THE REPO MAN
By Valerie Shaw, M.PR

The mellifluous male voice at the other end of the telephone apologized for disturbing me at 10:45 p.m. one December Sunday. "Valerie," he almost sang my name, "this is Mark Phillips."

"Mark Phillips?" I said, a bit woozy and considerably intrigued. "Yes, this is Val."

"Okay, Va-a-al," he whispered, slowly pronouncing each letter. Then his voice quickened, like his feet were on fire. "You've been having a little problem with your
car and we need to come pick it up."

Wha-a-a-t," I stammered, sitting straight up in the bed as if I'd been hit with buckshot. "What are you saying? Are you joking?"

"Does it sound like I'm joking?" he said paradoxically, in the friendliest of tones.
"My driver should be there right about..."

There was a loud knock on the door. Then the doorbell rang.

"...Now," he said.

"Mr. Phillips," I pleaded, "you can't take my car. It's my..."

"I understand, Val," he said. His manner was cordial, but distinctly more distant.

"I won't do it again, Mr. Phillips" I said, in my littlest quivery voice. "I'm sorry that I got behind on my car payments. It's just that I've been sick and I couldn't work and..."

He cut me off with a paternal air. "Now, Val," he said gently, "I understand just what you're going through. I work with clients like you all the time. I can help you get through this. You have to understand that the finance company does not want your car. They aren't in the car business. They're in the money business."

That made sense to me, so I relaxed. I listened to his instructions as carefully as my confused mind would allow me, with the doorbell ringing incessantly in the background.

"Valerie...Val, are you there?"

"Why yes, sir," I said meekly. I was reduced to a 50-year-old woman-child. Mr. Phillips, what can we do to help me keep my car? I only have six more payments. Plus the three I'm behind."

"Call me Mark," he said, speaking low and slow. "I'm going to call my driver, Pat, the man who's outside of your house right now. He's got to pick up your vehicle. I mean, your car; but I'm going to tell him to treat it with kid gloves until you get this thing straight. How's that, Val?"

"But what about the impound fees? I can't afford..."

"Oh, you're such a nice lady," said Mark Phillips, "I'll waive the impound. I'm the manager here and I have the power to make those decisions."

Three minutes later I handed the keys to my beloved 1990 silver-blue Lexus to a guy who looked like he could rob a church collection plate with no conscience.
"You better get your shit outta here," he said, looking at his watch. It was now 10:52 p.m.

"I don't need to get my things," I said, with lots of attitude. I was almost arrogant, remembering Mark's comforting words. "Mr. Phillips and I have made arrangements."

"Ha-ha," Pat laughed, exposing a mouth only half filled with teeth. He looked at me in amazement. Then disgust. "Lady," he heaved, "don't give me a hard time. Get your stuff out of the car. You may not get another chance."

What wasn't he telling me? I wondered as I carted several boxes of personal belongings, all the things that accumulate in a much-loved vehicle over two years. I fished through the trunk, glove compartment, under the seat and side pockets for every coin I could find in the dark. Then I kissed my car goodnight like it was a baby. I sobbed, watching the red taillights disappear down the hill.

I called the finance company at 8 a.m. Eastern Time, 5 a.m. in Los Angeles, and spoke with a supervisor who explained that there was absolutely nothing anyone could do. One-thousand, two-hundred, eight-four-dollars and sixteen-cents was due that day. With police permit towing fees, impound and storage fees and paper filing and such, the charges came to $1,696.48. And that sum would go up every day the car was in impound.

"But I spoke with Mark Phillips..." I said with authority. The woman laughed ruefully. "Mark Phillips, is that what he told you? Listen honey, he's the repo man. He's getting paid to tell you anything to get your car. It's not personal."

My spirit sank into despair like four flat tires. Maybe oblivion. Not personal? The man had just destroyed my life. I was taking it very personally.

Throughout the morning I called in favors from every person I'd befriended since high school. I made a short list of all the people I knew who were still financially solvent, including my over-burdened parents. I feverishly worked the phones like a telemarketer. By 3:45 p.m. I had put the money together and my dad and I were off to Parker Center to pay police fees, then on to the impound yard to claim my beloved car.

Rolling up to the garage, located next door to a strip club in the seediest part of Lennox, I exited the car carrying my bible close to my chest, to give me courage. The greasy room was dark, like a skid row bar, and just as uninviting. A few white guys with multi-colored tattoos carved into their skinned heads and an equal number of stringy-haired girls wearing more make up than clothes, put their beer cans and cigarettes down to glare at me.

I cringed when an enormous black man appeared in a smoky inner doorway.

"Wha'd ya want," he spat.

"I'm here to see Mr. Phillips," I whimpered.

"Yeah. I'm Phillips," he spat. "And I'm Fred Washington. And I'm Juan Rico too. It don't matter who the hell I calls myself. All I wanna know is who you and do you got my money?"

So he wanted to talk rough, eh? "Listen, Mr. What's Your Name, I'm here to pick up my..."

"You got my money, I give you your car," he said completely oblivious of anyone in the room, including me.

"Well, you don't need to be so rude," I chided.

"I can be any fuckin' way I want, bitch."

I was shocked; too surprised to speak. I vowed to report this person to the Department of Consumer Affairs when I got away from there.

"See," he said, waving his expansive arms, "I run this fuckin' place and I gots me a police permit that says I can do whatever I fuck I want to yo' car. So you want to report me, bitch? You wanna call the police? Here's the phone. Call 'em. I don't give a shit." He laughed like Thor, the God of Thunder.

My resolve dissolved. "Listen, sir," I said with all the conviction of a terrified rabbit, "I just want my car and I'll be out of here, if you don't mind."

"YOU GOT MY MONEY?" he screamed, "you can have your fuckin' car!"

I don't know how my trembling fingers managed to wrap themselves around the wad of money tucked in my purse, but they did. I was sweating as I placed the money on the grimy counter. The big black man took forever, licking his fingers as he counted each one of the crisp hundred dollar bills.

Once finished, he signaled with one of his beefy shoulders and one of his scrawny skin-head goons rushed to his side. "Yeah, Trey, what do you want?"

"Get this woman's car," he said, handing him the key. His lip curled and he glared at me, "Looks like you'll be riding THIS time."

"THIS is the last time you'll ever see me, Mr. Repo Man." I spat the words, making no attempt to hide my contempt. Ha-ha!

He peered at me like I was road kill. "Miss another payment and you'll be seein' me all right. In fact, I'm bettin' that you'll be seeing me real soon."

...Be seeing you real soon. His words haunted me. Every time I made a car payment I looked over my shoulder. Seeing me. Seeing me real soon. My stomach turned at the thought of seeing him. It took months to appreciate the real contribution Repo Man had made to my life. Maybe it's time to thank him now. Because of his threat I never missed another car payment and, a few months later, when the pink slip arrived from the DMV, even the nightmares stopped.

© Valerie Shaw 2001- All Rights Reserved

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