Breaking Point

Breaking Point

Another nearly sleepless night--nothing new. I crack one eye open and blearily register the time on the clock: five-twenty-five. Almost time to get up and get ready for another torturous day at work. I pull myself upright and look over at my companion. He's sleeping soundly, as always. I smile and give him a good scratch behind the ears. He rumbles in his sleep but otherwise doesn't move, until--

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

I hate alarm clocks with a passion. Celery lifts his head and glares in the direction of the offending device. I lean over and switch it off before addressing the graying canine at my side. "Sorry, buddy, looks like you don't get to sleep in either." He rests his head on my leg and sighs. "Whatever idiot woke up one day and said, 'Hey, let's invent something that will annoy the shit out of people before they even wake up,' must be one of the most hated people in the world," I tell him, but Celery's eyes have closed again. I scratch him on the head and sigh before adding, "I guess we have that in common."

Unfortunately, that's the truth. I work in the collections department at Royal Credit. I'm the lucky bastard that gets to call people all over the country and demand money. If they don't pay--or can't--they suffer the consequences.

I hate my job.

Celery grumbles at me as I roll out of bed and head for the bathroom. A rustling noise behind me, along with ten years of history, tells me that my beloved beagle is now curled up in the warm spot I left behind. Lucky jerk.

A disgruntled figure greets me in the mirror and I fight the urge to smash the glass. My brown hair hangs limp around my pale face, and my blue eyes--once bright and smiling--seem dull and vacant. After a quick brushing, I tie my hair into a ponytail, then head to the closet for clothes. It's nothing special: jeans and an old sweater. I stopped trying a long time ago. The only people that try are the people that care, and in my line of work, I'm not allowed to care. I'm paid to be polite, yet indifferent. Get the money and get off the line--that's what they told me when they promoted me to collections.

I started out in customer support, dealing with the panicked masses claiming missing cards ("I swear I put it in my wallet"), identity theft ("Is it bad if I haven't gotten a bill in six months?"), and phantom charges ("I've never been to one of those shops"). Apparently I was good at what I did because after a couple months they offered me a better paying position in the collections department, which I accepted without hesitation A little extra cash never hurt anyone--or so I thought.

The first couple months on the job weren't that bad. I handled the customers much as I had before, with a cool indifference that got the job done. There were the 16-year old girls who'd gone a little nuts with daddy's credit card, and then there was the "recovering" alcoholic who accidentally spent five-grand at some smarmy club in New York. One of my personal favorites was a senile 65-year old man who woke up one morning and decided he was a billionaire, then promptly tried to purchase a yacht. Whoops. Sometimes I feel sympathetic for these people, but hey, I work on commission.

It wasn't until after the holidays that I started to have trouble with the job. I'd been in the department for about three months, and had only dealt with a handful of really tough cases. A tough case is someone who genuinely works hard for their money, does their best to manage it, and still can't pay all their bills. Those calls are always the hardest to handle, and the number of those calls increased heavily after the holidays. A tough case is a widowed mother who has to choose between buying gas to get to work, or buying her kids a couple of toys for Christmas. A tough case is a newly-wed couple that desperately wanted children, but hadn't counted on triplets and weren't financially prepared to handle that.

Doctors visits, medication, school tuition, car payments, house payments, rent, phone bills, electricity, water, and food. It's not like these people are running out and  buying yachts on the weekends. They're not spending their money on big-screen TVs or Escalades. They're just trying to get by. And I'm the person who has to call them and tell them that if they don't pay, they're going to lose their car, their home.

These people are the reason I hate my job. Unfortunately, it pays really well. As I head out the door, I glance at the big-screen TV in my own living room and wonder if it's worth it.

*

I don't particularly like most of my coworkers. They're all nice enough in person when we make niceties at the coffee machine, but I've seem them on calls and many of them are ruthless. I was shocked to see how uncaring they were. Debt collectors have always been characterized as a the big bad wolf, hunting you down for your money. When I look at my coworkers, I know that it's true. We work on commission. It is our job to convince people to pay up. The more they owe, the more they pay, the more we put in our pockets.

I hate my job.

"Jen, is that you?" I'd just sat down at my desk when I heard a familiar voice.

"Morning, Carrie." She was one of the few people I actually liked in the department. It was her job to monitor various calls and make sure nothing got out of hand and that the collectors were using the "corporate approved" tactics. At fifty-five, Carrie was kind of like the mother hen, watching over all of us. She was famous around the office for knowing the names of everyone's children (or oddly named pets) and wearing obnoxiously large jewelry to match her equally wild outfits.

"How's Celery?" she asked cheerily, tossing a few memos on top of my in-box.

"Oh, he's fine. The jerk is probably still curled up in my bed."

Carrie smiled. "Lucky boy." She paused a beat, then leaned forward and whispered, "So, you ready to hear the juicy scoop?"

I grinned; Carrie was also the office gossip. "Of course."

"Well it seems that Jim finally snapped on a debtor. I guess she owed quite a bit and Jim was really going for that five percent commission. When this woman tried to tell him that she couldn't pay, he called her a," Carrie covered her mouth and stifled a laugh, then dropped her voice even further. "He called her a lazy piece of rabbit shit."

I gaped at her and echo, "Rabbit shit?" Carrie nods excitedly and I have to ask, "Who the hell says rabbit shit?"

Carrie laughs. "Apparently Jim does. Anyway, I just happened to be monitoring him at the time. I couldn't believe it! I had to report the call to his supervisor!"

"So what's happening to him?"

"Oh, he's gone to meet with his supervisor, but I really doubt he'll get more than a slap on the wrist. You know Jim is one of the best collectors. That's why he drives that fancy BMW."

I rolled my eyes. "It's people like Jim that make me feel like I'm not cut out for this."

"Oh, honey," Carrie said, shifting into mother-mode. "I know it's not a fun job, but you're doing fine."

"That's not what I mean. I hate tearing people apart like this. Some of them really try, you know."

"I know, Jenny. It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it."

I nod and sit down, grabbing my headset. "Well, I better get to it," I say as I boot up my computer. Carrie gives my shoulder a squeeze and heads back to her own desk. I log in, and bring up the day's call list. I fidget around in my chair, searching for a comfortable spot, and my finger hovers over the autodial button on my keyboard. One of the worst parts is that you have no idea what waits on the other end of that line. If you're lucky it's an answering machine. Unfortunately, we don't get too many of those anymore. Corporate recently installed a program that records when people answer their phones and logs that information so that it can predict when people are most likely to be home.

I hate my job.

The first call of the day is easy. "Good morning, could I please speak with Henry Jones?"

"He's at work right now, this is his wife. Can I ask who's calling?"

"Yes, my name is Jenny Thomas, calling from Royal Credit about an outstanding balance on your account."

I hang up a few minutes later, having entered her checking information and made the payment for her. She was nice about it. Apparently her husband had been forgtting things lately and never mailed the bill. An easy call, and a few easy dollars for me.

I am just about to dial my next number when Jim enters the room. He grins sheepishly at Carrie, then pops the collar of his polo and pounds fists with a couple of his buddies as a he strolls back to his desk, his brand new Rolex glinting in the fluorescent light. Looks like that slap on the wrist really hurt.

*

A few weeks earlier, I had lunch with my younger sister, Bailey. Without realizing it, I ranted about my job all the way through the appetizers and well into the meal. "These people," I'd said between mouthfuls of chicken salad, "they don't even care about anyone. They beat them down until there's almost nothing left. I hate it. I hate it so much."

"So why don't you just quit?" She made it sound so easy.

"You don't get it, Bail, I can't just leave. The money's too great."

"What about savings? Jen, it's not worth your sanity. I mean, looks at you. It's all you talk about. It's obviously killing you."

She made it sound so easy.

*

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

I shake out of my thoughts. "Sorry, sir. Is this Mr. John Bayer?"

"It is."

"Good morning, sir, my name is Jenny Thomas, and I'm calling from Royal Credit about... nothing apparently," I sigh. He'd hung up on me--let the fun begin.

I dial again and, as expected, get the voice mail. "Good morning, this message is for Mr. John Bater. This is Jenny Thomas calling from Royal Credit. If you could please return my call at your earliest convenience, I will be in the office until five. Thank you." He's not going to call back. They never do.

I hang up the phone and decide to go grab a cup of coffee. I stand up and am about to turn around when the stench of something nauseatingly over-priced reaches my nose. Jim is standing directly behind me. "God, Jim! You scared the crap out of me."

He grinned. "That's what I was going for."

I roll my eyes and brush past him. "Did you want something, Jim?"

"I was actually wondering if you wanted to grab a drink tonight after work," Jim said, running a hand through his salon-highlighted hair.

"No, thanks." I move to pass him, but Jim blocks my path. To my disgust, he reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair out of my face.

"You know, Jen, you can afford to put a little effort in. You're good-looking. It might do you some good." I scoff, but Jim doesn't seem to take notice and goes on. "I was thinking you might like it if I follow you home to drop your car off so you can ride with me."

I fight the urge to slap him. "Gee, Jim, ride in that fancy BMW of yours? No, thanks."

"What? You have something against nice cars?"

"Not really. Just against the assholes that drive them," I say before walking away.

When I get back to my desk I can feel Jim and his designer polo shirt giving me the evil eye. I'm tempted to yell, "Put your collar down, you look like a moron," but don't. Instead, I absently doodle pictures of stick figures on fire while I make my next couple calls.

The rest of the day passes more-or-less uneventfully until it's nearly time to go home. I dial up my last call for the day, and I know as soon as the voice on the other end said "hello" that it's not going to be easy.

"Good evening, ma'am, is this Mrs. Sarah Johnson?"

"Yes," she answers in a tired sounding voice. I could hear kids screaming in the background.

"Hi, this is Jenny Thomas, calling from Royal Credit about an outstanding balance on your account."

"Oh, right. I meant to call you folks back, but I just hadn't got to it yet."

"Alright, Mrs. Johnson, it looks like you've actually missed a couple of payments. Are you planning to pay these on your next statement?"

"Ah, well, I did originally, but we've had some changes in my house in the last month. I recently became guardian of my three grandchildren, as well as their two dogs, so I'm a bit behind."

I hesitate. My mind immediately fills with horrible possibilities of what could have happened to the parents of her grandchildren. Was it her daughter? Her son? "I understand, Mrs. Johnson, but since this is your third notice, we do need you to make some sort of payment here, or the bank will be forced to take action. I'm sorry."

A long moment passes before she answers, her voice much quieter. "I know, I know. It's just that I'm not working right now. I'm retired--didn't think I'd have to provide for other's anymore. And now... I'm just a bit behind."

*

I spent an hour on the phone with Mrs. Sarah Johnson that evening. I was there after most of my coworkers had left. She was polite and listened while I tried to explain what it meant to file for bankruptcy, and how that could possibly be beneficial for someone in her situation. She thanked me for my patience and my help, and told me that I was much nicer than any of the other collectors that had been hammering at her door. She said that one of the collector's she'd spoken with had even suggested she get rid of the dogs to ease the financial burden. She couldn't do that though. She never said exactly what happened, other than that the children had already lost enough. Because she didn't actually make a payment, I would get no commission from that hour-long call, but that didn't matter.

I hung up the phone and hesitated, a strange smile stretching across my face. This call had been the last straw. After three months of chipping away at myself, I knew exactly what I needed to do. The office was dark as I typed up a brief letter to my supervisor, explaining that I would not be returning to work anymore. Then I logged back into the call list and brought Mrs. Johnson's data back up. Her debt was not the worst I'd seen, but it was still a steep number. I thought back to my plush comforter and big screen TV, and the best friend that I could never give up. Without another thought, I entered my own checking account number into the file and paid her balance in full. She would never know it was me.

When I left that night, I felt a huge weight lift off my shoulders. I felt bad for not saying goodbye to Carrie. I knew she would understand though. We could always go out to lunch in the future. Carrie would never let me off the hook that easily.

When I got home, I did the one thing that I knew would make me happy. I grabbed my biggest blanket, popped a movie into that unnecessarily big TV, and curled up on the couch with my best friend. Sitting there with Celery in my lap, happily rubbing his belly, I knew that quitting that job was the best decision I'd ever made. I didn't know exactly what I was going to do next, but I knew I would do something good. I had enough money saved to carry me until I could find something new, something better. I wanted to help people, not hurt them.

Before I got into bed that night, I grabbed my alarm clock off the bedside table. I stuffed it into an envelope and scribbled Jim's name and the Royal Credit headquarters address on the front. It wasn't a fancy alarm clock, but I couldn't help feeling that Jim and that clock really belonged together. I, on the other hand, could not have had less in common with that clock. I was no longer one of the most hated people in the world. I had rejoined the human race.