God Don't Play. Mary Monroe

years ago I landed a receptionist job at Mizelle’s, the biggest collection agency in Richland. Unlike at the phone company, where I’d only been qualified to work as an operator, Mr. Mizelle, the owner, had promoted me to a management position a year ago. They would have given me the moon to stay because I was the third person to fill that position that year. It didn’t take me long to figure out why. Even before Shakespeare created Shylock, the ferocious collector in one of his plays, collection agents had been despised. The company often had to bribe and beg employees to stay. Ironically, we shared the first floor of a small office building with the IRS, the only other group I knew of that was even more despised than collection agents. But I felt like some of the other brave people who stayed: it was a job and somebody had to do it.

      Some of the same angry people who had to visit the IRS for an audit also visited us on the same day to make arrangements to pay off a bill that they’d ignored until we stepped in. More than a few angry deadbeats had stormed out of the office spewing threats. That’s why we had to have a security guard. And an armed one at that.

      Mr. Royster’s age and the fact that he was so bowlegged fooled a lot of people. But this old brother was sharp and fearless, and he knew how to use that gun hanging off his bony hip. Before he came to work for Mizelle’s, he’d worked at one of the downtown banks. One day, a masked man entered that bank, armed with a gun himself. Mr. Royster had saved the day by shooting the would-be robber in both legs, incapacitating him until the police arrived. I felt safe at the office with our bowlegged security guard there to protect me.

      My only hope was that he would never have to use that gun on my behalf.