Junk

by Alison Stewart

  Q: Of all the solutions that you’ve heard, which seems the most plausible and the most practical?

  Kessler: Well, the most plausible is to just use the old-fashioned technique of going up and grabbing it and bringing it back—using something like the shuttle to go get it. And, you know, that is the most expensive. Even if you had one lodge—bring one object back—and you’re only doing five a year, we’re launching things into space seventy-five launches per year.

  Q: You just have to budget in cleanup? If you’re going to be doing this, it’s going to be the cost of business; you have to budget in cleanup if you’re going to be involved in space exploration.

  Kessler: Exactly. Yep. And once you have that capability, then even satellites that say, well, I don’t want to follow the twenty-five-year rule. OK. Well, you’re penalized, you know, 10 percent of your budget you’re penalized, and we’ll pick it up for you. It’s part of our satellite servicing capability. And you can minimize that cost, too, by planning where you put them.

  Q: Of all the things that you predicted in ’78, what’s come true?

  Kessler: Just about everything. When I go back and look at that paper, I surprise myself of how accurate it was.

  III

  WHEN DID IT BECOME

  BIG BUSINESS?

  7

  JUNK VETS

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  * * *

  “If you want somebody who’s going to get the job done, hire a veteran.”

  —PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA,

  STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS, JANUARY 20, 2015

  “I just knew that when I was getting into something I was going to go full force in it, and I did. And I’m doing it. It’s just neat. By far, other than being in the Marines, this is the best job.”

  —HECTOR CABALLERO JR.

  IN THE SPLIT second when an Internet search serves up a list of junk removal companies, the potential customer has to decide whether or not to click on a link. As one business writer characterized it, to immediately connect with the consumer online a vendor “must reach inside their brain and pull a lever.”1 So what association could sway the average person to trust your company right away? What image could quickly telegraph to a client “Hey, we can come into your home and you’ll feel safe and respected”?

  Military branding is a perfect match for selling junk removal because of the attributes often assigned to veterans: loyalty, honor, hard work. The shorthand of the military affiliation is universally understood. After all, junk removal is a business model that requires an almost unreasonable comfort level—you have to allow complete strangers into your personal space and let them touch your things.

  The founder of JDog Junk Removal of Pennsylvania says the appeal is knowing that a veteran-owned business will understand ethics, punctuality, and respect.2 Businessman Jerry Flanagan, whose nickname was J Dog when he was in the army, wanted to help other service people start their own enterprises. He came up with the idea of offering junk removal franchises to active duty, reservists, and families of service members. For these folks he offers a full package with a designated territory, web support, and marketing plans. The latter includes the look and image of the company. Workers suit up in uniforms that resemble fatigues and the trucks are painted camouflage. The JDog logo is a gruff-looking bulldog wearing a captain’s hat and, of course, dog tags. The bulldog has been an unofficial symbol of the marines since Brigadier General Smedley Darlington Butler, a double Medal of Honor recipient who introduced the English Bulldog as a mascot after World War I. His name was Private Jiggs.3

  In Vermont you can call Grunts Move Junk. The CEO of the company served in the army and the COO was in the air force. For those in the know, a grunt is an infantryman, what the US Army refers to as “the backbone of the army.” It is also, of course, an onomatopoeic word applied to work that is tedious, requires more brawn than brains, and hard enough to make even a strong person groan. Grunts Move Junk fully embraces its military theme. The tri-level pricing structure is as follows: “The Private,” a small haul; “The Sergeant,” medium-sized removal; and for a big load, “The Captain.” The haulers wear army-green shirts with an “I [Heart] Veterans” logo on the back. They drive military-jeep-style trucks sporting a US Army star with a big gold G in the center. On its website the workers are rated on charm, height, and dance skills.

  Fire Dawgs is owned and operated by veterans and firefighters in Indiana. It opted to play up the first responder aspect of the company with bright red trucks and uniforms and cute Dalmatians on the logo. However, the superhero military man branding isn’t a sure path to success. The Junk Fighters of Kansas City, Missouri, another responder-based company, went out of business in 2013.

  You wouldn’t immediately peg Hector Caballero Jr. as someone who served unless he happened to be wearing short sleeves. On his right arm is a simple tattoo, two words written in script, Semper Fi, and on his left forearm, Semper Fidelis. It is Latin for “always faithful” and has been the marine’s motto since 1883.

  Hector met a recruiter when he was nineteen. “They had these flashcards. There were like twenty of them. He said, ‘Pick out seven things that are important to you.’ And there were things like leadership, integrity, honor. You know, I’m not trying to be all cheesy, but I was picking them out and he [the recruiter] was like, ‘You could be a marine. Think about it.’” Not even of the legal drinking age, Hector made a decision that changed his life. “I was moved by it. And I joined.” A young, big, tree-trunk of a guy, a Mexican American with closely cropped dark hair and a killer smile, Hector was ready to go.

  He served for four years as military police and garrison. He was stationed in Okinawa for a year. He broke up fights on bases and responded to plane crashes. At one point he trained and became part of the Special Reaction Team (SRT), which is like the SWAT team of the marines. A career highlight for him was providing support and security in the Philippines for the fifty-year commemoration of the Leyte Gulf landing, the largest naval maneuver of World War II.

  Once he was honorably discharged, Hector had a few different jobs and even owned a bar for a while. One day he thought he’d hit on the path to small business ownership that didn’t involve booze and fried food. “I remember coming home from the bar one night, and I was thinking, I’m driving home, and I had a couple other rental properties at the time, and I wanted to continue renting properties. And I saw the port-o-johns and it clicked in my head. I’m like, real estate is all over the place! You don’t have to pay taxes, you just collect rent on it. I was really fascinated by it. I went so deep into it that I had port-o-john magazines coming to the house. I mean, I had so much literature. I had a list of eleven portable toilet companies. I went down a list. I found one that wanted to hire. Got hired. They hired me on. They relied on me for everything because I was the most reliable guy. I wanted to learn everything.” But what Hector learned was you couldn’t trust the real estate market. Construction dwindled when the economy collapsed in 2008 and his idea went down the toilet. (I couldn’t resist, and if you knew Hector, you’d know he’d think that was pretty funny.)

  “I remember I just quit because I’m like, ‘I’m not even going to think about it.’ And then I was watching CNBC. My wife was making dinner. I’m like, ‘Oh my God. I got it. This is it. I’m going to do that.’”

  That was junk removal.

  “You know, I did everything in a week. I called the lawyer and said, ‘Hey Tony. I want to get incorporated.’ ‘OK. I’m on it. What’s the name?’ I said, ‘Junk Vets.’ And then called the insurance company and said, ‘I need insurance.’ Got it. This is it basically. Got my vanity phone number, 855-JUNKVET, and then—my brother, a steel worker, I asked him, ‘Can I use one of your trucks?’ He was like, ‘Yeah.’ So, he leased it to me for a while. . . . I took it in, got it painted, got my website, and I was in business.”

  Hector’s can-do attitude is what military recruiters cite as a natural resource. Experts say that veterans are good
for business because, as one executive put it, “The military is perhaps the best institution in the nation for teaching highly sought qualities such as leadership, teamwork, mission orientation, and integrity.”4

  Hector agrees and believes his time in the marines plays a part in what he does every day on the job and how he runs his business. “One thing that is a big misconception about marines, a lot of movies portray them as like, you know, loud and fighting. We’re tough. We’re fighting, but you know, they don’t portray the professional department. It’s the biggest group of professionals no matter what trade you’re in. Whether you’re in infantry or you’re a military policeman, they train you how to be professional. . . . Don’t slip up and swear. Don’t say anything out of line, and just be aware of what you’re saying. I think about that. I don’t want to slip up when I’m dealing with a customer. I don’t.”

  Hector’s boss is tough and business minded, but fair. He has to be; Junk Vets is a one-man band. When Hector has a big job he does his best to hire other veterans and service folks to help. “I was just like researching other companies and I’m like, ‘What do I got that’s unique?’ You know what I mean? I just couldn’t think of anything. And then I just go and think in my head. I’m like, ‘I’m a veteran. . . . Then I wanted to model it after a veteran-owned business, you know, hiring vets. That’s what I’m looking to continue to do hopefully. But it’s not possible to hire only vets, you know?”

  He’s had a few successes. But there was one failure to save a former brother in arms that haunts him. An old friend of his, we’ll call him Ted, did not make the same kind of productive transition to civilian life that Hector did. It is hard for Hector to talk about it. “He was the Marine Corps. When you think of pitch-perfect marine professionalism, he was hard core. He was just a great dude. Everybody looked up to him. Everybody respected him.” The two were in the same living quarters and they became very good friends. “We were like brothers. We became so tight. We did everything together. We worked together. We’d go out partying together. We’d wake up in the morning hung over and go get breakfast and then go to work. Then we’d go back to the barracks. We had that lifestyle. It was just work hard, and play hard. When we got out of the marines he never stopped. He just got really out of control. He called me crying, like, ‘Dude, I don’t know what to do. I’m going to die. I’m withering away.’ I’m like, ‘Dude, come here right now.’ I wired him a bus ticket, and he was on a bus. He came to town and I said, ‘Come over to my house. Spend the night at my house this weekend, and then we’ll continue treatment.’” Hector had hoped he could help his friend get back to work and that he could get the guy on his feet. “I picked him up from the bus station, and I knew immediately we were going to the hospital. It was that bad.” Ted lasted for about a month and then left.

  Hector’s drive for helping out others is a big part of what he does. His childhood friend helps run a halfway house for people who have worked their way through substance abuse rehab. It was started by a firefighter to help other service folks with addiction issues, and it has expanded to be a workable solution for all kinds of people trying to reclaim their lives. Hector often tries out guys that his buddy, also a recovering addict and an alum of the house, thinks would be good on the job. This buddy, Mike, worked with Hector on many jobs in Junk Vets’ early days. He knows the healing power of helping others in need, especially those whose lives have been overtaken by their junk, in a way that sounds a bit like the people who have been overtaken by their addictions. “The people are overwhelmed. It is needed for people who are in trouble. People who just bury themselves. They are afraid to get rid of stuff. Objects [of] sentimental value. People are afraid of losing what they have, so they collect and accumulate.”

  Veteran or not, Hector was working on Memorial Day weekend. Junk Vets is a low-fi operation: he has a cell phone, a notebook, and his truck. He had a few jobs booked, and a third emergency one came in at the last minute. They all had one thing in common: all of the homes belonged to folks who were born when a man could be president for more than two terms.

  A whippet-thin and lighting-quick lady in her seventies was waiting in her driveway as Hector pulled up the truck. It has a red cab, the hauling box painted blue with white lettering: JUNK VETS. The woman was neatly dressed in a white leisure suit and white running shoes. Her thinning but well-coiffed hair was dyed a fawn brown. She led Hector to an immaculate garage. She’d already organized what needed to go but was still a little embarrassed by the piles she wanted removed. “I had forty years of clutter!”

  If she only knew what most garages look like. Her garage was a junk hauler’s dream. No vermin. A swept floor. No sharp edges. She had completely staged what she wanted taken away. She ticked off her list of things to go: the gutters, an old table, some leftover decking. Pointing to the back wall, she apologizes for not making the objects more accessible. “There are these weights over there in the corner. I couldn’t pull them out. What can I say, I’m a hundred-pound weakling!” She was maybe one hundred pounds with a brick in each pocket, but this lady had a strong spirit. She was a fast talker, zipping over to the right corner of the garage to show Hector the frames on the screen door and bopping over the left to point out a tire. “I always said, next year, next year . . .” She finally decided to get started with the garage but she had not tackled her attic yet. “It is a crawl space. It has all my kids’ stuff. A baby mattress for a baby’s crib. My baby is thirty years old.” She laughs. When asked why not let Hector head up there and at least haul away the ancient baby crib mattress, she says quite seriously, “Well if she had a baby, we could use it.”

  It was an interesting comment. A woman who until that moment was making rational, clear decisions about life’s leftovers expressed an unrealistic attachment to a mattress that most likely would not meet twenty-first-century safety standards. It was probably harboring mold, could sag in a way that increases the risk of SIDS, and was likely not fire retardant. Yet in her mind, an agile mind, that mattress was a connection to her “baby” and the promise of grandchildren to come.

  The job was completed in about twenty minutes.

  “I can’t believe I got rid of all that stuff. Some of it after forty-five years!” Does she know any veterans? Yes, her husband had been in the air force. “You are a godsend!” she told Hector as she paid him. She was really happy. “I swear I didn’t pay her!” Hector chimed in. He was clearly pleased that his customer was thrilled. He told me earnestly, “I promise, it wasn’t an act!”

  That nice lady was what we all hope for our parents, and even ourselves as time marches on. She was living in her own home. It was clean and fresh and so was she. It is a real blessing for those who get to live the last years of their lives as she is.

  Others are not as fortunate, as was made clear by an emergency call that came in at 10:16 AM. The person on the other end was a little panicked and short on details. Hector tried to get the caller to tell him how much needed to be picked up so he could give him a quote. Hector asked nicely but repeatedly, “Well, what kind of stuff ya got?” From his face, it seemed Hector was not satisfied with the answers he was getting. He quoted a price based on the vague description. After he hung up, Hector had a feeling.

  The location was an assisted living senior home. A harried-looking but exceedingly polite overweight black woman in her forties met us at the loading dock. She’d discovered at the last minute that her mother had to be out of her apartment by the end of the month, which was in four days. She’d done all that she could in the space but now she just needed the rest gone. She was clearly in distress. As she leads us up to the apartment, a few heads popped out and a man asked Hector, “Are you going to Mrs. Madsen’s*?” Hector stops to tell the elderly man, “I am not sure, sir. I am working for her daughter today.” Everyone in the facility seemed to know about Mrs. Madsen.

  Hector’s fear turned out to be right. There was a lot more stuff than the woman’s husband had said on the phone. There wer
e three couches, two chairs, a mirror, mops, brooms, silk flowers, four bags of clothes, and a fake fireplace. And when we got there, the daughter mentioned the storage locker. Storage locker? Hector later told me “Sometimes I feel stupid when I underbid. But she seems like a nice lady. She has trouble.” He ultimately didn’t charge her extra. It really should have been double the quote but she only had the cash that her husband gave her based on his elusive phone conversation. Maybe the husband played Hector, but she was close to tears. It was easy to understand why. The state of the room told the story. It smelled of urine and stale food. It was easy to imagine that it had been a nice living space once, but that over time Mrs. Madsen, probably telling her children she was fine, was too proud to admit or maybe too sick to realize that she was living a life that was slowly degrading.

  Hector and his team worked in silence. There wasn’t much to say. This was sad. He looked at the couches and whispered to me, “Man, I hate old furniture. Old furniture is really heavy.” In the midst of all this trash was a beautiful art deco pearl pin on the floor in the corner. Was it accidentally left behind? Was the initial clean out so frenzied that many other beautiful pieces were now in a box or Dumpster somewhere? Or was it just a sign sent to remind us that someone who was loved lived here, someone who had a life where she would wear a pin like this to church or out to lunch? “Thank you so much,” the woman says when I hand it to her. “It was my mother’s.”