Every time Malik identified a plate, it moved from unknown storage to labeled shelving.
If he found duplicates, he stacked them together.
The pile slowly became inventory.
October turned into November.
Malik went to school.
Worked at Bell's.
Did homework.
Cleaned plates.
Saturday mornings became full catalog days.
His grandmother occasionally asked, “How many left?”
“Six hundred twelve.”
A week later:
“Five hundred eighty.”
Then:
“Five hundred nineteen.”
His mother asked, “Sold anything?”
“No.”
“Anybody ask?”
“No.”
She did not sound critical.
Just practical.
Malik understood.
Information had value only if somebody needed what the information described.
He started writing letters.
In 1990, there was no internet search bar waiting to tell him which obsolete planter plate fit which machine.
There were manuals.
Dealership archives.
Telephone calls.
Letters.
People.
Malik wrote to manufacturers requesting old compatibility information.
Some replied.
Some did not.
He called repair shops after closing using Bell's rotary office phone.
“Bell Farm Equipment Repair.”
“Who is this?”
“Malik Carter. I'm trying to identify a plate number.”
Pause.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
Another pause.
“Put Bell on.”
Bell eventually started telling people:
“If the boy asks a question, answer the boy.”
That helped.
One retired dealer in Indiana mailed photocopies of fifteen pages from an old seed-plate catalog.
Another mechanic in Ohio explained that two nearly identical International plates differed in the depth of their cell pockets.
Malik wrote everything down.
Bell never did the research for him.
He answered questions.
He corrected mistakes.
But he forced Malik to make the first attempt.
One evening, Malik carried a cleaned plate toward Bell like he had discovered buried gold.
“Mr. Bell.”
Bell was replacing a hydraulic hose.
“What?”
“Look at this.”
Bell looked.
“Seed plate.”
“No, look at the pattern.”
Bell looked again.
The plate had an unusual series of narrow, offset holes.
Malik had not seen anything similar in the first three hundred plates.
“I think it's rare.”
Bell raised an eyebrow.
“Why?”
“Nothing else looks like it.”
“That your definition of rare?”
“Maybe.”
Bell took the plate.
Turned it over.
Read the number.
Then laughed.
Malik's excitement disappeared.
“What?”
Bell walked to the back room.
He pulled out an old catalog.
Flipped several pages.
Pointed.
The exact plate.
Huge production numbers.
Used across several common planter models.
Bell handed the catalog to Malik.
“About the most ordinary plate made for fifteen years.”
Malik stared.
“But the hole pattern.”
“Looks unusual.”
“So?”
Bell leaned against the bench.
“Unusual looking isn't rare.”
Malik said nothing.
Bell continued.
“Rare means supply is low.”
He held up one finger.
“And somebody still needs it.”
Second finger.
“If nobody wants it, rarity doesn't make it valuable.”
Malik looked at the plate.