Chapter 14: Bumpers & Red Ants
- Eric J Herrholz
- Jul 15
- 2 min read
We took a trip to Texas once—not just for family, not just to see relatives in Houston. It was a mission, stitched together by memories, opportunity, and chrome.
Dad had that gleam in his eye, the kind that told me this wouldn’t be just another road trip. Chicago winters rusted everything—including dreams. But Texas? Texas had clean cars. Rust-free bumpers. A gold mine waiting in junkyards.
While my three sisters buzzed about seeing cousins, and Mom counted the miles to reunite with her siblings, Dad pulled me aside.
"Get the tools. Grab those extra Chicago Tribunes."
I was a paperboy—I knew where to get stacks for free. Newspapers would soon become packaging material for chrome treasure.
Off we went. From the Big City to the Wild West. Dad, ever the Urban Cowboy, had Gilley's in his sights and grit in his soul.
And when we got there? The real work began.
We hit junkyards like prospectors panning for gold. I crawled under rust-free Texas cars stacked like metallic skyscrapers or half-buried in dirt. HELLO, RED ANTS.
The bite wasn’t the worst of it. It was the heat, the sweat, the thrill of the hunt.
Chrome bumpers—gleaming, shining, forgotten. We paid $50 for a pair. Wrapped them tight in newspaper, stacked them in the truck like trophies.
When back home, we'd pull into Berkots grocery parking lot, let people shop in peace… and work the lot like magicians. $250 to $400 a pair. Quick swap. Fast cash.
My dad was hustling—but not just for money. For legacy. For grit. He didn’t just teach me how to work. He taught me how to see opportunity where most saw junk.
The ride to Texas with an empty truck bed was a blast—open road, southern skies, cowboy music pumping. But the ride home? That’s where the lesson hit hardest. Me in the back, wedged between stacks of bumpers, the wind whipping stories into my skin.
I didn’t complain. Because this was our thing.
Father and son. Urban cowboy and apprentice. Rust to riches, bonded by bolts and ambition.
