“What’s this mean?” I asked, my pen hovering above the line that awaited my signature. “This clause that says the instrument may be assigned?”

The dealer was suddenly taken aback, as if no one had ever asked about the standard loan contract. I’m sure customers always try to beat him down on his prices, and a lucky few seek alternate financing, but the bulk of his sales are to people like me who would never qualify for a conventional car loan and have to pay the inflated prices and buy from dealers like Sam. “It simply means that I can sell the loan, or note, to a finance company instead of carrying it myself,” Sam patiently explained. “It happens all of the time and makes no difference in your payment, interest rate, or other terms.”

“Okay,” I said, signing on the dotted line. There are dealers like Sam’s in just about every city. They buy cars at auctions or from distressed sellers and offer financing at three times the rate of a dealership or credit union to anyone who walks in the door. I didn’t really have a choice anyway. My four-year marriage to a spend-a-holic and the subsequent divorce left me bankrupt and in a real credit crunch. I still had a good job, but in order to work I needed reliable transportation, and even with the predatory interest rate I’d be able to manage the payments on the overpriced two-year-old truck. Besides that, even if I couldn’t, all they could do would be to repossess it; my credit was already shot anyway.

A week later I got a notice in the mail that the contract on the truck had been assigned to Reliable Financial Associates, and that the payments could be made either by mail, bank transfer, or in person at their office and must be postmarked no later than the twentieth of each month. The note closed with a Thank You and a reminder to protect my credit and assets by making the payments on time, which I religiously did for the next five months.

Month six saw a confluence of the planets that happens to everyone now and then. My insurance payment was due, I had an unexpected dental bill, and the month contained two unpaid holidays, and come the twentieth of the month I didn’t have the money for the payment. I didn’t consider it to be a big deal. Payday was only three days away, and besides that, I now had a small savings account with enough money to cover the payment. Part of my bankruptcy included a mandatory counseling session where I was encouraged to maintain a savings account for emergency situations and to never ever withdraw from it except in the case of an absolute emergency. I didn’t consider being three days late with a car payment much of an emergency, so I waited and mailed in the payment on payday.

My doorbell rang late that evening. Both of the men were big. I mean NFL linesmen big. About six -six and pushing two seventy-five. “Can I help you?” I asked.

“You are late with a payment this month,” goon A said.

“I mailed it this morning,” I explained, knowing damn good and well that they’d heard the old ‘check’s in the mail’ line a thousand times.

“It was due three days ago.” Goon B could also speak, and as he issued his missive he reached into his pocket and removed a small pink sock, like what a little girl would wear, and two large walnuts. “Don’t let it happen again,” he said as he stuffed the walnuts into the sock. He twisted the sock to where the walnuts bulged in the toe as if trying to push through the thin cloth. “Do. Not. Let. It. Happen. Again.” He repeated, and then crushed the walnuts in his massive fist until the sock had no discernable bulge.

The implication was obvious, and a pain spread through my crotch and my knees got weak as he continued to knead the sock. If he had poked the sock with a pin I would have screamed in agony, and a slice with a knife would have left me bleeding in stigmatic sympathy. I got the message. I hadn’t felt so powerless and intimidated since junior high, when a large burly senior slapped me around in retaliation for an alleged insult against his girl.

I vowed to make every remaining payment on time even if I had to rob a liquor store to get the money, and for the next twenty-nine months I made the payment a day early just in case. I had to tap my emergency fund once, and put off paying the rent a few days another time, but I made damn good and sure that Reliable Financial Associates got paid on time.

I finally mailed in the last payment on Monday the eighteenth. The truck was now five years old and had sixty thousand miles on the odometer, but it was free and clear and all mine. With proper care it should last another five years and by that time my credit would be healed and I could buy any car I wanted and I’d hopefully have enough money saved for the down payment on a house. I stapled the check to the last payment coupon from the book and carefully addressed the envelope, then sat back and had a beer in celebration of the event.

I worked late the next Friday, and then stopped off with the guys for a quick beer and didn’t get to my apartment until almost eight. I grabbed my mail from the box and scanned through the mess of mailers and bills as I climbed the stairs. I stopped suddenly as I came to the last item. It was the envelope for Reliable Credit Associates, and the red Post Office stamp on the front said RETURN TO SENDER: INSUFFICIENT POSTAGE. I had forgotten to put a stamp on the damn thing. I stood there a minute, vividly recalling the visit from the two goons. It was the last payment, and I had the check in hand. Maybe their office would be open tomorrow and I could deliver it to them personally. They surely wouldn’t get upset this late in the game when they had practically all of their money. On the other hand, I could mail the check again and split for Wenatchee or Missoula or Pendleton or somewhere and hide out next week. No. The banks were closed and I didn’t have enough cash to leave town, besides, that would mean lying to my boss and missing a week’s work.

I finally opened my door and kicked off my boots and went into the small kitchenette.

“Your payment is late.” A large form emerged from the hallway behind me. My old buddy B. I bolted for the door and was quickly grabbed and held immobile by A.

“I mailed it Monday. It came back. Here’s the envelope, see?” I jabbered gesturing to the mail I’d dropped on the floor.

B tore the envelope open and retrieved the check and stuffed it in his pocket. “You were warned,” he said.

“Look,” I pleaded, “I’ll pay a late charge. How would that be?”

“There’s definitely a late charge,” B said, nodding to his companion and reaching for my belt. I fought hard. I kicked his massive shins with my bare feet as he pulled my pants off and I pissed all over him as he grabbed my testicles in his massive hand. It only took a few seconds, and although I was almost delirious from the pain I clearly felt my nuts rupture and flatten out and collapse.

I was out of the hospital a week later but couldn’t work for another month, which wiped out a lot of the money that I’d managed to save. I had a lot of spare time during that month, and I sat down one day with my calculator. The price of the two-year-old 1984 Toyota was fifty-five hundred dollars when I purchased it. The total of my three years of payments and interest was eighty two hundred dollars, which was more than the price of a new 1989 truck, not to mention whatever my balls might have been worth. It was a hell of a deal.