The dealer shrugged.
“My wife says I don't throw away anything that smells like grease.”
He placed the first manual on the workbench.
“Today, that becomes useful.”
They made rules before touching the inventory.
No wire wheel.
No grinding.
No paint.
No aggressive cleaning.
The boy had assumed restoring the plates meant making them shiny.
The dealer stopped him immediately.
“You erase numbers, you erase value.”
So they used stiff brushes.
Rags.
Kerosene sparingly.
A little penetrating oil where rust covered markings.
They sorted by manufacturer family.
Then diameter.
Then hole pattern.
Then casting number.
The boy created index cards.
One card per casting number.
Quantity.
Condition.
Known application.
Unknown application.
Cracked.
Usable.
New old stock.
By noon, the barn smelled like rust, oil, paper, and cold air.
The boy loved it.
His younger sister appeared after lunch.
“What are you doing?”
“Inventory.”
She looked at hundreds of metal discs spread across plywood sheets.
“That looks terrible.”
“It is.”
“Are you getting paid?”
“Eventually.”
She considered.
“I'll count for fifty cents an hour.”
The boy laughed.
“Twenty-five.”
“Forty.”
“Thirty.”
“Plus snacks.”
“Fine.”
She worked longer than anyone expected.
Her job was calling out numbers while her brother wrote.
“P-three-six-two.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
“Condition?”
“Two ugly.”
“They're all ugly.”
“These are more ugly.”
The retired dealer laughed from across the barn.
“Mark them C condition.”
The girl looked toward him.
“What’s C?”
“Customer complains when box opens but uses them anyway.”
She laughed.
By the end of the first day, they had cataloged 214 plates.
The boy's hands were black.
His fingernails looked permanently stained.
His mother made him wash twice before dinner.
The phone rang during mashed potatoes.
His father answered.
“Hello?”
He listened.
Then looked toward his son.
“Wisconsin.”
The boy nearly dropped his fork.
His father held out the receiver.
The caller owned two old planters and needed eight specific plates.
The boy opened the notebook they had begun keeping beside the kitchen telephone.
“What casting number?”
The man gave it.
The boy covered the receiver.
They had six.
He returned.
“I have six.”
“Condition?”
The boy looked toward the retired dealer, who had stayed for supper.
The dealer whispered:
“Ask application.”
“Which planter are you using?”
The caller told him.
The boy checked the cross-reference manual.
Correct.
The dealer nodded.
“How much?”
The boy froze.
He had not decided prices.
The retired dealer held up ten fingers.
The boy said:
“Ten dollars each.”