Fiction: The Debt Collectors

By M.P. Powers

Just when I thought the ground had swallowed him, in came Glen Johnet, navigating his motorized wheelchair around the pressure washers in the showroom. “Hey bossman. Got sumpn for you. Got it right here in my pocket.” He dug in. “You’re gonna like this.” He pulled out a little plastic baggie, peered up at me with his candid blue eyes. “Told you you’d like it. Consider it interest on that money I owe you. Got a knife? What am I talking about? Of course you got a knife. You got a whole QVC collection here. Who’d you sell that sultan’s sword to anyway? You know I wanted that thing.”

    “I sold it to a pastor,” I told him, handing over a little Swiss Army knife. 

    “A pastor?”

    “That’s what it says on his business card. Pastor Ron Stroker.”

    “What’s a pastor need a sultan’s sword for?”

    “Pastors are often very bloodthirsty people,” I told him. “He’s a hunter.”

    “He’s gonna hunt with the sword?”

    “Probably.”

    “See that’s what I like about you, Patrick. You’ll do anything for a buck. You sell paint, hand tools, sultan’s swords. Who would’ve ever thought you could get a sultan’s sword at a tool rental shop?”

    “Probably the same people that call to rent breast pumps.”

    “They do that?”

    “It’s happened a couple times.”

    “Does Pastor Ron Stroker use a breast pump?”

    “If he doesn’t, he should,” I said. 

    He shook the baggie. “Anyway, this is the last of my stash. There’s just a little bit here. Just a bump to get us through the afternoon. Believe me, I know how they can drag on sometimes. Especially Mondays. So, I thought you’d appreciate....”

    He stuck the point of the knife into the little baggie and scooped up a little white mound. I snorted it. He scooped up another little mound for himself and whoofed it away.

    “Just interest,” he said. “What do I owe you now, $24?”

    “Think so.”

    “I’m gonna take care of that very soon,” he said. “Trying to clear all my debts. All of em. I’m sick of owing people. How’s business?”

    “The hurricane was a big boost.”

    “I bet. Hurricane, flood, pestilence, meteor shower. Any kind of natural disaster would be good for this fuckin business.”

    “I pray for them,” I joked. 

    “I don’t pray,” he said. “Unless you call thanking prayer. Prayer is about gratitude, something most people don’t know nuthin about. It’s not about asking for a brand-new Cadillac. I bet if you were to do a survey, 90% of the world’s prayers would be asking for money in one way or another. As if the gods give a dog’s moonlit ass what you got in your wallet. Hey, looks like you got a customer pulling into the lot. You want me to go in the back?”

    “You don’t have to. This should be good entertainment.”

    The customer was Joe DeFilippi, fortysomething, ex-high school football star, addicted to pot and cocaine and pain killers and always had a running balance with me. We watched as he stepped down from his crusty Chevy pickup truck and strode through the parking lot, the hard sun blazing off his sparrow’s nest hair and capacious skeletal features. He tore open the front door and had barely entered the shop when he hollered, “Hey Patrick! What’s with the obnoxious message you left on my machine? You know I’m good for the money.”

    “I never said you weren’t. It was a subtle reminder.”

    “Subtle? If that’s your idea of subtle, what’s your idea of unsubtle? A jackhammer to the head? My knob in the vice?”

    I grinned. 

    “Alright, what do I owe you?”

    “You actually came to pay?”

    “Kind of,” he said. “I got my girlfriend’s card, but you can’t put it through till Friday. And I need a drill. What’s my balance?”

    “$200. What do you need the drill for?”

    “What do you mean what do I need it for?” he asked, as if flabbergasted. “You know what I need it for.”

    “Happy Days Pawn Shop?” 

    We laughed. 

    “Listen,” I said. “I’ll give you the drill. I never rent it. You just need to do this one thing.”

    “Oh no.”

    “Ever done collections?”

    “Collections?”

    “I have some people that owe me some money. Deadbeats. Even worse than you if you can believe it. Scum of the earth. And close by too. I need you to pay them a visit.”

 

    The Arnie Cadmus Ferrari and Maserati Car Dealership had rented a boom lift from me for three months, but only paid for the first two months. They owned $1750 and had been promising to send me a check since the lift was picked up, almost 6 months ago. I called them about it almost every week, and every week, there was a new excuse, or the person I needed to talk to wasn’t around, or my call would go straight to voice mail and they wouldn’t return the message. I was done with it. I gave Joe the clipboard with the contract on it. 

    “Do you want to go with him?” I asked Glen. “He might need reinforcement. I’ll wipe that $24 clean if you two pick up a check.”

    “Sure, I’ll go, but what about my wheelchair? How am I going to get that over there? It’s too heavy to get in the back of the truck.”

    “I’ve got a push wheelchair you can use,” I told him.

    He laughed. “I should’ve known. Is there anything you don’t rent?”

    “I don’t rent you,” I told him.

    “Not yet,” he said, and laughed, driving his wheelchair into the corner of the showroom. He parked it. I brought him the other one, the rental. He sat down in it with a loud groan and adjusted his thighs and feet. I wheeled him to Joe’s truck, helping him in. I threw the wheelchair on top of all the rakes and palm fronds in the bed of the truck. 

    “Wish us luck,” said Joe.

    “You won’t need luck. Just be yourselves. Be exactly who you are. It’ll be perfect.”

 

    What happened while Joe and Glen were over at the car dealership, I only know from what Glen told me later. He said the first thing they did was park Joe’s truck on the opposite side of the building from the office. Joe didn’t want anyone to see the condition of his truck, which was covered in dings and dents full of lawn debris. Joe then rolled Glen through the football field-length parking lot and into the main office. A brunette in a pantsuit came out of a little room and told them someone would be right with them. They sat down in the waiting room, Glen coming down from his cocaine high, Joe strung-out and fidgety from whatever he was coming down from. 

    They sat there waiting, Joe’s thinning gray hair standing in angry spikes, his face unshaven, his beautiful ghostly blue eyes blazing like Gorgonian fire. He looked like a cobbled together version of every hitman you’ve ever seen in any Hollywood movie. 

   “Hey,” he shouted from his seat. “Did you forget about us?”

    No answer. 

    “This ain’t right,” he went on in his voice that was like Achilles dragging Hector over a mile of broken stones. “Every car dealership I’ve ever been to, they swarm you like locusts the moment you get there. What kinda place is this?”

    He got up, paced a bit looking in the rooms, poured a cup of coffee and sat back down.

    “Hey,” he shouted. “Can I smoke in here?”

    Again, no answer.

    “I like a smoke with my coffee,” he mused. “Don't tell me I gotta go outside to light up.”

    Glen rolled his wheelchair up to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. 

    Five minutes passed. 

    Finally, a tall, dapper-looking man in an elegant gray suit stepped out of one of the little rooms.

    “Sorry about that, guys. We’re a little shorthanded today. My name’s Matthew. How can I help you?”

    “How can you help us?” asked Joe. “I’ll tell you how you can help us, Matthew. Got a light?”

    “I don’t have a light,” said Matthew, smiling. 

    “Okay, listen Matthew. Here’s the deal. You see that yellow Ferrari in the lot? Yeah, that one right there. I’d like to give it a test ride.”

    “You what?” Matthew was still smiling.

    “A test ride?”

    “Well, just to let you know, before we let anyone drive anything, we have to make sure they’re qualified.”

   “Qualified?” said Joe, springing up from his seat. “I’m paying cash! What do you want from me? A bag of money?” He grinned his shark-like grin.

    Matthew rolled his eyes.

    “Okay, forget the test ride,” said Joe. “What we’re really here for is much more important than that. I need to speak to your boss’s boss.”

    “My boss’s boss? I am my boss’s boss. I’m the owner.”

    Joe lifted the clipboard with the rental contract that had been tottering on his lap and gave it to Matthew. Matthew was no longer smiling. 

    “We’re with Ares Rentals,” said Joe. “We’re here to collect.”

    Matthew stood there looking the contract over, presumably reading every line and detail. He took it into his office without saying anything. He came out several passive-aggressive minutes later with a check. He gave it to Glen but still didn’t say anything and headed quietly back to his office. 

    “Thank you, Matthew,” shouted Joe. 

    Matthew said nothing. The office door closed. 

    Joe then wheeled Glen out the door and across that football field of 6-figure automobiles. 

    Ten minutes later, when they returned to my shop, both with a victorious air, I noticed the handwriting on the check was pressed into it so harshly it almost went through the paper. 

  I gave Joe the drill and the two of them went back out together somewhere.

M.P. Powers is a Floridian living in Berlin, Germany. He is the author of The Initiate (Anxiety Press, Fall, 2023). Recent poetry publications include Columbia Review, Black Stone/White Stone, Stone Circle Review, miniMag, and others. His artwork can be found on Instagram @mppowers1132