The Car I Never Reposessed

I've been a repo man for almost twelve years. If you ask most people what I do, they'll usually say something like, "That must be a rough job."

They're right. Nobody is ever happy to see me. I don't make the rules. I just enforce them. The bank sends me an address, I find the vehicle, hook it up, and move on to the next one. It's never personal. At least that's what I used to tell myself.

A few months ago, I got an order to repossess a 2016 Nissan Altima. The address led me to a run-down apartment complex on the edge of town. It was the kind of place where every balcony had old patio furniture and every parking space told a different story.

I found the Nissan parked beneath a flickering streetlight. I backed up my truck, hooked the front wheels, and started lifting it. Before the tires were completely off the ground, I heard a door slam.

A woman came running toward me. She was wearing pajama pants, an oversized sweatshirt, and flip-flops. She wasn't yelling or calling me names like most people do. She was crying.

"Please," she said, trying to catch her breath. "I have a job interview tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. If I don't get this job... we're going to lose our apartment."

She looked back at the car. Then I noticed the child seat strapped into the back. Not just any child seat.

One with a little stuffed elephant buckled into it.

She followed my eyes. "My son," she whispered. "He's asleep upstairs."

I looked down at the paperwork in my hand. The account had been delinquent for months. The bank wasn't doing anything wrong. Neither was I.

If I completed the tow, I'd make four hundred dollars. Four hundred dollars is a lot of money when you're paying bills of your own.

Then I looked back at her.

I've seen people angry.

I've seen people embarrassed.

I've seen people make excuses.

What I saw that night was different. She looked exhausted. Like someone who had spent months trying to stay above water and finally realized she couldn't touch the bottom anymore.

I lowered the Nissan back onto the pavement. Then I climbed out of my truck.

"What happened?" she asked.

I bent down, looked underneath my truck for a second, then shook my head.

"Transmission just locked up."

She stared at me.

"I can't tow anything tonight," I said. "It'll probably take a day to get fixed."

For a second, neither of us spoke. Then she understood. She covered her mouth with both hands.

"You don't have to..." she started. "I know," I said. "Go to your interview tomorrow." She nodded, tears running down her face. As I climbed back into my truck, I rolled the window down one last time.

"And do yourself a favor." She looked up. "Park it around the block tomorrow night."

For the first time since she'd walked outside... She smiled. A small one. But it was there.

The next morning, I called the bank. "I couldn't locate the vehicle," I told them. They logged it in the system and moved on.

I lost four hundred dollars that day. I never found out whether she got the job. I'd like to think she did. Maybe she didn't. Maybe she still lost the apartment.

I'll never know.

What I do know is that, for one night, someone who already had the weight of the world on her shoulders didn't need one more person pushing down. People think my job is about taking cars. It isn't. It's about seeing people on what is often one of the worst days of their lives.

Most days, I have to do my job.

That night... I chose to remember my humanity first. I lost four hundred dollars. But I slept better that night than I had in a long time.

Some debts are written on paper.

Others are measured by the kind of person you choose to be when nobody is watching.