The Collector

It’s 4:00 AM Monday and, just like the start of all the other weeks in recent memory, it will be the same old boring, crappy day; another, long shitty week that will have an inglorious end.

      The nearly-worn-out fax machine heralded the beginning of Lou’s work week. He had no need for an alarm because, like clockwork, the fax made enough noise to wake him and it wouldn’t stop spitting out his orders for almost an hour; the usual Monday morning load of high mileage, low paid bull shit missions started just like it had for days, weeks and years past; so long ago, it had been, that had lost track of when this chapter of his life had started.

      Lou sat slumped over on the edge of his bed staring down at his bare feet, his belly keeping him less slumped over than he wanted to be, debating whether he wanted to call in sick or not, but then decided not to. Calling in sick was as bad as going to work. He hated lengthy telephone answering options almost as much as he disliked long telephone conversations. He’d go to work, he decided.

      He rose slowly; standing and groaning away the late Sunday football game, pizza and beer, lit a leftover cigarette and took a deep drag before stuffing it into a full ashtray. He threw the covers over the bed, removed his shorts, stepped into a cold shower and shaved the weekend off his face.

      After dressing, he finished the morning ritual with a micro-waved, left over McDonald’s coffee, lit another stub of a day old cigarette, and began to shuffle through the pile of faxes lying on the floor; too many for the shallow, plastic tray to hold. Then everything was set in motion for another long day behind the wheel of the re-built 1992 Ford Econoline van. First, though, he put all the faxes in order on a clipboard. This was a big decision because he sometimes liked to drive to the furthest stop and work his way backwards, ending up at home just to break up the monotony of the day; almost a game deciding which stop to make first. What fun, he thought sarcastically.

      Lou had been a prominent, well respected manager in his company, but retiring with longevity as a white collar company executive was not in the cards. Competition and technology had outpaced his employer, who was slow to adapt to modern technology, and, as they failed to keep pace, he was forced to take a low paying, inconsequential work, as a collector, or risk losing his job. But, he still had retirement; maybe, if he could hold on for just a few more years.

      At first, there were days when he was driving hundreds of miles to make his collections, returning home late at night. His wife of twenty three years, Veronica, stopped caring and cooking late suppers for him then, finally, left him for a younger man, who was a well-paid upper level manager for a competitor.

      That had really injured his ego. Not Veronica leaving him for the younger man, but the fact that the younger man worked for a competitor. In fact, Lou was almost relieved when she left. She was a socialite and enjoyed the good life; something he could no longer offer, wanted, or afford. She was a good-looking woman; a clothes horse who didn’t do hardship well.

      Lou was forced to sell their home, after Veronica left, and move into a two room, very modest, city apartment. It didn’t take him long to make it smell like a weekend in a pool hall; essence of stale beer and cigarettes. It was all he could afford on his new pay. He couldn’t blame Veronica for leaving. He would’ve done the same thing. That had really humiliated him and he refused to discuss it when asked.

      Lou thought often about how his professional life had come to such an abrupt end. He knew the answer, but kept playing it back anyway; over and over. He resented the company ignoring everyone’s advice; change or go broke. He thought about it today, just like he did every day, while leafing through the pile of faxed instructions.

      He chased a few aspirins down with the remains of last night’s beer and prepared for the long day ahead. Once in his faded white on rust van, he glanced at the first fax giving directions to his first stop. At five in the morning, there was little traffic on the lonely road to the interstate. He decided to work his way backwards today, for a change.

      Every day started the same way. Cold shower, piles of faxes, re-heated coffee, stale cigarettes, stop at Mac Donald’s for an egg biscuit and coffee; Burger King for an on-the-road lunch. If he was lucky, he could be homeward bound in time for a Wendy’s dinner on the road. Today would be longer than usual because collections were being made from equipment located further away. Turn the radio up louder and stop for more coffee. Dessert would be two, maybe three, Aspirins before bed.

      Long hours behind the wheel gave Lou too much time to think about how much he had loved his job before all the changes. The worn out seat, stuffed ashtray and listening to the Willy Nelson CD depressed him. He sincerely hated his new position; nothing to look forward to each day except gritting his teeth, finishing his collections and getting home. What else could he do? Jobs were rare for a man over fifty.

      He couldn’t refuse when his new boss offered him the position. This or no job at all, he was told. So, he bagged up his suits and ties; saving them just in case the tide would turn. That was seven years ago and the tide was still out. Customers no longer used the expensive equipment that Leo’s company had insisted on making and installing. The designs, old or new, were dinosaurs on the market.

      He stopped for another coffee and glanced at his broken watch more out of habit; something to do. Time didn’t mean anything to Lou so he never bothered to get the old Rolex fixed. It was only jewelry; reminding him of a somewhat successful, but failed, past.

      Hanging on the cracked dash of his van, he kept a sometimes-charged cell phone, when he could remember to plug it into the cigarette lighter. He seldom used it for anything more than calling for directions, anyway, but it was convenient. And it was the reason for his dilemma.

      The delay and mistakes of entering the market late had cost him and his friend’s good jobs and pensions. He felt too old to put up with this crap. He just felt old; period. The road passed under the van with speedy consistency while he drank more coffee, stared at the white lines flashing by and pondered his situation again and again. Each day on the road his prognosis for his future became more dismal.

      First stop, at last. He was relieved to get out, stretch his legs and go to the bathroom. Luckily it was at a Seven-Eleven with fresh coffee and, as a mid-morning snack, a plastic-wrapped chicken salad sandwich that tasted pretty good but a little like spackling paste. He hurriedly finished his business, jumped into his van, choked down the last of the soggy white bread sandwich, washed it down with some coffee and headed for his next stop.

      Nearing lunchtime he found his next faxed instruction on the clipboard to be at a Burger King. This time it was a hamburger, fries and a Coke from the drive- through to save time. It tasted better, fresher than the chicken salad sandwich. After making his collections, the client informed him that he was disposing of the equipment; please remove it.

      In spite of his efforts to get the man to change his mind, he was forced to remove it and would have to carry it back home with him. Once all the paper work was completed, he disconnected everything, loaded it into the van and was on his way. More miles down the road and he was getting numb, but the day was going well but for the loss of two customers. Another cigarette. This time he would have a fresh one, rather than one of the left over butts in the ashtray.

      Three more stops and he was finished. Not bad for a Monday. He was home before eight. He put the heavy collection bags, along with the faxed instructions, into his closet behind a pile of dirty clothes. Time enough for a little TV, a cold beer and a left-over Wendy’s Taco Salad from his last stop. Tomorrow, he would start over when the fax machine spit out more orders. Not as bad as Monday, but it would be a start to another pissy day anyway.

      Collections weren’t what they used to be. He was tired. Social Security, if he was lucky to get any and could last long enough, was only six years away. Thinking about that depressed him even more. Drink another beer. Have another cigarette.

      Lou looked forward to only one day in the week and that was Friday, but not for the same reasons that other people welcome Friday. TGIF meant something more to Lou and his fellow collectors. Besides being pay day it was the only day they didn’t get a load of faxes. Instead it was the day to meet with his jerk boss and get rid of his heavy bags, disconnected equipment and a chance to talk with guys he had worked with for many years; some were equals in management and some were former field technicians.

      Many upper managers were given first choice of the lower paying positions but many refused so field workers were given the lesser jobs.

      The week passed and, except for a miner incident when his van wouldn’t start, it was pretty uneventful. It was late Thursday night when he finally got home, but he took the time to clean out the van of his weekly collection of empty MacDonald’s, Wendy’s, Burger King and Taco Bell bags and empty the overflowing ashtray for the long office trip on Friday morning.

      After a quick stop at a nearby Seven Eleven for his predawn coffee and supply of smokes, Lou was on the road with everything he needed to deliver to the home office.

      Once delivered, the heavy canvas satchels were sorted, counted and new ones handed out. After that, everyone would meet and share stories about what they knew best and did every day: equipment returns, lost customers, new restaurants and waitresses met on their routes, or about the guys laid off that week, a friend who committed suicide, or just got divorced, like most of them, and the dwindling collections, how many miles they covered that week for so little, what their short term expectations were because there were no long term prospects in this business.

      Although, there was a bright spot: an opening of a new Hooters Restaurant on Lou’s route, which would gave him something to brag about because he also sold them some equipment; rare given the times. He smiled and, that too, was rare.

      The shopping mall office was quite small; located at the far end and rear of the big building. Outside, an armed guard was posted in front of the glass door; the only indication that the space was occupied. If he weren’t there it would be unnoticed. This was only temporary and a new office would likely be opened some place else before the end of the month; central to wherever the remaining collectors were located.

      Lou parked his van, after a three hour drive from home, near where the guard was standing. Lou felt like he was going into some C.I.A. top secret meeting. Secrecy seemed to be the company’s policy. He flashed his I.D.; the security guard opened the door for him and cigarette smoke poured out like a thick fog spilling into the parking lot.

      Lou entered the office waiting room carrying several heavy, sealed canvas bags and the discontinued equipment he had picked up that week on a small hand cart he carried in his van. He looked around to see how many of his pals were left. The barren, unadorned and unpainted office, with cheap chairs lined up against the wall where everyone sat like prison inmates waiting a death sentence, was cold and uninviting. The heavy cigarette smoke dimmed the one light in the room making it difficult to recognize anyone.

      Sure wasn’t like the old days, he thought, when there were hundreds of collectors and technicians who reported to dozens of regional managers who held daily coffee-and-donut meetings to inspire productivity and exchange ideas. Like a good company, conscientious of the importance of good employees, there had been anticipated business dinners with awards and bonuses and exciting family picnics.

      But all that had disappeared. With budget cuts and lay-offs, as a result of executive oversights with an unwillingness to change, the company rapidly fell apart without an alternative recovery plan. Offices closed, picnic benches and tables rotted away and some assets were disposed of to pay attorneys. And now the company was packed into a one room, smoke filled, depressing office.

      After some back slapping, shaking hands and nervous small talk, he sat down to wait his turn. He leaned his head on the hand cart; staring at the three crumpled bags recalling when it took more than one trip to get all the bags out of his van. That wasn’t so long ago, either. The future looked less promising with each passing year. There were only seven of his old friends left and they covered the entire state; each of them driving hundreds of miles every day to make their appointments and complete their faxed instructions.

      These former middle aged executives, like Lou, were forced to accept lower paying jobs with diminished medical benefits and self regulated retirements. They were all tired and broken, most divorced for the same reason as Lou, their homes sold so the ex-wives could continue to live the life they were accustomed to and the collectors surviving pretty much like Lou. All had a lot in common with each other.

      Lou’s name was finally called into his manager’s office where piles of bags lay on the floor next to his desk; stained and worn bags stenciled with the name of the collectors; each with a lead security seal and lock just like his. And, like his, each would have a signed tally sheet with today’s date, faxed assignment sheets with the amounts collected from each client and a summary sheet. All were carefully stapled into a neat accounting package and enclosed in the sealed bags. There would also be a separate mileage expense report submitted. Reimbursements, at thirty-eight cents per mile, were generally more than his meager salary. Lou thought about trading in his old Ford van for something that would get better mileage and optimize his travel reimbursements; maybe next month.

      Buckwell, the manager, opened Lou’s bag, spilled the contents into a large plastic bucket, looked at Lou’s tally sheets, faxed assignments, expense reports then handed him his paycheck and travel expense check, from the week before, with new, empty collection bags: his name neatly stenciled on the flap.

      Buckwell shook Lou’s hand with comments of gratitude for a fine job as he walked him to the door, arm around his shoulder, patted him on the back and gave a hasty, parting word of encouragement. There was no need for further discussion.

      Buckwell knew he, too, could one day be a collector, if the company forced him into making that dreadful career decision. Lou knew the company wouldn’t last long enough for Buckwell to have that choice. “Don’t worry, Lou,” he said as Lou turned to leave, “we’re hoping to begin a cellular phone division soon and we have you in mind for management.”

      “Thanks,” Lou whispered to himself.

      He had heard the same thing for almost three years but nothing changed. Nope. Collections weren’t what they used to be.