A SET OF WHEELS

         'OHHHHHHHHH, there's good news tonight.' The Wall Street Journal reported that the money cloud had moved. The Journal did not exactly say that, but it noted that a hot business of today in the Silicon Valley is car repossessions. Tech is dead and the Repo Man is king.

         My schadenfreude is tinged with bittersweet. The story, in which a reporter accompanied a repossessor on his nightly rounds, made me realize I had missed another opportunity to expand my consulting business. No, I wasn't about to go into the repo business in this part of the world, but I could give sage advice to those trying to keep the man with the tow truck from their door.

         I'd find an old wooden desk, two straight back wooden chairs to put in front of it, wooden venetian blinds for the window, an old oriental carpet and I'd have a frosted glass pane put in the door with the company name in black. 'Antirepo Associates' would be a catchy enough. I'd get my business by appearing in well-placed commercials on late night TV.

         The clients would seat themselves uncomfortably in the hard back wooden chairs, envying me in my high-back plush chair. This assumes I can get this chair out of my cellar office. I got it in there, but tried to move it this past winter and could not get it out. So maybe I will buy another one. One thing for sure, I will open the blinds enough to put a sliver of bright sunlight in their eyes. I want them to know how low they have sunk.

         "Well, pull into the driveway of old actress from the days of the silents and let her butler hide the car in her garage. She'll let you stay in the flat above your car and this will solve your eviction or foreclosure problem too. You'll change your occupation to being a gigolo". As the client is making notes, I will shoot a rubber band at his hand. "No, you sap, stop writing, that is a film plot and it won't work. Your salvation is my patented strategy, the 'Crazy Frank gambit'.

         I knew Crazy Frank before he became Crazy Frank, back when he was Dah-Dah, or Moto, or Four Eyes. All of us had names we now prefer to forget. Don't ask me about Fuzzy or Mad Dog, the latter the courtesy of Frank. He was a year behind me in high school but the same age.

         Frank was ahead of his time in reinventing himself every few years, but he didn't start doing that until his mid-twenties. The Repo Caper happened in 1965 when Frank was living with his mother, Mare as he called her, in an apartment above one of his father's commercial properties. I can't remember if Waggy, his dog with the curled up tail and a bad case of gas, was still alive, but I think not.

         Frank inherited his headstrong attitude from his father, and for that reason his mother and father lived apart, Dad residing in their old house a few blocks away. That was the house where Frank, losing at monopoly one night, ran upstairs, then screaming a banshee cry, he charged down with his father's Samurai sword in hand. Frank was unpredictable.

         For some reason, in 1965 Frank was driving a new Chevie Chevelle, pale green in color. Where he found the money to buy it was a mystery, for the only times I can remember him working were summers, when he would lay terrazzo for a friend of his father. He would sing, to the tune of Dee Dee Sharp's 'Mashed Potatoes', "Give me razza for my mashed potatoes'. This comes off rather flat in print, I suppose you had to be there to appreciate it.

         I suspect the car came courtesy of his mother and sister. The latter was probably sick of him borrowing her Beetle and taking his good-for-nothing friends to the Jersey shore. She also was aware of Frank's one shortcoming: he was a horrible driver. When belting out "Locomotion" at the top of his lungs, stop signs and immovable objects were minor inconveniences.

         I can only recall that it was sunny that day as I sat in his living room, waiting for him to finish breakfast. I couldn't help but see the man with big shoulders, and in a suit, walk to the door downstairs, and I clearly heard his knock. Mare went down to see who it was, and came up very upset. "Frankie, that guy wants to take your car. He says you are a month behind on payments." "I made all the payments, Mare, but they lost one. I got the receipt for all the money orders. Let 'em come up."

         The man entered the apartment, heard Frank out but wouldn't listen, saying receipts proved nothing. He used a stronger word than nothing, and he ended his peroration demanding the keys. "Keys, you want the keys, sure, why not?" and Frank flipped him the keys.

         Mare was upset. "What are you doing, Frankie. Why didn't you keep up the payments." "I did, Mare, but that jerk won't take my word. He's not going to take the car, I guarantee it." We watched the man disappear into the parking lot, and in a minute he came running back, taking the steps almost two at a time. "The new car, it's a wreck. Two bad fenders, busted headlight, dented door. We have to discuss this and get you back on payment track, Mr. D."

         So I tell my client: “smash the car up, dent it, put one mismatched tire on it, crack the windshield”. The client looks at me incredulously.
         "I'm paying you good money for this idiotic advice."
         "Sure, it works. Got anything better."
         "What do I tell my friends and the chicks when they see my wheels."
         Picking up the phone, I nod and wink and tell him, "Hold on, I'll see if Norma Desmond has a vacancy."