Repo Men

For Garrett and Miguel.

You are weird, twisted people,
and for that you have my eternal friendship.

T
he first time I ever held a pancreas in my hands, I got an erection. I think it was the adrenaline more than the mass of tissue and metal between my fingers, but the medical nature of what I was doing did little to deter the jolt of energy that hit me down below. Prior to that day, my main source of excitement had been sexual, just like any young man, and somewhere along the line, the wires must have gotten crossed. Arousal equals erection, so there I was, pancreas in hand, stiffy in the pants.

Surrounded as I was by four other trainees, there was little I could do but hunch over and pretend it wasn’t happening. Jake, standing to my right and examining the clacking valves inside a fresh new heart unit, was positively glowing like a mother holding her newborn child. Even if I’d been able to tell him what was going on, he probably would have just laughed and told me to take care of it in the bathroom. He wouldn’t have understood that I didn’t want to feel attracted to this job, didn’t want any kind of rush associated with what we were being trained to do. Yet at the same time, I knew, deep down, that I never wanted to do anything else.

And now I know, like it or not, that I was probably right. My future career options, as seen from my current vantage point on the fourth floor of an abandoned hotel, surrounded by scalpels, extractors, and a single shotgun, are limited at best.

But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Context, perhaps. I’ve never been good at context, but I recognize it’s something that’s valued. Peter likes it, it must be worth something. So here goes; I’ll give it my best try. Bear with me if I get distracted. If I wander. Consistency has never been my strong suit.

When I was on top, I worked in the shadows. I knew how to get in, and when to get out. I was feared, respected, villified. The story’s as old as the gig: Men wanted to be or beat me, women wanted to screw or slap me, and most days it didn’t much matter which—the jobs went on like they always did, one night blending into the next and into the next.

Don’t get me wrong—I remember every receipt I ever wrote, every ’forg I ever hauled back into the Credit Union. Those memories weigh on me now, each of them, like small leaden balls strung around my neck, pressing against my chest. Back then, though, when I was in the thick of it, I didn’t take much note. Job’s a job. That’s how you get through the night.

Typical gig, just for shits and giggles:

I’d swung into the Credit Union after a long weekend, eager to pick up a few extra pink sheets. I’d made a few bad bets on sure-thing college football games and wanted to cover my losses before Carol noticed the hit on our bank account. She could be awful fussy when it came to that sort of thing.

It was a good time for the Credit Union and for those of us who worked in repossessions—the economy was booming and the credit rates kept creeping up, so while folks continued to buy, there was no shortage of those who defaulted and returned their merchandise back to the lender. No worries all around. For most of us, at least.

“You see this?” I asked Frank. “Says this guy lives north of Braddock.” The pink sheet gave us address, phone, credit ratings, registered firearms, the works.

“If it’s on the sheet, it’s on the street,” Frank said. “Why do you have to question it? Just go.”

“That’s a pricey area,” I said. “I’m just making sure we didn’t miss a payment in the mail.” It had happened before; it will happen again.

Frank opened the door to his office, inviting me to leave and get on with it already. “He’s eight months over—that’s no missed payment. Hell, maybe he’s got millions stored under his mattress, I don’t give a shit. He’s not paying
us
, so that’s the end of that.”

Frank was right, and I didn’t argue the point. I’d seen it enough times—clients with cash who didn’t feel the need to meet their obligations. Their fiscal choices were not my concern. So be it. I charged up my Taser, grabbed my scalpel case, and headed out into the night.

High-rise apartment, nearly fifty stories scraping the sky, and my client, Henry Lombard Smythe, lived on the thirty-eighth. The doorman gave me a nod as I entered and was smart enough not to hassle me—the tattoo on my neck usually takes care of that. A quick high-speed elevator ride and one ridiculously easy to pick deadbolt later, I was inside. No one around, so I made myself at home. High-end furniture, abstract art, views of the city out giant plate-glass windows from damn near every side of the apartment.

The photographs told the story; they usually do. I could check it all out on the pink sheet—date of birth, marital status, kids—but I’ve always gotten the most complete profile of my clients from the things they choose to put in frames.

There’s Smythe—middle-aged, hair receding, a good set of teeth—next to a bottle blonde with great curves, both in scuba gear down in Fiji. Another of him on a ski slope somewhere in the Alps, next to a slim brunette who’s holding on to his elbow like it’s the last thing keeping her from falling off the mountain. Mixed throughout, photos of Smythe and a little girl, aging randomly. In one picture, she’s in pigtails and they’re at the circus; in another she’s dealing with her first bout of acne and the look in her eyes says
hurry up and take the damn picture already
. These, combined with the swinging bachelor pad, made it clear: A divorcé with disposable income, choosing to spend his newfound single lifestyle traveling the world and making a general fool of himself with women way too young for him.

I would have made myself more comfortable—put my feet up, checked to see what kind of video setup he had going—when I heard the elevator bell
ding ding
, followed by a pair of footsteps stumbling down the hall. The uncontrolled laughter of the inebriated rang out as the lock began to turn, so I pulled my Taser and stepped back into the shadows of the darkened flat. It’s always better when you can make an entrance.

They came in already half undressed. His shirt unbuttoned, her skirt hiked to the waist. Hands roaming everywhere. From the outfit I figured out pretty quick that she was a working girl, and not one of the registered ladies from the red light. I waited until she had his pants down around his ankles—I know, not much of a fair fight there—and nearly started her business. His eyelids fluttered as he leaned against the wall, expecting a wash of pleasure.

“Mr. Smythe,” I said calmly, separating from the shadows. “I’m from the Credit Union.”

That got his eyes open real quick. He stumbled to the side, tripping over his pants, barely staying upright. The hooker stayed on her knees, shuffling backwards, keeping low. Smart girl.

“Fuck. Holy fuck—” Smythe stammered. “Wait, I can pay.”

“Sorry,” I said. “That’s not my department.” I raised the Taser and took steady aim. “I’m legally bound to ask you if you’d like an ambulance on standby, though you will be unable to secure another artiforg from the Credit Union in replacement.”

“Wait,” he said again, “don’t—”

That’s as far as he got before my Taser darts slammed into his chest and released their electricity. He went down twitching, and I stayed clear until he was down for the count. Back then, I was always careful about safety.

It didn’t take long to pull out the extractors and scalpels I needed for the job, and I’d barely made my first incision when something soft yet heavy whacked me upside the head. I turned to find the hooker, legs wobbly and eyes red with drink, standing over me, swinging her purse in my direction. “Don’t you fucking touch me,” she slurred.

“Jesus, lady,” I said, fending off her feeble blows, “Why you gotta bust my balls? I’m not here for you. Let a guy do his job.”

She was all of nineteen, twenty years old, I could see that now, not much older than Smythe’s own daughter, and she was scared. All she had to do was walk out. Hell, she probably already had her cash—it would be the easiest job she’d see all week. But sometimes people do stupid things when the see the Tasers and the scalpels and the tattoo. Sometimes they get in the way. Kind of a shame, really.

She hit me with the purse again. Wasting my time, more than anything else. I hopped to my feet and grabbed her by the shoulders, pressing her firmly up against the nearest wall. I could smell the alcohol on her breath, mixed with the stench of way too much perfume, sweat, and sex.

“Look,” I said, trying to keep myself as calm as possible. Remembering that I was talking to a child, more or less. “I’m here to do a job, that’s all. Just like you. I’ve got paperwork and a boss and mouths to feed at home. That man on the floor is your client, I get that, but he’s my client, too, and it’s not my fault if he decided to start paying for blow jobs and stop paying his bills. So let’s all be adults about this and let everyone get on with his business, yeah?”

She nodded—I expect she would have agreed to nearly anything I suggested at that point—and I let her go, kneeling back down by Smythe to continue my work. I wanted to get the job done before the effects of the Taser wore off; it’s always such a mess to zap someone once they’ve already been opened up. The blood splatter is hell on a good cotton shirt.

I was wrist-deep in viscera when the hooker came at me again. I don’t know if she’d already forgotten our little chat or chosen to ignore it, but she screamed and ran straight for me, purse swinging over her head like some crazed Viking in drag. With my free hand I pulled the Taser and shot my remaining dart; it hit her in the leg, giving her just enough time to glance down at it in confusion before 50,000 volts took over.

She dropped, I finished up, and dropped the Kenton LS–400 liver I came for into the stainless-steel sink in Henry Smythe’s kitchen. His high-pressure faucet nozzle did just the trick washing off the blood and attached tissue, and before long the metallic organ was gleaming in the glow from the overhead halogens.

I filled out a yellow receipt, signed it in triplicate, and left a copy on Mr. Smythe’s body. If his next of kin had any issues with the repo or its aftermath, there were numbers they could call. Funny enough, no one ever bothered. Just goes to show, I guess, that the system works, in its own way.

Ran out two more jobs that same night, then hightailed it back to the Mall and the Credit Union offices, where Frank was waiting for me. I’m sure he’s got a lovely home, and occasionally I’ll hear stories of vacations he’s been on, but somehow Frank’s always at the office. Like he’s got a double taking his place when he goes home for a nap.

“Easy jobs?” he asked.

“Same as ever,” I replied. We headed to the back room, where he took the artiforgs—the liver from Smythe, a set of kidneys from a bookkeeper, and a pancreatic unit that was only three months away from payment in full—and punched them into the system. From there, they’d be shipped back to the refurbishment plants of their respective manufacturers, where they’d be checked out for defects, spit-shined to a like-new gleam, and put back out on the showroom floor for the salesmen to hawk to new, hopefully more solvent, clients. For a small percentage, of course, there would come the inevitable delayed payments, the late-payment penalties, the increased interest rates, and finally default. Then they’d call me in and the circle of life would start all over again.

As I got ready to leave and go back home to Carol, flush with cash and the dwindling rush from the jobs themselves, Frank held another pink sheet up. “Priority job,” he said. “Over a year past due.”

“I’m tired,” I told him. “The sun’s coming up. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Double commission you get it done today,” he said. “It’s just a couple miles from here. Come on. It’ll take, what, an hour?”

I took the gig. I nearly always took the gig. That’s one of the things that made me so good at what I did—I didn’t have much of a social life. When you’re pulling out artificial organs for a living, dinner plans can really get in the way.

But all of that—the nights of work, the days asleep, the position of power and the bravado—it’s a million years from where I am now. It’s a past life, one that bears as much resemblance to my current state as would a career playing polo or managing stock portfolios.

Let it be known: Once, I owned the night. The right to go to the front of the line. To tell policemen to fuck off and get a smile in return. The streets were mine, to do as I pleased.

Today, I’m Mr. Smythe. I’m the one with his pants around his ankles, stumbling backward, hands raised, hoping and praying that the first shot will miss and give me a chance, however slim, to see tomorrow.

Hi-fucking-larious.