Our neighborhood had its share of characters, probably no more or less than any other, but none of them was as fun to watch as the guy who lived in the big white house as the end of the cul-de-sac. My parents referred to him as Mister Mirovski but we all knew him as the man who buried cars.
He imagined himself to be a mechanically gifted fellow, so he bought junkers and worked on them evenings and weekends. He'd tinker with one for two or three months, occasionally coaxing it to sputter but never quite getting it to move from point A to point B. We never knew when his spirit would break, but we waited for that juncture with great anticipation.
Eventually, he'd admit defeat and bring out a shovel, pick a spot in his backyard and begin digging. We'd gather in Billy Vandergraff's yard and watch. We knew better than to try to get any closer--our one attempt had met with words that could cut through ten-foot-thick titanium steel walls. He'd dig like a man possessed. Depending on the size of the car it would take him either two or three days to dig a big enough hole, weather permitting. Then he'd put the car in neutral and shove it in. The holes were always the right size so that the cars were completely below ground level; this was no Cadillac Ranch. He'd shovel dirt on top and go off to read the want ads looking for a new prospect.
We wished that he'd erect grave markers (Chevy Coupe 1938-1969 RIP) but he never did.
© Copyright Erik Kosberg 1992, 2007
