I passed the first of a series of unkempt antique cars laid out like a red carpet to the yard’s visitors. I touched each as I passed them. Just a gentle pat on the hood to let them know I still loved them. Rusted junk that they were. The Fiat, positioned just before the makeshift gate, was an exit goal. I always checked it for snakes. Snakes like Fiat. I have no idea why. As I walked through the gates I met my familure junkyard friend, the crusher. It was a huge, once operational I'm sure, machine designed to squish big cars into little cubes. Heavy little cubes. I climbed up and sat in the operators seat. I often did that.

I imagined this machine once again churning. Working. Doing its crushing duty. On demand. At the flick of a switch or push of a button. And I knew I could make it so. But the cost would be great. I’ve extracted the gasoline from every wreck here. Saved it in a safe place. Roughly five gallons of fairly clean gasoline. That would run this machine for...what? Ten minutes maybe. And what for. So I just sat there. Wondering what to do next. Hoping a birdie would whisper something in my ear. Something I could at least try. Something I could do to actually keep me engaged. Busy. Something I might use to escape. I wanted out so bad. Yet no ideas presented themselves for consideration. It’s as if the forum of talkers normally stalking my mind were all at church or something.