Tales from the Darkside

This morning, I left my house at the usual time, coffee in hand, cruising along listening to Metallica and rocking out. Anyone who knows me, knows that my daily commute is a high end sports car; this particularly day, I sure enough got pulled over for doing 55 mph in a 30 mph zone (Sammy Hagar wasn’t on the radio at the time). I had no idea I was going that fast. Since I’m a high agency white guy and not handicapped with low-impulse control, the cop was very cool. A nice guy and fellow USMC veteran. However, it’s the nature of his job and I was guilty as hell, the ticket was inevitable. I didn’t complain, he had me dead to rights.

Once I got to work, I had my usual 2nd round of coffee and the obligatory bull shitting with my co-workers. We’re about to start my shift of “paying the tax,” although, it’s baked into my job. The accounting girl walks in with a customer folder and another repo order. I know what this means. It means the customer is too hostile, aggressive or threatening for the accounting girls to do a personal visit about the customer’s account being delinquent – as if this particular demographic of customers have the agency or wherewithal to understand the consequences of debt. The mission is simple: find the vehicle and do a quick snatch and grab. Truth be told, I love doing repos from ferals. Personally, it brings me much joy because it’s an example of civilization correcting itself.

Twenty minutes later and I’m rolling up to an apartment building in what is provincially referred to as “coontown.” My objective is locating a decrepit Ford Taurus. I found it, jumped out and as I unlocked it, the alarm went off. The owner’s boyfriend, a gentleman with a no doubt world-class education and robust vocabulary, proceeded to stick his head out of an apartment window and proclaim, “Yo cracker, you ain’t taken dat kar, fam. Shhiiieeett. I got sumtin’ fo yo white bitch ass.”

In which I replied quite gamely with, “Shut the fuck up you stupid n*gger, you’re on house arrest. You ain’t gonna do anything, but run that mouth.” The now-previous owner of the rickety Taurus actually had a pretty nice sound system installed, so I made sure to crank up some Johnny Paycheck as I drove away, much to their chagrin.

Lunch time rolls around and there is a Queen and Nubian princess loudly arguing in the lobby as I walk past to help my lot guys clean out another repo that was picked up from impound. In this situation, the owner’s boyfriend had murdered a rival gang member (probably a good boy that was going to turn his life around and go to college). Unfortunately for the deceased and us, his body had been callously stored in the back of a Honda Pilot. This particular vehicle had been left out four weeks in the sun. In August. In Tennessee. You can only imagine the pungent “juices” wafting throughout the closed confines of the vehicle. The big dip (smokeless tobacco) I had in kept me from gagging. Another day, another dollar.

Afterwards, a woman of color attempted to argue that she was not required to make her car payment because her: “A/C don’t work.” It’s like this in this business. It’s easy to see the traps, lies and obfuscation when you don’t have a double digit IQ. But, they’re certainly relentless in their juvenile deception and mass irresponsibility. One after another, after another.

The work day starts to generally wrap up when the accountant girl walks in again with another folder and another repo order. Again, another trip to the ghetto. This time, to pick up a welfare recipient’s Dodge minivan. You guess the demographic. As I’m leaving with the vehicle, the owner, an obese soon-to-be baby mama, and her equally obese mother attempt to flag me down. Their pleas boiled down to the baby mama being a single mom with four illegitimate children and another one on the way. Mustering all the empathy available in my big heart, I respectfully declined with a professional, “I don’t give a fuck.”

Despite her lumbering size, she was quite persistent. She was able to commandeer a vehicle from a fellow ghetto denizen and follow me back to my job. Considering she was in eyesight of the rear-view mirror, I’m sure she spotted me casually discarding her gas station mixtape CDs out the window.  When we got to the office, she kept whimpering, “I’m a single mother of fo, with one on the way.” I attempted to explain how contracts, payment obligations and finance work to no avail. She just kept mentioning her bastard children. Over and over and over again. It made me take notice at how that was her only weapon in a time of weakness. That line and sprinkling in how I was an evil racist.

With my patience growing thin after a dozen admissions of single motherhood, I finally howled, “Behold! The field in which my fucks are grown. Note that it is bare!

She shambled out in fumes.

This is just a typical day. Like Groundhog Day, it just repeats itself ad infinitum. It’s almost like it’s a pattern of behavior that will never change. Ever.

-By Dixie Anon

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