WHY SCRIBE QUIT HIS NEW JOB AFTER 2 WEEKS, part 3

(I apologize in advance that this is yet another installement to be continued, this tale is taking a lot longer to tell than I'd anticipated)


Following the experience with the “Ya’ll muthafukas gonna gimme mah shit” chick and the running of delinquent accounts in fabulous Pontiac, MI., I was feeling understandably pissed and annoyed. Here I had hired in to a store in a better area for this line of work and had reconciled myself to staying there until something better came along when suddenly I was shipped off to Fort Apache: The Bronx!

I’d only worked in the second store for three days and already knew I had to get out of there. Wednesday was my day off, thank Christ, but that also afforded me ample time to email resumes and reflect on my shitty choice o’ jobs. By Thursday morning, I was looking for any excuse not to have to go in. I actually got all the way to Pontiac (a nearly 40-minute drive) before deciding I would call in with “Car trouble.” Unfortunately, the “stupid fat bitch” as that customer called her who was helping out basically over-talked me and loudly repeated that I would let them know when I could make it in that day. Not at all what I was planning, that forced me into thinking mode: Did I really want to miss an entire day during my second week even at this shit-hole?

I decided to go along with the program. Since I was in the area, I found a place to park and eat and waited about an hour before showing up. One of the reasons I’d attempted to call off that day was because I knew the gung-ho management wanna-be from the other store was coming in to help out. I figured I wouldn’t be missed. When I walked in, Biggie Smalls told me I would be riding out with that guy running customers. I was fine with it. Anything to get out of that fucking store!

The guy showed up around 12:30pm. Let’s call him “Rob,” because that’s his name and I’m tired of coming up with pseudonyms. Rob’s a pretty cool young man. He grew up in Southwest Detroit and moved to the Novi area when he was a teenager. He has equal parts street wisdom and suburban know-how, making him an ideal candidate for what he does. When we got in the van, he advised me that we would be running customers for most of the day. Biggie Smalls was taking advantage of his presence and willingness to help put to send him into towns that were pretty far away.

I soon learned that Rob was chosen for a good reason. To describe him as tenacious wouldn’t even come close to the reality of his approach to running customers. The little bastard doesn’t give up for shit! We reached the first house about fifteen minutes after getting in the van, a reasonable nice home located in a semi-rural area. This particular customer had been holding onto a 26-inch flat screen TV and had not paid on it for a few weeks. I figured such a small item would have us there and gone rather quickly. I was wrong.

Once we were both out of the vehicle, Rob started to knock on the door...and every fucking window in the front of the house. Unsatisfied with the lack of response, he walked to the side and back of the house and started pounding on things there, leaving me to stand out front like a good little target until he returned. The only response received came from a little dog that barked up a storm each time Rob knocked at the front door. Finally, after about fifteen minutes of knocking, he decided we should go sit in the truck and wait some more. That’s when I made my stupidest mistake of the day.

I looked up in time to see some guy walk quickly past the front window moving heading to the right side of the house and mentioned it to Rob.

“Well, fuck that. We’re gonna go knock more, then,” he said.

And we did. Again Rob started pounding on the doors and windows like an angry cop which, in some ways, I think he sees himself as when he does this. Finally, some weird-looking white guy with stopped over posture, skinny as a rail and wearing thick glasses walked up demanding to know what we wanted.

“We’re here to pick up the TV,” Rob said.

“There’s no TV here,” the man replied. “Get the fuck off the property.” He turned to walk away.

“Sir, are you Charles.” Rob followed him.

“No!” the man yelled.

“Are you the home owner, sir?”

“Get the fuck off the property!” He walked back inside the house.

Rob turned to me and said, “We don’t have to leave unless he’s the owner. Even the cops can’t make us go.”

I would find out how true that was at the next place. Rob continued his persistent knocking, concentrating on what looked to the guy’s bedroom window until he re-appeared in the picture window near the front door.

“What the fuck do you want?” he yelled.

“We’re just here for the TV, sir,” Rob said. “Are you Charles?”

“Tell you what,” the guy said. “Why don’t you let me go into your truck and take something I want?”

“Sir, are you Charles?” Rob said.

“No. What’s your name? Rob? Okay, good.” He walked away again.

For a second, when the guy walked away I thought he was gonna come back with a sawed-off. Apparently, he called the complaint line for the company and mentioned the perceived harassment. Bear in mind, this was everything the online trainings had told us not to do. How this didn’t constitute harassment I didn’t know.

“We just want our stuff back, Charles!" Rob yelled while pounding. “Let’s be civil about this!” he repeated this sentence at least a dozen more times.

Eventually, Rob decided we needed to get back in the truck. For a fleeting instant, I thought with great relief that we were leaving. Then he pulled around the other side of the circular driveway and blocked the guy’s goddam cars!

“I talked to the store and they said he called complaining that he has to go to work in a half hour so he’ll have no choice but to come talk to us now,” Rob said.

What the fuck? We are BLOCKING IN HIS CAR on what could be his property? I thought. This is insane! How is this legal? How is this smart? How is this safe?

We sat there for a good twenty minutes before another car pulled up outside and a nice woman approached the truck asking if she could help us.

“Yes, ma’am,” Rob said happily. “We’re here to get the TV back from Charles.”

She happily cooperated, even calling Charles on her cell phone. The guy inside wasn’t him after all, nor was he the home owner. Charles had lied and listed his sister’s house as his residence. He was somehow available for her call and, through her, asked how much it would be the pay off the TV. Her facial expression told us everything we needed to know when Rob relayed the ridiculously high amount. She had Rob come in and get the TV while I remained in the truck.

Upon his return, Rob advised me that they were high-fiving at the store right now because “we” got the merchandise back, this being such an apparent rarity. Then we were off the next place, a townhouse in the town of Clarkston, a Podunk in the middle of Michigan’s least important section. Low crime, small population, bored cops.

The townhouses were nice, much nicer than one would expect from someone having to use a rent-to-own service for furniture. We walked up the door and Rob said he was going around back. He didn’t even knock up front, which turned out to be a really stupid-ass move. Moments later, a guy who looked like he could have been George Michael’s stand-in circa 1985 but with man-boobs in a tank top opened the front door with a befuddled smile on his face.

“Um, hi?” he said. “Why is he knocking on my back window?”

I identified the name of the store and, still smiling, he said. “Okaaayyyyy?”

I went and got Rob who came and advised him we were there for living room furniture.

“You’ve got the wrong house,” the flamboyant fellow said.

Rob read off the address which was off by one digit, the stupid, squinty-eyed fuck!
“And I don’t need to buy rent-to-own!” the man said indignantly.

So now we’d gone to the wrong house and offended a nice gay guy with good credit! Rob thanked him and we got back in the van. The correct address was in the next row of townhouses. And this time, the cops would actually come~

To Be Continued