Outside the Grand Sierra casino a huge video marquee has the blazoned words, "ANOTHER LUCKY WINNER CAROL S. $34,500." The large image of a smiley old woman announces to ordinary people -- just like us -- that it's possible to strike it rich!
"The security guard here hates me," declares Brian Turley, a chubby goateed guy with a cherub face. He laughs as I climb into his massive red tow truck to ride shotgun. "If they see me they'll try to kick me out."
Understandable. It must be bad business to have casino patrons' cars repo-ed right from the parking lot while they're inside gambling away their monthly loan payments.
The repo business has become a thriving boom industry in this desperate age of recession. "Put it this way -- we haven't died down in two years," Brian says as he chugs a Red Bull to start his 3 p.m.-to-midnight shift. "It sucks. It's unfortunate. What can you do? Everyone is having a rough time."
As a repo man, Brian's been legally stealing people's cars for the past four years -- landing the job with Zane Investigations without even knowing how to drive a tow truck. After graduating from college in Reno with dreams of becoming a teacher, Brian's career plans took a curve with the economy.
"I've been here many times," says Brian while cruising a low-income neighborhood. "I knew this guy was going to live down here. We do a lot of repos in this area. I talked to him last week on the phone and he said, 'Fuck you. I'm not going to pay it.' All this for a '96 Chevy Silverado piece of shit."
"So what's the process?" I ask, noting large dogs in backyards, houses with , "For Sale By Owner."
signs, and heads looking out of windows suspiciously.
"That's it!" Brian says like a kid at Christmas. The Silverado sits in front of a house with an unruly lawn and an ominous KEEP OUT sign, and it's naively parked in full view. It will soon be taken from its owner. Swiftly, Brian backs up to the maroon Chevy. A mechanized sling is maneuvered under the car and hooked on to the frame. Chubby Brian moves at four times his normal speed, securing the vehicle with ninja proficiency in less time than it takes to load a gun. Then comes the aforementioned screaming: A mustachioed Hispanic man wearing a wifebeater comes storming out of his garage with fire in his eyes, swearing in Spanish.
"That's the guy who told me to go fuck myself a few days ago," Brian confirms. A small child appears by the man's side. Once the guy calms down in this no-win battle, Brian says to the English-speaking little boy, "Tell him he has to make his account current, then he'll get it back."
As the Silverado is clamped down and raised, the disgraced man removes the license plates -- his souvenir of the fallen American dream. This whole interaction makes me feel like crying.
The suburban dream is about to come crashing down as we turn into a subdivision. "We got a doubleheader: two cars at the same address," Brian explains with a small amount of delight.
Quiet. Dark. Families huddle comfortably in their homes. Lights flicker from TV sets. American flags hang on porches. The only sound is the low hum of the repo man's tow truck. Slowly we pass a two-story house with a kiddie poo, and toys littering the walkway.
"There's the Yukon! And the Trailblazer is right in front!" Nervous adrenaline starts to pump. Brian calls for backup. "Jared will take the Yukon and I'll take the Trailblazer. Both of them are going to go!"
In the window, a mom-head is illuminated by the light of a TV. Brian quickly flips on his flashlight to confirm the VINs on each vehicle.
"It's them!" he whispers.
We walk stealthily back to the tow truck and get inside.
"Now we wait."
Knots twist in my stomach. Pounding heart. Sweating palms. My mind races with all possible outcomes to this situation -- most of them extremely bad or just plain horrific. I ponder whether this is the stupidest thing I've ever done. Jared -- a heavily tattooed guy whose dog rides shotgun in his tow truck -- finally arrives.
"I'll go in first," Brian relays like a general leading his troops into repo battle. "The Trailblazer is in front of the house and the Yukon is in the driveway."
The neighborhood is now filled with the foreign hum of two tow truck engines. Within seconds we're at work on the Trailblazer and the Yukon. Movable parts clank loudly as the vehicles are lifted off the ground in front of the house -- in wide view of the neighborhood.
Lights are abruptly flipped on in the quiet suburban home. A frantic, pudgy woman comes running out in tears. She cries into a cellphone, "Honey, they're taking the cars! Both of them!"
Sobbing rings through the silent neighborhood as the economy claims another casualty.
"Our payment's not due until the 26th," she pleads tearfully.
Brian patiently tells her to contact the dealership that provided the loan. "You have 10 days to get it back."
Jared and Brian help the woman empty both cars. A child seat. Baby toys. Dolls. All are shoved into garbage bags. Heavy sobs and many tears.
"It's not the end of the world," Jared solemnly assures her, putting another handful of dolls into the garbage bag.
"I'm freaking out!" the woman cries loudly. "It's my only car!" Worse: "I have a son in a wheelchair!"
A Hiroshima bomb of depression races through me. The woman turns to plead her case. I look down, not knowing what to say. The Yukon is clamped down. So is the Trailblazer. Tears flow into the river of recession.
As the last remains of baby toys are pulled from the Trailblazer, the woman suddenly breaks into a crazed, awkward laugh.
"We wanted them to come get this one," she says twice, referring to the Trailblazer. "We're 10 payments behind." More laughter mixed with tears.
"Stead just got bitch-slapped," Brian says over the phone as we drive away. "All in all, it's been a pretty good day."
(Originally appeared in Penthouse -- from an upcoming book.)
Follow Harmon Leon on Twitter: www.twitter.com/harmonleon
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