towering cranes fed on heaps of dead cars and steel.

“Your resume said your last job was in Pennsylvania,” George said. “Why did you move to Atlanta?”

When Damon first arrived in the city, he shared a weekly-rate motel room with his best friend Alex. The early days had the cheerful vibe of a long road trip on the cheap, but instead of going home, they moved into the only apartment complex that would take them. Overlapping graffiti tags covered most of the ground-floor and cardboard repairs patched several windows, but, derelict as it was, Damon’s half of the rent would cost almost all his take-home pay.

“I’ve seen enough of home,” Damon said. “I wanted to move somewhere that was nothing like it.” George seemed like a nice guy, but Damon didn’t want to bring up his family issues with a stranger. In Atlanta, that ruled out everyone except Alex.

George stopped in front of a tiny roller coaster with a single twenty-foot hill. “That’s the baling machine.” He lifted his hardhat and scratched most of his head. “The conveyor belt carries the scrap metal up and into a compactor. The finished bales slide down the other side.” The blocks were bound by heavy wire and resembled hay bales, except made of orange and brown pipe and cable instead of organic blonde shoots. “Some of the bales won’t go any farther than Nashville, but some will go all the way to China. Your job will be in the scale house, buying the metal that makes the bales.”

“I’ll take any job you’ve got,” Damon said, “but I’d rather not deal with the public. Do you need another guy on the baler?” Even at his part-time grocery store job back home, the customers were the worst part of his day. Sometimes, rather than work the register, he volunteered to scrape the congealed milk drippings out of the refrigerated cases, spoon clumps of pink slime from the gears in the meat room equipment, or clean the restrooms. Menial labor was better than the old ladies who feigned shock when he couldn’t remember their bagging preferences or the distant relatives who lingered and asked about each member of his extended family. Damon didn’t think of himself as a misanthrope, but couldn’t remember anyone calling him a people-person.

George shook his head. “I need somebody who speaks English to run the scale. It’s not complicated, but you’ll meet some real fucking muppets. Half of the scrappers are drunk and high on every drug under the sun. Lots of ex-cons, a few legit crazies. The Gypsies aren’t so bad. Most of them bring in real weight, too. Always pay Gypsies top price because they tell each other everything.”

“How will I know?” Damon had never met anyone who identified as a Gypsy, but he doubted they dressed in hoop earrings and headscarves or carried crystal balls. Also, was the word Gypsystill the preferred nomenclature?

“They’re easy to spot,” George said. “Dark hair, accent, they’re usually dressed nice. Once you meet a couple, you’ll know. Don’t worry, Eduardo will be in the scale house with you. He’ll keep you squared away. We’ll head over there now. It’s the little modular building closer to the gate.”

As Damon retraced his steps past the chop-line, he said, “Why do you need someone who speaks English to run the scale? Most of the people in the neighborhood speak Spanish.”

“Scrappers come from all over the place,” George said. “It’s a law they have to present a U.S. ID to sell metal. You’ll still learn some Spanish, though.”

Damon had taken two years of Spanish in high school and struggled for a B- each time. He was a gifted student who excelled in most subjects, but conjugations, preterite tenses, and assigning a gender to every word never sank in. As bad as he was at decoding written Spanish, his ability to understand a native speaker was, he’d recently learned, nonexistent. “What language does Eduardo speak?”

“Eduardo is the only one on the yard who’s truly bilingual,” George said. “He’ll tell you he’s El Salvadorian, but that’s his parents. He was born in Arizona.” In the distance, a four-door sedan slipped from the jaws of a crane and crashed to earth. The crunch was underwhelming, masked by the din of the yard.

“He’s really the only person who can talk to everyone?” Damon asked. “I bet he’s popular.”

“You don’t know him yet.” George wasn’t smiling. “He can be excitable.” He pointed at a hundred-foot section of guard rail. “See that thing that looks like a one-lane bridge? That’s the steel scale. Steel is cheap, so it’s bought and sold in thousands of pounds. A loaded truck weighs in, dumps the steel, and weighs out. The difference is the metal left in the yard. On the other side of the scale house is the non-ferrous scale. That means copper, aluminum, brass, and any other metal besides iron or steel. The non-ferrous scale is smaller, but more exact. Accuracy is important when you’re talking about five cents per pound on steel, but when you’re paying three bucks for copper, the weight has to be right. When in doubt, err in our favor. Err on purpose if you can get away with it.”

Err on purpose? Damon had to accept any job George offered, so he tried not to let his thoughts linger on whether this was a good place to work.

George climbed a set of wooden steps, opened the scale house door, and held it for Damon. “Employee entrance,” he said. “After you.”

Inside was an open beige room with a waist-high, Formica-topped island in the center. Large windows were set close together, creating a view of the yard in all directions. One small window unit hummed, but couldn’t cool the room with so much glass letting in light and heat. A wooden folding table pressed against the far wall held stacks of instruction manuals, catalogs, and men’s magazines. The last four feet of the building was sealed off by an inch-thick plastic barrier, creating a well-lit rectangle with a door at one end.

“Looks like an empty reptile exhibit,” Damon said.

George snorted. “Exactly what it is. That door is the scrapper’s entrance. The plastic wall keeps them contained. If you want to fight one, you’ll have to take it outside.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Damon said. “I’ve never been in a fight.” This was true, but also an attempt to make a good impression, since Damon assumed no business wanted its customers to file assault charges or sue for pain and suffering.

“Never say never,” George said. “Some of these fuckers can get wild. Eduardo hit one with a pipe wrench last week. The guy was lucky he had a buddy riding shotgun to lift him into the truck and drive him home. People get emotional about money. Negotiations get heated and nasty things get said. Speak of the devil, there’s Eduardo now.”

Damon took a deep breath and held his stomach. The job wasn’t a want, but a need. Worst case scenario, he’d work in the scale house until he found another job. Maybe he’d be more employable with a second entry on his resume. Full-time work at a scrap yard sounded more adult than part-time at a grocery store.

The employee entrance opened and a trim man in his late twenties or early thirties stepped inside. A sharp chin and thick brows made his annoyed expression more severe. He took off his hardhat and tucked his dark, collar-length hair behind his ears.

“Eduardo,” George said, “this is Damon. He’s green, but he’s fresh out of school, so he should be teachable.”

Eduardo blew a long, lip-flapping sigh. “Why don’t you hire someone who knows how to run a scale?” His high-pitched voice made his complaint more whine than demand.

“Maybe if you weren’t such an ass,” George said, “your trainees wouldn’t keep quitting.” He pointed a finger at Damon. “Okay kid, you see what you’ll be working with. You still want the job?”

“Yes, sir.” Damon tried to feel relief, but a cool dread prevailed. Part of being an adult was doing what it took to get by. Besides, it was a scrap metal yard, not a tour of duty.

“Can you start now?” George asked.

“That would be great.” The part of Damon that was worried about the rent was sincere. The rest of him didn’t believe anything about this job was great.

“I’ll get the paperwork together and bring it here tomorrow morning.” George put on his hardhat, opened the door, then glanced back at Damon. “Don’t take Eduardo personally, but do what he says. That way, if you’re wrong, it’s his fault.”

Eduardo held up a middle finger to the closing door. “Don’t listen to that shit. Your screw-ups have nothing to do with me, so you better be careful. The non-ferrous scale pays out big money.”

“Would it be easier if I ran the steel scale first?” Damon asked. “I mean, since it’s only one kind of metal and it’s cheaper. I don’t want to mess anything up.”

Eduardo’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared. “So, I work for you now? I’ve been here eight years, but you’re in charge?”

“I just meant you know the different kinds of metals already.”

“I ran that scale for years and I still run both scales every time a rookie quits. I’ve paid my dues. You’ve been here five minutes. Nobody asked which job you wanted.”

“Sorry,” Damon said. “Didn’t mean to start off on the wrong foot.” Either this was a hazing ritual or Eduardo was an asshole. Probably both. Maybe another local business would eventually contact him for an interview. Working the drive-thru at McDonald’s might be better than dealing with this guy every day.

Eduardo sniffed. “You need to listen before you talk. You know nothing.”

“I’m listening,” Damon said.

“This week’s dealer sheet is next to the computer. That’s a list of top prices on each kind of metal. Don’t pay that much unless I say so. You paying attention? I don’t want to say shit twice.”

Damon leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Go on.”

“The metal the scrapper brings in gets dumped into a hopper and weighed on the scale. The weight of the hopper is painted on the side. The difference between the number on the screen and the weight of the hopper is the amount of metal on the scale. That’s what you’re buying.

“Rule number one: find a way to short the ticket. A low price per pound will only work on people who don’t scrap for a living. If suburban-man brings an old aluminum swimming pool, he just wants to get rid of it. Enter the ticket, cut the price in half, and send him to the office without mentioning money. If you turn the scale’s readout so the scrappers can’t see it, you can give higher prices, but cut off some weight. We’ve got shrinkage to account for. You can also try to convince them that their stuff is no good. If a piece of copper is green, say that makes it low-grade. If they have insulated copper cables, tell them the plastic is a quarter of the weight. Really, the plastic weighs almost nothing.”

Damon couldn’t remember stealing anything more valuable than a candy bar. He’d never needed to. He’d never been hungry or poor. At his school, the lockers didn’t even lock. “Wouldn’t it be easier to pay the right price for the right weight?” he asked.

“It’s part of the game,” Eduardo said. “The scrappers will try to scam you, too. One of your responsibilities is checking what they bring in. I’ve seen steel cables and gutters painted to look like copper. Beer cans filled with gravel. Some of these bastards have even tried to sneak bricks and cinderblocks into the bottom of a hopper. The more a scrapper looks like a meth-head, the closer you have to watch him. Everybody gets fooled once or twice, but if it’s a lot of money, that’s your ass. Grossman doesn’t keep people who lose money.”

“Who’s Grossman?”

“He owns the place. Stick around long enough and you’ll meet him.” Eduardo stood on his toes and squinted out the window. “Look at this viejo parking his grocery-getter. Don’t think I’ve seen him before.” Outside, an ancient-looking man carefully exited a rusted station wagon.

“What should I do?” Damon asked.

“Sit tight for now. You have two amigos on forklifts outside to load the hoppers and put them on the scale for you.”

“Amigos?” Damon asked.

“That’s what we call the guys who don’t speak English. Save the sensitivity speech because they’ve got a word for you, too. You hear gringo, they’re talking about you.”

“What are their names?” Damon wasn’t comfortable shouting amigo at Hispanic men he didn’t know. Eduardo might be setting him up for an ass-kicking.

“The big guy is Juan. He’s from Mexico. The little one is Sicilio. He’s Guatemalan. They’re good men. Known for honesty. If they weren’t, they couldn’t work in those positions. If they took a bribe and rigged the scale, you’d never know. Remember the buck stops with you. Okay, that old guy’s walking in now.”

A hunched-over Asian man with a sprig of white beard shuffled into the enclosure on the other side of the plastic wall. The old man smiled and slid his driver’s license through the slot. 

Eduardo scooped up the ID and placed it on the counter. “A legal US ID is a requirement to sell metal. Part of the job is carding the scrappers. This guy doesn’t have an account, so I’ll start a new one.” Outside, Sicilio laid the old man’s cardboard box of copper sculptures on the scale and gave a thumbs up.

“Sir,” Damon said, “are you sure you want to sell those for scrap? They look pretty nice from here. You could get more money at a pawn shop.”

“Very little English,” the old man said. He was still smiling.

Eduardo glared at Damon. “What are you doing, rookie? The man wants to sell his metal. Go outside and look in the box to make sure it’s pure copper. If you see a speck of solder or brass, let me know.”

Damon exited through the employee door, padded down the steps, and around to the non-ferrous scale. Inside the cardboard box was a blocky castle, a pear tree, a snaking dragon, and a dozen other intricate sculptures. Damon picked up the smallest of them, a perfectly rendered ship the size of a shoe, maybe Chinese or Japanese. Even the sails and braided rigging were copper. He searched for a mark to reveal an artist or a date, but found none. He returned the ship to the cardboard box, jogged back up the steps and through the employee door. “Sir,” he said to the old man, “did you make those?”

The man’s smile seemed tinged with confusion, but he nodded.

“If we buy them,” Damon said, “we won’t resell them. They’ll be crushed or chopped up. They’ll be destroyed. There’s forty pounds of copper in that box. That’s one hundred and twenty dollars.”

“A hundred and twenty.” Eduardo’s high voice nearly moaned the words. “I’m not going to pay top price for that little box of crap out there. That’s a buck-fifty a pound all day. Better get calibrated before you get fired. And I’m docking him five pounds for the box. It doesn’t look heavy, but trust me. Six pounds for the box.”

“Are you sure you want to sell these for scrap?” Damon asked the old man again.

“Sell, yes.” His old head nodded, his smile as big as before.

“You heard him, rookie. A buck-fifty a pound and we’re moving on. There’s another truck waiting.”

“Can we keep one of the sculptures in here?” Damon asked. “Just for a while?”

“Great,” Eduardo said. “The rookie wants to turn the scale house into an art gallery. Go. Nothing big.”

Outside, Damon took a last look at each of the sculptures before they were broken down and reincarnated, most likely as humble mediums for water or electricity. The scrapper’s door opened, the old man stepped outside, then eased himself down the wooden steps. Damon chose the smallest sculpture, the copper ship, and gently pushed a tiny rope back to its natural position.

“Junk,” the old man said, pointing to the ship.

“Not this one,” Damon said. The rest would be junk, but this ship would live on.

With a final smile and a shrug, the old man toddled off to the office building to collect his money. Damon brought the ship inside the scale house and placed it on the counter next to the computer. Since it would never leave the yard, the ship wasn’t stolen, only removed from circulation.

Eduardo opened the employee entrance. “I’m going to the office to take a piss. You saw how to fill out a ticket. This next guy doesn’t have much, so I’ll let you do this one on your own.”

The scrapper’s door opened and a young Black man with a manicured goatee stepped inside. He slid an ID through the slot and waited for Damon to look up his name. The account history showed Lavelle Jordon’s five most recent tickets were worth only four hundred dollars combined. A hard knuckle tapped the plastic wall. “Hey man,” Lavelle’s voice was low and serious. “I need a favor.” He looked Damon in the eye. “I need a little bit extra on this ticket. You can get it back from me, I promise. I haven’t seen you in here before, but you see my history in the computer. I’ve been coming to this yard for years and I don’t sell my stuff anywhere else. Wouldn’t ask for the help if I didn’t really need it.”

“I can’t do that.” Damon didn’t need Eduardo to tell him payday loans weren’t allowed. “If I get caught, they’ll fire me. I need this job.”

“Put in an extra four hundred,” Lavelle said, “and I’ll give you a hundred back. Quid pro quo. As big as this yard is, they’ll never miss four hundred dollars. I’ll meet you in the parking lot after the yard closes. I’ll be hanging out there anyway to catch the boys who show up too late to get in. I buy their stuff for half-price, but I’m low on capital. A couple good deals and I’ll get rolling again. This is a win-win. We could even make it a regular thing. What do you say?”

“I really can’t,” Damon said. Even though it would be easy to type in the wrong number, the universe had given him the opportunity to earn a living the honest way, pay his taxes and bills, and to keep pretending he was a grown man until it was true. He couldn’t give up on all that for a hundred dollars.