Is that an AK47, or are you just happy to see me?

I must admit, though I found it odd at first, the fact that most vehicles in Ireland are compacts makes the job much easier than it was in Texas. Unfortunately, it also meant that I would be completely ignorant of most of their names and types.

Qashqai? Tiida? 'ceed? Lada? Twingo? 106? Punto(not puto)? Octavia? Robin? Xantia? Avensis? Pixo? Alto? Ssangyong Kyron?

Nissan's "S-Cargo"(seriously):

None of these things do we have in the US(at least not as of this writing). So part of the time - no wait - most of the time during the first few weeks when I am told to transfer a certain model from a Garda impound lot, I have no freakin' clue WTF I am looking for.

"It's a Nissan Note", Tony tells me over the radio.

"Are you trying to say 'North'?" I politely reply.

"No! It's not me accent, you poxy fucken Yank. It's a NOTE. As in 'a note' of, er, something..."

"You're using 'a note' as an example of what a Note is? That's what you did just then. You know that, right?" I sarcastically replied.

"I note what I did. Now go get the car!". Well, at least I note it was a car I was looking for.

Moments later I am in Sundrive Garda Station in Crumlin. Like many stations in Dublin proper, it's quite crowded with nowhere to really park. So, I put the truck on the curb halfway and hop out on to the pavement to be confronted by an elderly woman directly.

"Yous are really gonna just park it right here, then? Roight in the middle of the path, are yous?"

"Uh...er..I, uh, can't fit the ENTIRE truck on the path. So, uh, yeah. Here she sits." I proudly replied. She obviously wasn't impressed, and walked around the truck shaking her head,

"Fuckin yanks..."

Have I mentioned that I am a Southerner? So I feel a slight tinge of pain every time someone in Europe calls me a 'Yank'. Just saying...

The Garda station was a tight squeeze, and on this evening there were four people ahead of me waiting at the window. That's about two more than the station could hold. So, I have to wait halfway out the door. It's just as well, the man at the window is shouting at the Gard all manner of abuse that I was really in no mood to deal with. After a few minutes, I take a few steps back towards the sidewalk and light a cigarette. It was just what I needed. The noise and rough ride of the recovery vehicle can take it's toll on you. Add in shouting Irishmen in tight spaces, and I needed the break.

"Fock! Yous are still here, are yous?" The elderly woman was back, her hands grasping bags full of goods she apparently just obtained from the Spar around the corner. She waved one bag at me as if to prove it was from 'Spar', and motioned towards the truck with the other,

"I see the lorrie is still there, so. Yes. Of course it's still there!", She shouted as she stepped around it, shaking her head. I was surprised she didn't spit on it.

All four of the men inside the station step past me at that moment. Why couldn't they have been done just thirty seconds sooner? I walked up to the window.

"I'm here for ah..uh.." I forgot what the hell I was there for. That old woman wiped my memory somehow.

"Is it a Nissan Note, are you lookin' fer?" The Gard spoke. He could see by my jacket I was with the recovery service.

"If you say so."

He handed me the keys and said, "She's been gone over fairly well, so she's all yours.", which basically means it's not to be held for later pick-up or impounded, all the evidence is out of it, and generally is ready to go and be recycled. It's not a great policy, but chances are the car wasn't registered right, or it was owned by a gang member, or maybe the Gards just didn't like the owner.

All the cars were back up to the rear wall of the yard, and within inches, too. There was no room in the Garda lot, which is why we take them to a central impound location, after all. There was no remote on the key fob, so I had to stick my head around the ass end of every car to see which one was a Note. Par for the course.

Eventually I am back at the impound lot with the Note. There are no other calls, so I am hanging out at the recycling shed where the vehicles are emptied of all their fluids and then moved to the crusher. There's a pretty cool, if stoic and quiet, Polish guy that runs the recycling shed. Next to him was an annoying Lithuanian guy whom all of us at work called "The Russian".

The Pol has me put the Note on the lift so he can raise it up and drain it's fluids. Russian is standing across from me, speaking Polish to the Pol. I light up a Lucky. It all sounds like Russian to me.

"You know you should not smoke in here...", Russian says as he raises an eyebrow at me.

I glare at him, made as though I was about to say something, then simply continued smoking. Russian frowned and went back to speaking Polish again. The Pol simply grunted in response.

Suddenly there was a metallic crashing noise that echoed throughout the garage, and we all jerked to attention. Something had fallen out from underneath the Note onto the concrete floor.

All three of us move over to it, crouching so as not to hit our heads on the undercarriage.

"Oh my God", the Russian said in perfect English...for once. I couldn't understand whatever it was the Pol said.

"Don't even try to act surprised - like you've never seen such a thing!", I exclaimed to Russian. "Those have got to be growing underneath every rock in Russia."

I knelt down to see, under the dirt and the mud and maybe some blood, was an AK-47 laying on the concrete floor before us.

"Don't touch it.", Russian whispered.

"Der, ya think? I'll tell Tony and he can call the Gards to see if they maybe want it back."

"Gards don't want it back", Tony tells us over the radio. "But they seem to be keen on coming for a look."

"No shit?", I say, looking at the rifle before me, one hand on a cig, the other on the radio.

"Also, they say for none of you to leave. They want to ask questions".

"Lovely.", I exhaled. Only in Ireland would three unarmed foreign nationals be asked to guard a machine gun. I lit another cigarette.