By Paul Ruffin
The following is the second part of a piece I started last week on the oil trapped in Walmart parking lots.
“Here’s what.” Charles was whispering too. “Derrick and I theorize that there are millions and millions of barrels of extractable oil in that asphalt, and in 10 years there will be billions.”
Then Derrick: “And Charles and I have designed a machine that will grind up that thick, super-absorbent asphalt and squeeze out the oil impregnated in it and collect it in a holding tank.
“The back section of the machine stirs up and heats the old asphalt and adds a few pounds of restorative chemicals in it and then lays in the renewed asphalt and starts the process over, like a lumber company planting new trees. It’s recycling at its best.”
“Holy cow!”
“No, holy cash!” Charles said. “We will make millions of dollars with these machines.”
“And save the country,” Derrick added. “Those Walmart parking lots are the greatest untapped oil reservoir in the world. I guarantee you that there’s more oil in a cubic yard of Walmart asphalt than there is in a cubic mile of Austin chalk.”
“Here,” Charles said.
He took a napkin and spread it out on the table. “I’ll draw the machine up for you, let you see what we’re talking about. You might want to get in on the financing end of things.”
I studied all this a few minutes as they huddled and drew out a crude sketch of their oil-extractor.
Charles would draw a little bit, pass the napkin to Derrick, he’d add a line or two, then they would look and grunt and nod. The night was wearing on, though, and I was tired.
“Just save it, guys,” I finally said.
Charles gave me a cold look. “You don’t want to see the machine?”
“What makes you guys think that Mr. Sam didn’t think of this first?”
“Mr. Sam?” they said in unison.
“Yes. Sam Walton.” I reached over and tapped the napkin. “I’ll just bet you that Mr. Sam had all this figured out and such a machine has already been built to do this processing.”
They shook their heads. “Naw,” Derrick said.
“Yeah. I’ll bet you that you won’t find a single court case in the country where Walmart fought the asphalt rule, and I’ll just bet you that they’re the ones who suggested using the thick, absorbent stuff. You boys are behind the curve here. If there’s not a prototype of that machine sitting in a Walmart warehouse somewhere, I’ll eat that beer bottle Derrick’s holding.
“Look, why the hell do you think they use the super-absorbent stuff anyway? “Certainly not because the EPA suggested it. Somebody planned it that way for a reason, and you can just bet your molars that Mr. Sam was the one behind it.”
They looked at me a long time before saying anything. Then Charles took a long drag on his bourbon and said to Derrick, “He’s probably right. I’ll bet that old man had all this figured out. Make the parking lots one great big used oil receptacle, grind the asphalt up every twenty years and squeeze the oil out of it, fluff and tumble the asphalt and relay it, and in another 20 years . . . .”
Ours was not a happy parting that evening – my engineering buddies had lost something of their verve. The last I saw of them, they were walking along slowly, heads down, mumbling something about Walmart winning again.
On the way back to my wife’s parents’ home I passed the big Walmart Supercenter in Ocean Springs, even at considerable distance noting the great oil stains in the parking lot. And I wondered about Mr. Sam and his dream for America and whether he yet might save us.
Paul Ruffin, 2009 Texas State Poet Laureate, is Texas State University System Regents’ Professor and Distinguished Professor of English at Sam Houston State University. His Web site is pauldruffin.com.
