The Collectors
The room was full of new hires. I stood to the side of the long table upon which sat an assortment of bagels, donuts, coffee, cream cheese, little paper plates. I looked out at the excited and nervous faces quietly chatting with one another and thought about my first day with the company. There wasn’t a day like this for me back then. There wasn’t really an onboarding process at all. They just led me to a desk with a computer and phone on it and sat me down, told me to read the instructions on the sheet that lay there and follow them. Don’t worry about messing up, they said. Everyone messes up, they said.
Diane was at the front of the room arranging papers on a small table with a laptop on it. A long cord led down the table, along the ground to a projector sitting atop another small table in the middle of the room. The projector projected the company’s logo on the screen behind Diane. Part of the projection lighted upon her while she continued arranging the papers. Underneath the company logo was the company tagline, “We’ll Do It For You.”
My feet hurt a little bit, standing in back of the room. I had a corn on the big knuckle of my big toe. Where it came from, I wasn’t sure. My shoes were comfortable and I did very little walking around. Sometimes I walked to Vincent’s cubicle and we talked about baseball for awhile. Sometimes I walked to the bathroom or the coffee machine. I walked to and from my car every day. Other than that, I was mostly sedentary.
My job was easy then. Not like when I started. They pile all the work onto the new hires. All the calls and the paperwork, it went to the new hires. They’d call people up and tell them if they didn’t repay their debts, they’d lose their boat. Their car, house, a lien would be put on them, any number of punishments. As a new hire, you could be one of two ways. One was easier than the others. First, you could be ruthless. Take joy in the act. Believe what you were doing was right. Feel as if you were smiting the enemies of your past, and sometimes maybe you were. Sometimes the people you were calling were ex-girlfriends, ex-husbands, the bully from middle school, your dad. You could relish in the fact that you were ruining their lives, or at the very least making it much harder on them. That was the easiest way to get through the day. The psychic damage it may cause you likely wouldn’t show up for years, decades.
The hardest way to get through the day was to have empathy. To believe you were doing the work of some evil corporation. The problem was that you kind of were, if you believe in the corporate as Entity. Being ruthless, you didn’t think about the corporate entity at all, and if you did, you didn’t think of it as being capable of any kind of morality. Being soft and empathetic, however, led you down a strange path. You would call up these delinquent individuals with extreme debt and listen to their stories. You would put yourself in their shoes. They would tell you how they’d put a second mortgage on their house in order to pay for their mother’s cancer treatment, since their mother didn’t have insurance. Maybe you were one of those that believed everyone should have health insurance, and so could understand how hard it must be to have to watch your mother suffer and do nothing about it for fear of financial retribution. You might call up someone with miles of credit card debt, a tanking, if nonexistent, credit score and tell them they would soon lose their house and they’d ask you where you thought they would go if that happened. You’d keep a tab open on your computer where you could search for housing for the unhoused in any state and give them tips. But it would pain you to have to do the search. You’d type it in between tears, those watery droplets, falling down upon your keyboard. If you were of this type, your time with the company would be difficult. You could still make it, there were plenty of Type Two-ers still with the company. But things would happen to you. Your health would decline. Your nervous system would fail to react properly. You would be paying for therapy, but only half of it, because the company had decent health insurance.
If you were a Type-Oner, you would thrive.
I use ‘you’ here meaning ‘they’ and ‘us.’
Diane got the attention of the room and asked everyone to please be seated. She was smiling. Diane no longer made calls, but instead had made it to HR. Which was no doubt a tough job. She might have to respond to sexual harassment charges one minute and act as a sort of therapist the next. Diane’s hair was falling out in places. Not in the extreme, but it was happening. I could tell. So could Vincent, who smiled about it whenever we saw her in the halls. Vincent was a Type-Oner. Or was, when he was still making calls.
Diane asked for the lights to be dimmed. She thanked everyone for being there and was excited to start this new journey with them. She introduced herself, gave some background on how long she’d been with the company, etc. She flipped to the first slide. Read through it. Asked if there were any questions. She flipped to the next slide, and so on. After an hour and a half she called for a break, for the lights to be turned back on. Everyone rubbed their eyes and tried to look alive. They milled around again, getting coffee, talking to one another. I saw someone stretching in the corner. He looked vital, healthy. I imagined him at a desk for eight hours. Wondered if his neck would start to droop, shoulders begin to slump. Which type would he be?
Vincent came over to me. What are we doing here, again? he asked. I told him I wasn’t sure why they had asked us to sit in for this. It was strange, as they had never asked us to do this before. Maybe we were getting a promotion, I said. What comes after what we do, he asked? I looked toward Diane. She looked tired, shuffling more papers. No, he said. I don’t know, I replied, surely not Ted’s position. Ted’s going nowhere, Vincent said. Did you know that our jobs existed before we had them, I said. He did not.
Our jobs were cake compared to what new hires had to do. We acted almost as switchboard operators. The new hires would, if successful, pass along the delinquent individuals to us after they had agreed to start paying off the debt we had purchased from their credit agencies, etc, and we would in turn direct them to our payment center. We’d grab a few details from them and then send them on their way. We spent approximately three and a half minutes with them. Our jobs were a joke. We knew it, everyone above us knew it. But they never seemed to care to streamline the process, which was fine with me. No longer were we burdened with the psychic pain of others. By the time they reached us, they had found a steely resolve. Good on them. And good for us. Because we did less work than ever and got paid more money for it. As far as I understood, that was how the corporate ladder inherently worked. I very much appreciated the corporate ladder and every rung, despite not knowing what each rung represented. Diane was on a rung, that was for sure. My manager, Ted, was on a rung. Ted’s job was even easier than ours, his responsibilities nearly erased. As far as I could tell, Ted just made sure Vincent and I and the others in our position showed up on time. Ted was paid more than us, evidenced by his car in the parking lot. He tried to sneak out and get into it without being seen, but we all saw. It was a nice car, nicer than when he was in our position and we were in the new hire position. It was the corporate ladder at work. Rung after rung.
Once, as a new hire on lunch break, Gram came into the break room with eyes all red. He looked strung out and sat down at the table with Vincent and I and put his head into his hands. What’s wrong, Vincent asked. Gram looked up and explained how he’d spent all morning on the line with a single mother whose son had died riding his little bicycle around in front of the house. She looked away for a moment and when she looked back he was going down the driveway and into the street. She yelled at him to get back up to the sidewalk. As he was turning around, a car came down, sideswiping parked cars and hit the boy before speeding off down the street, eventually colliding with a tree. The boy was rushed to the hospital, spent two days in the ICU before dying from the injuries he suffered. His head had been cracked. There was internal and external bleeding. There was a host of other injuries as well. In the end, it was the head wound that killed him.
Gram went on to tell us that it was a drunk driver that hit the woman’s son. The drunk driver died upon impact with the tree. And that there had even been an insurance payout. She had used the payout to sue the drunk driver’s family. She had received money. But then followed years of grief and depression. She could no longer work a day without breaking down crying. Her manager did his best to be patient with her, but after a year of breakdowns, he had to let her go. She was a bank teller and she kept crying in front of the people coming in to do their banking. It made the people nervous, the manager had said. And so she lost her job. And soon the insurance payout and the money from the lawsuit was out. She struggled to find other jobs, and lost the ones she did find. Her life had spiraled out of control. She took on debt. She sold her house and was renting an apartment that her friend owned. Her friend had a generous soul and so had essentially let her live there without paying for the last few years. It was, the woman told Gram, the only good thing she had going. And now she was on the phone with Gram who told her he would soon have to take her car. The car was the last possession she had left. She used it to go on interviews. Certain was she that soon she would land a job that she could hold onto. Certain was she that she could pull herself together long enough to get through an interview. But this call that Gram was making was The Call, as we called it. It was the call that said, look, tomorrow we are sending repossession individuals to take your car unless you can pay off your debt to us. What did the woman owe, Vincent asked. She has $24,333 in credit card debt, Gram answered. She also had medical debt related to her failing health. Along with the emotional strain put on her after the loss of her son, she began to lose weight rapidly. She had acquired some sort of condition, one which Gram could not recall at the moment, that made her sick. She required medication. Medicare was helping but wasn’t enough. She made trips to the emergency room that were out of pocket. So the hospitals were after her too.
Vincent had been listening to this story with rapt attention. I, too, was interested and sat there looking sadly at Gram as he told us this tragic story. Vincent asked how the conversation had ended. He was nearly on the edge of his seat, as they say. It hadn’t ended, Gram said. He told the woman that he had to go on lunch but that he would call her back afterward so they could resume talking. Vincent’s lips were stretching across his face as if being pulled taught by a puppeteer. You’re calling her back, he said. Yes, Gram said, I have to. She has said some very disconcerting things and I fear for her safety, Gram said. What has she said, I asked. Gram rubbed his eyes with his knuckle and sighed. She said that actually, as it turns out, she’s fine with Gram taking her car. She said she won’t need it any longer. She let the line hang on Gram for awhile before continuing. I’ll never get another job, won’t need a car to get there. I can hardly go on as it is and now this, she said. She said they could come get the car tomorrow afternoon. It would be parked in the garage and that she was sorry for the mess inside. Gram, I said to him, you need to call the police. What are they going to do, Gram said. They’re not going to help her. They’ll send her to the hospital again and then what? More money to us? If I can just talk to her a little while longer, I’m sure I can help. This is not a suicide hotline, Gram, I said. It is in fact almost the exact opposite of a suicide hotline. Vincent was drumming his fingers on the table, nodding his head. This is some wild stuff, Vincent said. He was smiling. I’ve got to go, Gram said. I have to call her back. I’ll fix this somehow. Gram got up from the table and turned to leave. The fluorescent lights from above shined off his scalp from the bald patch in the back. At the doorway, he turned the corner and disappeared.
After lunch, which was a spread of cold cut sandwiches, subs from a deli across town, the new hires found their seats in the big room again and sat down. Diane was up front and began explaining how the health benefits worked. Vincent and I were seated at the back of the room, far enough away that we were able to chat quietly without disrupting Diane and the goings on. I’m wondering how many will make it past the first week, Vincent said to me. There’s way more people in this room than we actually need, right? I nodded along, agreeing with him. That’s what they do, right? They stack up a good chunk of new hires so that when the ones who can’t hack it quit, they still have a full bullpen. I said that I think he’s right about that. He wondered if there were any stone cold killers in the bunch. Vincent loved to go to the happy hours and talk with other like-minded individuals about their experiences that day or week. He loved details. Vincent was very patient. He would sit and listen to everyone around him and their stories of vicious requital. Nod as they described garnishing the wages of a 78 year old man unable to retire. Laugh at depictions of crying and blubbering on the other line. He’d wait until he heard everyone else out before sharing his own experiences. Sometimes he had nothing worth saying but would live vicariously through our coworkers. I often looked at Vincent and imagined him pulling the lever of a torture rack hundreds of years ago. He would do it with a straight face, as he did while making calls, only to express his contentment after the work was done.
Diane had finished with the health benefits portion of the presentation. She said that they were going to try something new with this batch of new hires. She had invited some veteran employees to join them in order that the new hires could mingle around and ask them questions. She called Vincent and I up to the front. She also called a handful of other people, who, up till then I had thought were new hires, up to the front as well. They must have worked in other departments, I figured. Diane gave us name tags that we were to stick on our shirts so that the new hires could distinguish us from them. We would break for coffee and the new hires could casually approach us and ask us questions about our experiences.
I didn’t want to talk to the new hires. I’ve talked enough throughout my time with the company. A day off from talking was exactly what I needed, and so far, so good. But Vincent was ready for it. He didn’t wait for the new hires to come up to him with questions. He attacked, looking for the timid and weak. I stuck by him, for it was easier to remain quiet while he went on and on. We walked up to a woman with scared eyes, clutching her onboarding papers so tightly they wrinkled up. How are you liking your first day, Vincent asked. The woman nearly fell backward with fear. I imagined Vincent looked like a shark coming at her in the water. It’s, fine, it’s been informative, the woman said. Tomorrow you’ll be making your first call, he said. First one’s the hardest, but after that they get easier, he said. Have you heard of detachment theory, he asked her. She shook her head. Diane didn’t talk about it, nor is it a company mandate or protocol or whatever, Vincent said, but it’s helpful for what we do, for what you will be doing. I had a hard time believing Vincent utilized detachment theory. He seemed very much attached to his work. The woman leaned away. She looked at me with pleading eyes. This guy, Vincent said, gesturing to me. He doesn’t have the same tools I do. I could be your mentor. The woman had started tearing at the edges of the paper, little tiny tears, one by one. I wish you the best of luck, I told her, and led Vincent away. He immediately targeted someone else. I recognized him as the stretching man from earlier. I saw you stretching earlier, Vincent said to him. They shook hands, the man introduced himself as Henry. Do you work out, Henry, Vincent asked. I do, Henry replied. That’s good, Vincent said, very good because this job is a lot of sitting around. Not to mention the calls, which can be quite demanding. Henry straightened up a bit. His face on fire. He seemed to feel challenged. It’s sitting on the phone and kicking people out of their houses, Henry replied. He was confident and arrogant. He wanted to fight Vincent, I was sure, to assert his dominance. He wanted to walk into the prison on his first day and punch the biggest guy there. Henry was a clear Type-Oner. Vincent stepped closer to him and said, You know, there aren’t any trophies in this business. But, he said, if you channel it all correctly, it’ll feel like a prize has been won every time you get off the phone. Henry smiled. Vincent smiled.
We wandered around like that, talking to various people. So far, Vincent had been the voice and I just a passive presence at his side. I would agree with him, confirm his statements at times, or I would simply stand and listen. Vincent had so much gravity, it didn’t matter if I was there or not. He was like a black hole. Some new hires were sucked in and never returned, and some, like Henry, resisted and competed with him, themselves becoming black holes. Had I not had so much experience with this, I would have been sucked in as well. Torn apart and then piece by piece released into oblivion. But that was not the case for me, for I had made thousands of calls, had taken away the possessions and lives of many people. I was immovable.
A small man walked up to us and asked how long we’ve been with the company. How we felt about the company. How was the health insurance? He asked so many questions, one after another, that Vincent, fed up with not being able to climb into this man’s soul and ravage it, walked away. I stood there answering his questions as best I could. He had a gentle disposition and a soft voice. He asked what it was I did for the company. Was I still making calls? No, I told him. I operated more as an in-between. Once he was done with his call, he sent it to me, I processed the information and sent it to the next department. And what do they do, he asked. I believe they receive payment, I lied. But you’re not sure. No, I’m not sure. He scrutinized me for a moment before going on. How long were you making calls before you moved up to this processing position, he asked. A little over three years, I said. Which do you prefer now? Between the calls and the processing, I asked. Yes, he said. The processing, I said. But the calls, he said, they must be so interesting. They are, I told him. They are also draining. He crossed his arms and his eyes appeared to shift into some new mode. It’s part of the job, is it not? To call up those in debt and give ultimatums? It is, I said. It’s the entire job. So why stick around if you feel drained? Because, I said, I have seen what financial precarity looks like and so need to hold onto this job in order to avoid it. But you don’t enjoy the work you’re doing, he said. I no longer have any feeling about it at all, I said. This seemed to satisfy him. He perked up. He said he liked talking on the phone. He told me that he would spend hours late at night talking to old friends or family. He would probe their inner lives, extracting every detail, holding them up to the light to see their faults. Through the phone, he could hear their desperation to get away from him, but for some reason they hung on. Often, there were tears, for he would ask them questions about their childhoods, about the death of a parent, a tragedy from years before. He asked one after another. It was almost as if he were holding them hostage, keeping them on the line. He would ease up from time to time, lull them into a kind of sleep. And then, suddenly, pull the chain taught again. He was their interrogator. He pulled the hood over their heads. When he had felt full of them, stuffed with their pain and misery, he would remove the hood, say how lovely it was talking with them. He would hope, he’d say to them, that they could do it again soon. When they’d hang up the phone, he’d keep his own to his ear, listening to the silence, soaking it all in. Why do they keep taking my calls, he wondered. He smiled, looking out into the unknown.