“The holidays are upon us. You know what that means. Bonus time.” Fred waved a handful of envelopes in front of him. “I want to take this opportunity to thank each one of you for a fine year. Of course, we have collected more money this year than any other and I’m proud that this is the fifth consecutive year that I’ve been able to say that.”
While Fred continued his dissertation about the current year’s performance, Sharon stood by Derick’s cubicle. She noticed his knuckles were white; he was squeezing the phone so tight.
“Mrs. Robinson,” Derick said, “we don’t have debtor prisons anymore … no, and we don’t have work houses.” Derick cupped the phone and whispered to Sharon, “I think she’s watching the Christmas Carol.” He returned to the phone call. “We’re civilized people, Mrs. Robinson.” He tossed Sharon a deadpan stare to suggest that he had a ‘real winner’ on the phone. “But we have credit bureaus, which keep tabs on miscreants, like you. Now, maybe we should garnish your pay. What do you say about that, huh?” There was a pause and then, “Oh, you don’t have a job. But it says here ... never mind. Hmm.”
Sharon threw a crumpled-up half-tag and hit Derick in the back of the head. “Hey, Bonehead,” Sharon whispered, “Mr. Clarion is about to hand out the bonus checks.”
Derick held out his index finger and cupped his hand over the receiver. “Look at this,” he said to Sharon, then pointed to a line item on a sheet in Mrs. Robinson’s folder. Sharon glanced over Derick’s shoulder and saw an entry from Christ the King Bookstore, one of the creditors who were seeking restitution from her.
“Watch this,” he whispered, and then he took his hand off the receiver. “I believe you are a righteous person, Mrs. Robinson. Someone who reads the Bible, am I right? I thought so, and you know what it means to give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar. Yes, of course you do. Well, make believe we are Caesar. You pay us twenty dollars a month because you owe that money. You do that, and I won’t hand out your name to the credit bureaus. And I’m sure God will smile upon you. Excuse me, Mrs. Robinson. I don’t want to seem rude, but I have to go. You think this over a bit and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Derick hung up. He stood and yanked up on his trousers even though they didn’t need pulling up. “I love this job,” he said to Sharon. “It’s my reason for living.”
Fred Clarion held a single check in his hand and tossed the main stack of checks on Todd’s desk. “Todd will distribute your bonus checks in a minute. Now this one…” he waved the single envelope high into the air so everyone can see. “This one is for the agent who has collected the most money for the year.”
Sharon suspected that Derick was going to get the top bonus this year, just like he did last year, and the year before that. He had a perfect, intimidating phone personality. The rub to Sharon was that, if Derick won, Fred would be sanctioning his irritating, bullying, in-violation-of-FDCPA-regulations kind of behavior.
Sharon looked around and inspected the faces, the looks of anxiety. It was like someone was holding out a piece of steak to a hungry crowd that hadn’t eaten in several days. Sharon became envious all of a sudden. She wanted to win because winning the award meant the victor became the ‘go to’ guy for the new deadbeats who had the capacity to pay, the ones who had good jobs, maybe with the Telephone Company or Microsoft, or a congressperson. The process was similar to the horseracing business where the best jockeys were given the opportunity to ride the best horses. Once you became the leader it was easier to stay on top.
“In this envelope,” Fred continued, “is THE bonus check endorsed to the top agent.” He read the envelope. “This year’s award goes to …”
Sharon gritted her teeth. She knew it was going to be Derick Orr. ‘Look at him, the whore,’ she thought to herself. Derick wore a confident countenance, like he expected to win.
“Derick Orr,” Fred yelled out. Derick ran up and Fred handed him the check and congratulated him over a mixture of moans and accolades. Derick grabbed the check and raised it high over his head and imitated a bad disco dance.
Sharon walked back to her cubicle and opened the folder Fred Clarion gave her moments ago. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it …” she kept on repeating, like a mantra to ease the pain of defeat.
She examined the first page in the folder, ignoring the celebration behind her. She entered the name of Margaret Baze into the computer and waited for information to appear on the screen. After scanning the screen, she picked up the phone and dialed.
There were a few rings, and then a polite, female voice answered.
“Hello,” Sharon began, “Is this Mrs. Baze?”
“Yes. This is she.”
“Mrs. Baze, my name is Janice from the Clarion Collection Agency. I think you know why I’m calling, don’t you?”
Sharon felt an uncomfortable silence. In front of her, pinned on her cubicle wall, was a slogan, ‘Strike hard, then observe a moment of silence, like a deaf-mute who just hit his finger with his hammer.’ She mused for a moment while doodling on a pad of paper, and at the same time intently listened for any signs of weakness.
“Yes,” a submissive voice answered. There was more silence, and then Mrs. Baze summoned a more angry tone. “The car was purchased by my ex-husband and he totaled it last year.”
“You should’ve used the insurance to pay off the loan then.”
“He took the money and spent it on other things.”
“Well, Mrs. Baze, the loan was in your name. So … if Confucius were here he’d say, ‘Life stinks’. Zen would say, ‘What is the sound of life stinking?’ A Quaker would say, ‘Be silent and wait for life to stink’. And this call is me saying life sucks when you marry the wrong guy. Be more careful who you marry next time. Meantime, you owe us money. Sharon scanned the TRW on the screen. More silence.
“Listen,” Mrs. Baze quietly responded, “I’m having a difficult time right now. I just got divorced and I’m right in the middle of a custody battle.” Mrs. Baze’s voice seemed to be coming from the depths of her soul.
“Oh, my sympathies.” Sharon actually felt bad for Mrs. Baze, and wanted to hang up and start a new folder. But she couldn’t. She had to stay with this one.
“If I don’t pay my lawyers first, I don’t get to keep my son.”
“Yes. I do see your problem,” Sharon said, almost sounding sincere. “Well, that does make a difference, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes. It does.” Mrs. Baze had a sudden surge of emotion, an agreeable tone.
Derick popped in her cubicle and did an extra wiggle for Sharon. This prompted her back into ‘the moment’. “Did you ever get stung by a bee, Mrs. Baze?”
There was a pause then, “Yes. When I was younger.”
“Do you know that ninety-nine percent of all bee stings are caused because we do something wrong and we don’t know it. Maybe we pushed a lawn mower too close to a hive, or maybe we …
“What’s your point Mrs. …”?
“No Mrs. Just Janice.”
“Is that your real name? I heard you people use code names.”
“Yes. That’s true. We do use code names.”
“Why do you people do that? You have something to hide?”
“No, Mrs. Baze. It’s just that some people are not as nice as you and they might misdirect their anger. You know, they might want to look me up. Do me some harm. Quite deranged, some people are.”
“I bet.”
“My code name is Janice.”
“Janice, what’s your point with the bee sting thing.”
“My point is this. You don’t want to get stung because you did something wrong.”
“I still don’t understand your point.”
“You’re a working lady, Mrs. Baze.” Sharon looked in her folder. “And I see you have worked at MCA Construction for seventeen years.”
There was several seconds of silence and then, “So.”
“So …” Sharon looked at the TRW report on the screen. “Your credit report shows that
your record is clean, except for this little, teeny car loan that you haven’t made a payment on in six months. No one has ever garnished your pay, as far as I can see here. I would think, while fighting for custody of your child, a judge would look favorably on your financial record as it stands today. However, if the judge notices that your pay is being garnished …well … you do see my bee-sting analogy now, don’t you, Mrs. Baze.”
More silence. One second led into several more. Sharon looked at the phone, leaned towards it and said, “Mrs. Baze, are you still there?”
“Yes.” A pause, then, “Do you have any children, Janice?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
This comment stung Sharon for some reason. Unmarried … in her thirties … no men prospects. Her mind projected ten, twenty years down the road. Where would she be? Childless. No one to take care of her later on in life. A shake of the head, and she was back to reality. “Mrs. Baze, you should do the right thing here. You do see how bad this would look if …”
“I got your point, Janice. How much do I have to pay to keep you off my back and keep me out of the computer?”
“A hundred a month and …”
“All right. Done.”
“Good. You can mail the check to …”
“I have your notice in front of me. I have the address.”
“Okay then.” Sharon waited to see if Mrs. Baze had anything else to say. She put her ear closer to the receiver.
“Janice, do you like what you do professionally?” Mrs. Baze’s whisper came through the phone like a puff of smoke and startled Sharon.
“We’re done here, Mrs. Baze. Good day.”
Sharon hung up and moved away from the phone. Suddenly, it felt contaminated. “No. No,” she said, shaking her head. “Go away,” she said as she opened her drawer and put Mrs. Baze’s folder into the ‘active’ bin. She took out another folder and opened it. She typed the name that was printed in front of the folder onto the keyboard. While waiting for another TRW report to appear on the screen, Derick popped his head over the cubicle.
“Got the groove, lady,” he said. “Liked the touch about the judge. What was that about?”
“Child custody.”
“Ouch. Very good. I’m going to use that. Can I use that?”
“Go back to work, Derick. Leave me alone.”
And with that, Sharon became very aware of her surroundings. She was riveted on the room’s ambiance … the clatter of the keyboards … the distant voices on the phone … a ‘yes’ that was yelled out as if someone has just hit a jackpot on a slot machine … the odors.
Sharon took a moment to think about what she was doing, how ‘the squeeze’ produced the desired effect on Mrs. Baze. Todd interrupted her thoughts and tossed an envelope her way.
“Well deserved,” he said, and then moved on to the next cubicle.
Part of her mind now maneuvered its way to more practical thoughts of how to spend her bonus. There’s holiday shopping to do. Yes … yes, that’s a must. Maybe this month I’ll double up on the car payments. Yes … yes, I’ll do that too.
A new TRW report on Jennifer Heinemann flashed on the screen. She examined it and noticed that Jennifer’s car was repossessed recently; she rented an apartment, owned nothing of substance, and had three children. No signs of a job. No visible means of support.
Sharon took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, picked up the phone, and dialed.
Chapter 5
HENRY SAT at the kitchen table writing in his journal. The familiar sounds of a domestic dispute next door interrupted his thinking - garbled yelling sounds followed by the muffled, scratching noise of chairs sliding … footsteps scuffling against the kitchen floor … a creaking sound of a rusty-hinged door opening … and the ‘slam-bam’ sound of the outside screen door shutting and with its closure, so ended the argument.
Henry placed the journal on top of the refrigerator and glanced out the kitchen window. He saw Danny walk off his back patio, down the steps, towards the front driveway and out of view.
* * *
DANNY PLOPPED himself down on his lawn, his back to the front of Henry’s house. The early morning shadows from the large maple tree in his front lawn hung over the two properties and much of the street. One branch hovered over Danny like a comforting arm of an older brother.
He tossed tiny twigs into the breeze while thinking about the happier times when living in his house wasn’t so painful, when his dad wasn’t such a jerk. “He’s a bum now,” Danny whispered to himself as he threw a twig onto his driveway like it was a dagger.
* * *
DIXIE DANCED towards Henry’s house with her CD player hanging over her shoulder and a set of headphones clasped on her ears. She saw Danny sitting alone and then spotted Henry on his roof tiptoeing towards a protruding arm of the maple tree.
She noticed Henry tapping his index finger against his lips, indicating to her to be quiet. She sat by the curb, turned off the music and decided to watch this mystery unfold. As she watched Henry grab the rope that draped over one of the branches, Danny seemed oblivious to the drama unfolding. Henry tugged on the rope, hitched his foot in the loop and jumped off the roof. He breezed past Danny giving a Tarzan yell.
* * *
DANNY LUNGED to his feet, like a coiled spring and got an eyeful of Henry swinging past him. He watched in disbelief as Henry’s legs found a limb on the small sapling that guarded the mailbox. He let go of the rope and hung upside down with his legs wrapped around the limb, and his head dangling near his mailbox.
Dixie walked up to Danny and they both gawked at Henry.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an adult act that way before,” Dixie told Danny.
“Yeah, well … Maybe he’s not an adult. Up here, I mean.” Danny pointed to his head. They walked over to help him down, but Henry motioned that he didn’t need any help.
Danny watched Henry dangling from the sapling and groping for the mailbox. He managed to open it, but his legs slipped off the branch and his body fell to the ground like a dead weight. Thud! Dixie and Danny ran to his aid.
“Are you okay, Mr. Wolff?” Dixie said as she and Danny hovered over him. Henry closed his eyes and didn’t move a muscle.
Seconds passed without a word spoken. Danny felt bad for insinuating Henry was a child. “Do you think he’s dead,” he asked Dixie.
“I don’t know. Touch him and see if he’s cold.”
“No,” Danny said, repulsed at the thought.
“Then hold his nose and see if his head explodes,” Dixie joked.
Henry opened his eyes suddenly, like out of a suspenseful movie and said, “You guys may call me Henry.” He lay still, slowly moving one muscle at a time, testing his body for any serious injuries.
“Are you all right … Henry?” Danny asked.
“I’m absolutely fine. I couldn’t feel any better, aside from wanting to die.”
“You are one weird dude,” Dixie added.
Then, suddenly, Mr. Petzinger’s voice boomed across the lawn. “Danny. Get in the house. NOW!”
“You are weird,” Danny said to Henry before he left.
* * *
MR. PETZINGER OPENED the door for Danny. As his son walked into the house, Petzinger smacked him in the head and said, “You stay away from him, do you hear? Now go get ready. We’re going to his wife’s funeral.”
“Why are we going?” Danny asked. “You don’t even like them.”
“Mrs. Wolff was a fine lady. I always liked her even though she married an idiot.” This was a loud declaration for Henry’s benefit. “Look at him.” Petzinger head-nodded in Henry’s direction. “He’s out there playing around on his wife’s funeral day. That’s not right, plain and simple. Now get inside, and don’t talk back to me, son.” Danny and his father vanished into the darkness of the house.
* * *
HENRY EXTENDED his hand to Dixie. “Here. Help me up.”
Dixie held her hand out
which offered a little help as Henry struggled to his feet. He twisted his body, testing it, feeling for injury.
“Is Danny’s father always that pleasant?” Dixie asked.
Henry shrugged his shoulders. “He’s got his issues,” he said, shaking off the loose grass and leaves from his clothes.
“You do that often?” Dixie pointed to the tree.
“It depends on what you mean by often.” Henry picked up the loop-end of the rope and tossed it over the branch that hung over the roof. “I’d be dead by now if I did it every day. I do it whenever the spirit tells me to.”
“You are weird,” Dixie said. “You know that, don’t you?”
They stood there for a second or two in silence while Henry continued to test his body. Twisting. Turning. Probing for internal injuries. Finally, satisfied he was okay, he gazed at Dixie with a raised eyebrow.
“I’m as weird as they come, I guess, but, you know what? I love it. I gotta be me.”
As Dixie pondered that thought, “Hey. I’m as weird as you.”
“No way,” she said.
“Yeah, well, what brings you up here?”
“You said to come over for a cup of chocolate,” she said.
“Aah. Yes. I did. I remember, I did say that.”
“But if you have to get ready for something … like the funeral or something …”
“No. No. We have time.” Henry hit the ‘play’ button on Dixie’s CD player and a swishing noise surged out of her headset. He put the headset to his ears and listened.
“Not bad, I guess,” He said.
“My mother hates this music.”
“Is that why you listen to it?”
“No,” she quickly responded.
* * *
DIXIE FELT insulted at the insinuation her taste in music might be shallow. “I like it,” she almost yelled. “That’s my favorite CD.”
Henry took the CD jacket from Dixie’s hand and examined it closely. “Okay. Let’s get some hot chocolate.” He handed the CD jacket back, and then started to dance, moving towards the house with sweeping strides across the lawn, twirling, spinning. Pirouetting.
Dixie looked at Henry, wondering if he really was a mental case. But he seemed to be having so much fun, which inspired her. So, she danced, and twirled and pirouetted while they headed towards the house. She closed her eyes and felt swept away with a sense of freedom and happiness as she danced her way to the foyer. She opened her eyes expecting to see Henry in front of her, but he wasn’t there. Wasn’t to her left or right either. She turned around and he jumped in front of her.
South of Main Street Page 8