Pancakes in an Orchard – A Story with a Purpose

San Martin, CA – It was a stormy night, and I hadn’t found a car all night. Running an account in rural San Martin, I could only find the address by the faded numbers on mailbox on the side of the road. It sat on the edge of a dirt road leading into the dark of the orchards. It was a dicey place, but hungry for a repo, I drove on.

There was no point in trying to use stealth in my approach, my diesel engine was loud enough to wake the dead. Whoever was in that farmhouse complex at the end of that road narrow dirt road knew I was coming. Headlights, bright as day and bouncing with the jostling of the truck on the potholed jumble gut road, the weary old small farmhouse came into view.

Front and center, rear-end sticking out for my taking, I spotted the truck. Its plates memorized were spot on and I dropped the lift. Turning to the side, I dropped the lift and put it in reverse. I hadn’t even gotten backed into it when the back porch light burst to life like a spotlight on a prison break.

There was no point in freaking out, I was caught. Adrenaline pulsing through my veins like battery acid, I clinched the lift around the rear tires and climbed out hoping to strap it down before the inevitable conflict. There was no way I was going to get it down that bumpy road safely without strapping it down otherwise. No point in getting shot at for wrecking a repo.

Leaving the warm comfort and relative safety of my truck, I stepped out into the deluge from above, pouring down in andalusian volume. No sooner than I grabbed the tie down straps from the back of the truck when the back porch door flew open. I didn’t even see the resident before the dog came flying out.

Charging down the steps, the dog hit the gravel drive and leapt up at me knocking me to the ground and flat on my back. Crouched on top of me, the labrador retriever licked my face excitedly wagging its tail.

“Don’t worry about Sandy. She’s just a big lap dog.” The weathered old voice said as the farmer in his robe stepped out under the eave of the patios shielding himself from the rain. Heart about to burst through my chest, an overwhelming wave of relief overcame me so strong I kissed the black lab back.

“Sir”, I said, climbing to my feet and petting the happy dog, “XXXX Johnson?” I asked assuming it was the borrower. “I’m here for the truck. It’s a repo for XXXX Financial.”

“Naw, that’s my son.” he replied shaking his head with a disappointed look on his face.

“Is he home?” I inquired, hoping otherwise.

“No. Sorry to say. Won’t be home for a few years. He’s a guest of the state, if you know what I mean?” he asked with a euphemistic hint at humor. “Got some drug problems. Just couldn’t get clean.” he replied, head lowered in a scowl.

“Sorry to hear.” I replied with genuine empathy as he scratched his chin, and I wrestled with having the guts to ask the man to do me the favor. “Any chance I can get the keys?” I blurted out with immediate regret at my lack of tact.

“Yeah, sure.” He conceded without hesitation and began to turn from the door to go inside. Relieved with how everything was turning out, I took a deep breath as he turned back to me.

“You’re soaking wet. Get up her out of the rain.” he ordered suggested. In opposition of every piece of advice I’d ever been given about going into borrowers homes, I reluctantly walked up the steps to the house with the friendly dog guiding my way.

Stopping on the porch under the awning as a polite gesture and in genuine relief, I pulled the hood of my field jacket off my head, removed my hat and shook the water off myself when the smell crept up my nostrils. Like a siren’s song to the ears of Ulysses’ sailors at sea, I was drawn to the pleasure and comfort it promised. Pancakes.

“Hungry?” the old man asked as he stepped forward with the keys to the truck. That’s when all sense of caution went to the wind as I smelled the sausage. Discretion cast aside I replied “Yes.” without a second of thought.

“Good.” he replied as he turned back into the kitchen through the porch doorway.” I got too much for just me.” he added before I cast all caution to the wind and stepped inside. That was when they charged into the room. Four black lab puppies came rushing in swirling around my dirty boots in excitement as the old man pulled a cup from the cupboard and poured me a cup.

Bending down, I picked up a pair of them and held them against my soaking wet jacket as they licked my face before the man handed me a cup of coffee. Setting them back down on the floor, I took a seat at the kitchen table as the man served me breakfast.

Over the next hour we talked. Things small and things big. We had a moment of human bonding that, based on the way our meeting started, was most unexpected and one that I will never forget.

Later, I left with the truck. Obviously, I never saw him again. But did I leave a positive mark in his lonely life? I hope, but I know he left a mark in mine.

In Closing

Nice story huh? Well, it’s true. All of it except the dog and puppies. It happened to me a very long time ago in about 1991, exactly as I said.

So, why did I share it? Because there just aren’t that many stories of people, borrowers or others, doing good things for agents or stories of agencies or agents doing good things for others.

I keep re-posting the awesome stories of Amy Bednar and her team at Relentless Recovery and their Christmas giving Story, Jim Ford of Illini Recovery and his Thanksgiving story and gained a new one with Giannone Companies Christmas gift drive last Christmas.

Why, because I just don’t find many stories about the good things that happen in this business. They’re invisible. They’re like baby eagles. We know they exist, but if we never looked for them online, we would hardly ever think about them.

I wish you would all share more positive stories with me, but I understand why you don’t. You’re humble and that is admirable.

In the Bible, Matthew 6:3, it is said; “Do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing,” In translation and context, it means; your acts of kindness should be done discreetly without seeking recognition from others.

Little stories like mine are rare but they do happen, and I could share more of my own, but your stories are far more important, this isn’t about me.

But the repossession industry doesn’t share these stories with anyone, and it is extremely rare that anyone in the internet news world would care or ever spend their time doing so even if they did. It doesn’t generate the clicks they’re looking for. That’s why I can’t find it.

If you have one, PLEASE share it; subscribe@cucollector.com

For the almost fifteen years I’ve been publishing repossession stories on this website and occasionally, a reader will reach out to me or tell me to my face, as Michael Eusubio of Digital Dog Recovery once said “your site makes me want to cut my wrist.

I just heard from an agency owner out of Oklahoma who brought up some points of view that I hadn’t heard before.

“I understand the purpose of these articles, BUT do you know the damaging impact you’re causing us in the field with these? You are scaring drivers, every driver, every applicant, and every applicant’s wife. Over the last year, it has gotten harder and harder to hire drivers, and the constant exposure to these types of emails is part of the reason. I get you’re going after safety and more money from clients, but if you continue to hurt the employment industry, safety and fees won’t matter. You’re destroying your own industry.”

I suppose he has some valid points but I must point out that this is what is happening out there, I am not going to candy coat it. Back when I worked in the field, these stories were never shared outside of the lot, our home or a bar. They were buried as if they never happened.

In that process of denial, men were killed for decades without anyone knowing who the hell they were. Mistakes were made without anyone else being provided the opportunity to learn from the mistakes of others and perhaps many were far more cavalier than they should have been.

Collectors and repossession management staff, shielded from the realities of the stories I publish, would continue to be ambivalent to the dangers in the field. Ignorant of these dangers, they would dismiss the threats of borrowers that agents deserve to be made aware of. And in doing so, put more and more men and women’s lives at risk.

Does this help with hiring? No. Does this help with employee retention? No. Does this make the spouses of agents anxious or concerned? Yes.

But does this keep people aware of the dangers of this industry? I hope so. Has this perhaps kept one person from making a poor decision that could endanger the life of themselves or others? I will never know, but I sincerely hope so.

I am not an ambulance chaser. I find no joy in reporting the injury of anyone. I find no joy in anyone being arrested on either side of the process. But this is the reality of the industry, and I only hope that the cost benefit of knowledge of risk and reality exceeds the drag on hiring and employment.

For anyone who feels that I hurt this industry, please unsubscribe from my newsletters and look away. Hate me and do as you will. For those of you that know, I wish only the best for you all, thank you.

Kevin Armstrong

Publisher