Repo Man

Nobody weeps for a repo man. There are people all over town that’d raise a cheer to see Hank Wynd in the obits. Can’t really blame them either. It’s my job to take from them, to collect on the debts they can’t pay. No, I don’t wonder why the local undertaker’s still a more popular guy than me. Still though, I don’t think I deserved a bullet. I got kids you know, even if I ain’t seen either of them for a long while. But I know they’re good boys. I trust that Meredith raised our kids up right, even with that Keith fella instead of me. Yeah, Mikey and Joey will be just fine. I don’t even figure the news of my untimely demise hit them too hard, and thank God for that.

You know, when you’re a kid you always hear that you get to see your whole life before you go. You’d see it in the cartoons and Bobby Carver from up the street would swear up and down how it’d happened to him when he almost got run over by that semi. I used to think maybe that was some kind of compensation. You’re going away, but you get to take the whole trip again, really get a look at the good parts one more time. I’d of liked that. My touchdown at the Homecoming game back at Roosevelt... The day Mikey was born... It would have been real nice to see that stuff again. That ain’t how it worked out for me though. I didn’t get all 48 years of my life. All I got was that day. The day I died.

I woke up that morning, same as always, just a few minutes before the alarm went off. Thing hasn’t had a chance to beep in years. Next I got up for my shower. Grabbed the little necklace from the nightstand and went for the bathroom. The necklace had a little Crucifix on it. I wore it every day since Father Tom gave it to me. He said it was for the generous donations I’d been making to the Church. I figured 10 percent of my paycheck was the least I could do. Wasn’t for the AA program they run out of Sacred Heart, I don’t know where I’d be. I just wish I’d gotten into it before Meredith took the kids. Before she took away the visitation rights.

It’s ok though. Those boys are probably better off for it anyway.

After getting ready and having a bowl of Cheerios, I took my old Beetle out to the Repossession Lot. It wasn’t much to look at, my car, but it got me where I needed going and maintenance was a breeze. Not like on the new ones. Those are a real pain in the ass with all the electrics and wires they got in them now. I remember a car I repossessed recently, one of those hybrids. Well, the owner, she knew we were gonna take the thing away, so she went in and just started pulling wires out, just whichever ones she could get at. Then she closed it all up again and let us pick it up with no trouble. It was about a week before we figured out what she’d done to the damn thing.

Pardon my language.

Where was I? Right, the Lot. Well, I got there early, as I always do, and I just shot the shit with Stan for a little while. Stan’s my boss you see, but him and me go farther back then that. He was my sponsor when I joined the AA. Gave me my job, kept me on the right track. I’m 14 years sober thanks to Stan. Through all of it though, we never became best friends or anything. I trust and rely on Stan, and he trusted me enough to give me this job, but he always had to keep a little bit of distance as my sponsor, so as not to be “emotionally compromised.” He’s a good guy though. I don’t know if my opinion weighs too much on this, but I just figured I’d put my two cents in, seeing as how I’m here and all.

Stan sent me out on a job pretty early that morning. 2001 Ford Focus to be repossessed from Cherry Hills. That made me want to swear a little bit. Cherry Hills is subdivision, a pretty nice one, and that has its own set of problems for repo men. See, the scary parts of town, I know how to deal with those pretty well. I’ve got my gun, and most of the time whatever I’m picking up is too banged up to be worth fighting over anyway. But in these residential neighborhoods, having your car taken away is embarrassing, and embarrassment is something most of these people just can’t deal with. So they make a fuss, they scream and holler and then the neighbors come out. If I don’t play it just right, the repossession could be reversed, and the company would have to pay damages. See, as repo men we have a non-delegatable obligation not to cause a Breach of the Peace. Pretty fancy talk, huh? Basically, if the person I’m taking the vehicle from makes a big enough scene, they get to keep the car, and some of the people in these type of neighborhoods know that.

Luckily, it was a Tuesday, and I guess the owner of the car was at work by now. Still, I hooked it up to my tow truck and took off quick as I could. Looking back in the mirror as I drove away, I saw a wrinkly old man in a robe and tighty whities wander out of his house to see what was happening to his neighbor’s Focus. Well, least Grandpa has a story to tell everybody when they get home. That should brighten his day a bit.

That’s what I’m all about, you know. Brightening up peoples' days.

I had three other pickups that morning, and they all went smooth as you could want. Two of the owners even watched me as I took it. Both of them had willingly given up the car so they could keep paying for a roof over their heads. Made my job easier, but it really struck me how many vehicles we were repossessing lately. I read just the other day that repossessions are up 15 percent nationwide, and sure, that keeps me in business, but, frankly, I don’t like it.

Rest of the morning was spent at the lot, fixing up the vehicles for auction. Lot of these vehicles got problems, some from lack of care, and some from deliberate action. Most of the time the action isn’t subtle like the lady with the hybrid either. Had a Camaro come in the other day that the owner had actually taken a sledgehammer to. I worked right on through till lunch, when Stan came down and told me to go ahead and take a break. I told him I wanted to finish up on the engine of this 1968 Ford Mustang we’d pulled in a few weeks ago. I was still amazed we’d found anything like her. 320 horsepower, 390 GT engine, 4 speed manual transmission… that baby could eat up a quarter mile in 13 seconds flat if I could just get her running again. Real classic car. Same model they used in Bullit. You remember that movie? You guys watch movies up here? Well, Stan remembered, so he let me tinker around with her for another twenty minutes before telling me to go ahead and get some food in me. I wiped my hands off and went inside. There was a turkey and tomato sandwich in the fridge I’d been saving, and it was calling me.

I was pretty content there, munching on the sandwich, daydreaming about that car. I was starting to think that maybe when the auction came around I could put in a bid or two. Stan walked up and handed me a grape pop. I took it and thanked him. He sat down next to me with his own soda and smiled.

“Pretty good work you’ve been doing Hank. Keep this up and there won’t be a car left in Jefferson ain’t in this lot.”

“Well Stan, no disrespect, but I hope you’re wrong.”

He held onto that thought for about a minute. You could see it rolling around in his mind. Then he just sorta let it go. Stan’s a focused man, not really one to philosophize, you know? But that’s good for a man like him. He’s got a business to run, and his focus helped me stay on the straight and narrow for years.

He looked me in the eyes then, back to business. “Hank,” he said, “I got another job for you. I don’t really like sending you out for it, but it’s gotta be done. Listen, you go get this car and you can stay in the lot for the rest of the day, work on that Mustang. How ‘bout it Hank?” Stan handed me the repossession form with all the pertinent information. 1999 Ford Ranger. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing but the address: 185 Lincoln Avn.

I knew the neighborhood pretty well. I’d spent some time there. Before the AA, but after Meredith left. But I’m sure you all already knew that, huh? So you already know why I was there. What I was doing in Lincoln Avenue, meth capital for three counties around.

I never claimed to be a saint. I’ve burned a lot of bridges in my time. But I was trying to make up for it. 14 years I’ve been trying to make up for it. It didn’t have to… Ah, forget it. Doesn’t really matter now, does it?

Well, you know the rest of the story. I asked Stan if maybe one of the other guys could get this one. He told me none of the other guys were around, and the owner was a probable flight risk. Had to be done today, he said. Then I could go work on that car for as long as I pleased.

So I went, and I hooked up the car, and the skinhead dealer came out with his gun, and I reached for mine, edgy as I was to be back in that hell-hole. Then I got shot. It took me three hours before I went into cardiac arrest. The doctors did all they could. I don’t blame them.

They buried me on a hill. Stan spoke at the funeral. Meredith and the boys were there. Keith waited in the car. I never did like Keith, I hope you’ll forgive me for that. A few buddies of mine from here and there showed up, along with some guys from AA. Wasn’t any kind of big deal though. Dry eyes all around. I don’t really mind though. I appreciate that I got to see it.

You know, it kind of funny. They buried me on a hill right next to a willow tree. It never made a single sound. It’s like I told you. Nobody weeps for a repo man.