Lizard Tales (23 page)

Amy just smiled and said, “Baby, I tried. But sometimes you can’t tell nobody nuthin’ that ain’t never been nowhere.”

[Even More Ronosophy]

T
hrough all the years I’ve spent in the repossession business, I have learned the most valuable asset you can have is your wits. Problem is, in most situations you encounter you really can’t have a battle of wits, ’cause the other person is usually only half armed. So the next best thing is to have someone watching your back out there in the field. And in all my years, I have to say that no one has done a better job than Bobby Brantley.

Now there are times when, I’m sure, if brains were leather, Bobby couldn’t saddle a June bug. But when it comes to protecting me, he’s a redneck Hercules. Bobby is one of those big, homegrown country boys who’s tough enough to chew up a ten-penny nail and spit out a barbed-wire fence. We’ve been in some pretty hairy situations together—many of them with some of the biggest, burliest men you’ve ever seen. Through it all, I’ve never seen Bobby taken out by anyone. When we leave for a repo, no matter what the odds, Bobby always makes sure we lick the situation. I’ve seen him stand toe-to-toe with giants and smile as he tells ’em it’s not that he doesn’t care what they have to say, he just feels they’re too insignificant to listen to.

Bobby hasn’t been with my company too long (maybe about as long as him and his third wife have been together, and that’s about eight months). But in that time I’ve seen him grab more than one tiger by the tail and fight him off with a switch in the dark for me. But Bobby has
two small downfalls. The first is that he’s never wrong. Things are always going to be his way or the highway. But in his case, I’d have to admit he’s well worth the hassle. I’ve worked with too many guys who were all hat and no cattle. Although nine times out of ten, doing a repo with Bobby is about as much fun as a nosebleed, he’s gotten pretty proficient at getting me out unhurt.

Bobby’s second downfall is his complete lack of people skills. Bobby thinks that he meets all people by destiny, and those he meets during a repo were sent to him as punishment. Whenever we get out of our truck to grab a vehicle and find ourselves having to interact with people, Bobby immediately has the attitude that he was having a great day and they shouldn’t screw it up by talking. So I decided that anytime we head out to do a repo and I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be an easy run, I’ll let Bobby take the lead and work on his people skills.

Every time I tell Bobby I’m going to let him take the lead, he looks about as happy as a dead possum on the Interstate. He’s always telling me that his job is to have my back; if I decide to slap the bull, he’s going to dog him. I’ve been trying to teach Bobby that the art of repossession is a mental chess game, and we can win as many battles with a slick tongue as we can with force. But Bobby thinks he’s so bad he can make a man put back stuff he hasn’t even stolen yet, so it’s hard to win him over to my point of view. Yet I know the snail made it to the Ark through perseverance, so I keep trying to convince Bobby every chance I get.

One day I got a call from one of our lien holders. They needed to repossess a car from an older lady who lived by herself in a trailer park. The manager asked me to be exceptionally nice, ’cause he had a soft place in his heart for this lady. He really didn’t want to repossess her car, but he
couldn’t get her to communicate with him. He did tell me she was a sweet old lady, but she had enough mouth for five sets of teeth.

Well, I figured that I really didn’t have a dog in this fight and it would be the perfect chance to let Bobby work on his verbal persuasion. When I explained the situation to Bobby, he seemed as excited as a legless frog at an all-night IHOP. I told him that I would run point and take the spotter car; he could drive the tow truck and do the hooking and talking. Since this was a single older lady, he should be able to talk her right out of her keys. Try as I might, I just couldn’t get him sold on the idea. “Ronnie,” he said, “I’d rather have a broke back in hell than have to deal with someone on a repossession. That’s not my cup of tea.”

I knew Bobby would eventually come around to seeing things my way; I just had to do some serious persuading. Finally, we headed out to the little old lady’s trailer, and I just knew this would be an easy repo and a great chance for Bobby to sharpen his people skills. As soon as we turned the bend into the trailer park, we spotted a white Sunfire parked at the address. I jumped out and checked the VIN on it to make sure it was the right car. After verifying it, I motioned to Bobby (who was sitting in the tow truck) to come on out to hook and strap the car. I would go knock on the door to see if anyone was home.

Bobby backed up the tow truck and lifted the car while I strapped the far side. As Bobby got out to strap his side, I went to the door to see if we could get the lady outside so Bobby could talk her out of the keys. Well, as soon as she opened the door, I knew from the look on her face that she was hotter than a two-dollar pistol. I didn’t have to say a word—she knew why we were there. The only question she had was, “Who’s in charge of this situation?”

I stopped for all of two seconds before I pointed to Bobby and said, “That’s the owner right there, ma’am. His name is Bobby Brantley.” About that time, Bobby turned around and looked like a deer caught in headlights by a hand grenade. He could see this little old lady didn’t need a car to drive: she needed a broom to ride! But I guess that broom was broken, ’cause she came out of the trailer with a regular ol’ kitchen broom—and the intention of taking out what she saw as the trash.

Bobby immediately started talking politely, trying to explain to her that we were just doing our job and he was sorry.

She looked him over and said, “I’m sorry too.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“This!”

Faster than you can lick a fried chocolate skillet, she lit into him with that broom like a pack of piranhas on a chicken leg. There’s big Bobby running from the Wicked Witch of the East around the tow truck while she’s sweeping him off his feet. The entire time, he’s yelling, “Ronnie! Ronnie, help me!”

I yelled out, “Ma’am, listen, please!”

She stopped dead in her tracks and spun around to look at me. It was at that point I knew I was going to be as much use to Bobby as a prefabricated post-hole digger. “You want some of this too, Mr. Sonic the Hedgehog?” she barked, referring to my hairstyle.

I looked at her and said, “No, ma’am. I would rather be chained to the underbelly of a moose during mating season than to deal with you.”

Then I bid her a fond farewell and, as I was jumping in my spotter car, saw she had turned her attention—and that
broom—back to Bobby. I put the truck in reverse and heard Bobby yelling, “Ronnie! Where do you think you’re going?”

“Hey, Bo,” I answered just as she broke that broom over his head, “looks like you got this one under control!” And he went to running like a fat man chasing a doughnut downhill.

I headed back to the shop, content to let him work on his people skills. A few minutes later he called and told me he finally got out of there after she wore herself out beating him with that broom.

I got all the employees to go outside and sweep the parking lot as Bobby pulled up, and that made him madder than a pack of rabid wolves on a three-legged rabbit. He jumped out of the truck and just glared at me.

“Hey, Bo, looks like she swept you off your feet!”

He tossed me the keys and said, “Right. Funny, man. I’m done for the day. I’ve had enough of you—and this place.”

I said, “Well, at least tell me: Did you learn anything during this incident?”

“I sure did,” Bobby replied. “I learned I used to have a handle on life—but now it’s broken.” Then he drove off into the sunset.

[Other Sayin’s]

T
wo years before I began writing this book, I had reached the end of my rope. The thread was frayed and my grip was slipping fast. Then I opened an old, worn-out book that had been lying around my house for years. As I read the pages, one after another, I could not stop the flood of tears that emptied from my soul. The chaotic life I had been living seemed aimless, and the turmoil that I had learned to accept as normal flooded out of my body. I wept tears of blood into a pool of salvation and hit my knees with a determination to find the source.

It was in that moment that I met God for the second time in my life—having run from Him when I was eighteen. I saw a pasture and I was standing at its gate. Down the hill was a house with soothing lights that seemed to pull me toward them. It was as if a celebratory festival was in progress, and I could sense the joy and peace that abounded below. I believed I would never be welcome in such a place, for I was a worthless thief and a killer of man.

Then He spoke. It seemed as if the mountains themselves were shaken from their foundations. “Do not be afraid, for I have been expecting you. Come, for I know you are thirsty, and I have water. Sit, for I know you are hungry, and I have much for you to feed upon.”

I looked at my feet and saw I was chained to the ground
with shackles of self-pity. The chains were heavy, and each time I tried to free myself from them, they tightened around my ankles. I looked around and saw wolves, circling and growling. Scraps of meat hung from their bloodthirsty jaws, and their razor-edged teeth seemed to glimmer in the moonlight. Each time I pulled to free myself, I became more entangled in the past: my worthlessness, my addictions, the harm I had caused this world, the hearts I had broken, the people I had ruined. I felt myself being pulled back toward the woods and the darkness where those just like me were calling my name.

I looked back one last time toward the house and saw the man, arms still open. He spoke again: “Come home, son. It’s time for you to come home.”

I finally replied, “But sir, I am worthless. I have wasted my talents. I have thrown my life to the wolves. I have lied, stolen, envied, falsely accused my friends. Sir, I have done things from which I cannot return. I have lived in the darkness so long I can no longer see the light. I have wallowed in sin and it exudes from every pore of my existence. I have danced with the devil and drunk from his cup of damnation.”

There was a long silence. Time seemed to stand still. I watched the man, but it appeared he was getting farther away; the light was fading and night was again upon me. A cold chill crept through me. I felt alone and desolate.

It was at that moment that a light brighter than anything I had ever seen appeared. It blinded me, so I had to cover my face, but its warmth was indescribable and the peace that dwelled within it was unquestionable. Then a loud voice bellowed from the house: “I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU
HAVE BECOME. JUST COME HOME, BECAUSE I STILL LOVE YOU.”

As I raised a hand over my eyes to see where the voice was coming from, I saw an object hurtling toward me. I reached into the air to catch it, and as I brought it down and opened my hand, I saw it was a key.

Then He said, “You, in the hills, release my child, for he is coming home.”

I reached down toward the chains that had held me for so long, and as soon as I put the key in the lock, the chains exploded off my ankles. The weight of the world fell from me, and I realized I was free.