Thursday, June 3, 2010
Skip Tracer Installment 2: Pay Up Or Else
Skip Tracer Gordon Young — Thu, Jun 3, 2010 at 5:00 AM
- Bill Crews
- Frankie Hardwick
The bill collectors called the Hardwick house daily when Frankie was growing up in Rosedale Park, a neighborhood in Northwest Detroit. And nightly. And at dawn, dusk, twilight, high noon, and the wee small hours of the morning. He didn't remember specifically, but Frankie guessed they even gave his family a ring during the vernal equinox and the full lunar eclipse.
The Hardwick boys always called their mother Grandy, a derivation of the Grand Champion title she had earned after a hard-fought family Yahtzee tournament years ago. She could have simply taken the phone off the hook, especially when the calls increased during dinner, but that was somehow admitting defeat. It seemed more honorable to take her chances, to show she hadn't given up yet. Or perhaps create the momentary illusion that the Hardwicks were not the sort of family that needed to screen calls.
Frankie would sit at the big, creaky dining room table with Grandy and his two little brothers, Mark and Terrence, eating bacon and eggs for dinner - a sure sign they were broke - when the chocolate brown rotary phone would ring. Grandy would sigh. Frankie would exchange nervous glances with his brothers or look down at his unbreakable Corelle plate with the gold flower pattern around the edge.
Even though Frankie's dad was its principle composer, he didn't have to endure this debtor's fugue delivered via Michigan Bell. He disappeared in 1975, leaving Grandy with a varied collection of debts that grew steadily despite her frugal nature. She was the admitting supervisor at the Wayne State University Medical Center. A good job, but not good enough.
It was Frankie's task to handle calls when they couldn't stand the ringing anymore. He learned to see through the chipper tone the collectors employed. Despite what they said, Frankie knew he wasn't their "pal" or their "little buddy." He wasn't a "good sport," either, and he sure as hell wasn't going to do them a "big, big favor." It was a valuable lesson for a good-natured kid to learn. People lie. Especially friendly people.
Frankie would politely tell them his mother was at work - but never where she worked - then write the caller's name on a piece of scratch paper and slide it over the vinyl tablecloth to Grandy in case it was someone she wanted to talk to, a "real person," in her words, implying that the bill collectors were an inferior breed.
If the family was having fun at dinner, with one of the kids telling stories that made Grandy laugh, Frankie would refuse to let the phone call ruin it. Sometimes he would speak to the bill collector with a droll British accent. The Jerry Lewis Nutty Professor shtick was also a favorite. Another standby: "McFarlane's morgue - you stab 'em, we slab 'em." Gallows humor.
But there was nothing funny about the first call from Mr. Darlington. They were eating Shake 'n Bake pork chops and salad when the phone started ringing.
Frankie finally jumped up to answer it, adopting his customary British accent.
"Allow, mate," he said.
"This is Mr. Darlington," a menacing voice responded. "Put your mother on the phone."
"Oh allow, darling," he said, pausing before adding the last syllable of his name, "Ton."
There were a few seconds of silence before Darlington spoke again. "Cut the fake accent you little deadbeat fuck. You don't have the right to talk to me that way. You put your mother on the phone right now, if you know what's good for you."
Frankie was stunned. The bill collectors never talked that way to him. There was something terrifying in Darlington's voice. Something that conveyed utter control.
"Put her on the phone," he repeated. "Now."
Frankie knew the routine. It was his turn to offer up a ruse, a feint, a dodge. Instead, with trembling hand, he gave Grandy the receiver. He could tell by the look on her face that she knew something was wrong. At first, Grandy was combative with Mr. Darlington, but that approach quickly faded. She was reduced to quiet promises; the check would be in the mail tomorrow. Frankie watched a weariness envelop her as she slumped in her chair.
Grandy silently handed the phone back to Frankie and he hung it up. They finished the meal in silence. As he was clearing the plates off the table, Frankie saw that she was crying.
"Don't worry, Grandy," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "I'll handle it next time. I'll get rid of him."
She reached around and hugged him, requiring a heroic balancing act on Frankie's part to keep the silverware and porkchop gristle from sliding off the plates.
"You shouldn't have to live like this," she said.
To say Frankie lost faith in her at that moment would be wrong. It's more accurate to say he understood, for the first time, the forces aligned against them, and realized Grandy couldn't fix everything. He learned they were vulnerable. Frankie couldn't explain how a single phone call had this effect, but it had.
Darlington never called the house again. Grandy somehow made sure to pay the particular debt he was collecting. Yet he remained a part of their family. "Darlington" became the codeword for debt and all its implications. If the brothers were in a store and wanted Grandy to buy them something, she'd shake her head and simply say "Darlington." If Frankie answered the phone, he'd say the name after hanging up to let everyone know it had been a bill collector.
So Darlington was really more of a concept or a state of mind than a single person. He was just one bill collector, but he managed to represent them all, to coalesce the underlying desperation of the family and transmit it over the phone line. Frankie might even describe him as a scourge. An affliction. A curse. But he was real.
Coming Monday, June 7:
Installment 3: The Debt You Can Never Repay
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