“I’m sorry Mr. Wyatt,” the banker solemnly stated, “but it seems that you don’t have sufficient collateral to qualify for a loan.

“What about the title to the car? Doesn’t that count?” I asked. The ’66 Mustang was worth over fifteen hundred dollars and I was only paying twelve hundred.

“Of course it does,” the baker explained, “But we can only loan up to the wholesale value, which in this case is eight hundred and fifty dollars. You need to have a down payment or trade-in to cover the rest.”

My heart sank. I had a decent job and was tired of the old worn out four door Dodge that I’d inherited from my Grandmother. This was in 1970, when guy’s image was a function of his wheels. Back then, if you wanted to get the hot chicks you had to have a neat car like a Mustang or Camaro and not an old rusted-out Dodge.

“I advise you to save up a few hundred dollars for a down payment,” the banker said, “then maybe we can help you.” That didn’t do me a damn bit of good; the owner of the Mustang had gotten drafted and had to sell it quickly and wouldn’t accept my old car as part trade. I had a good job in the mill but by the time I saved up enough money for a down payment someone else would have the car, and I wanted it.

“Just a minute,” The banker said as I got up to leave. He fumbled around in his desk drawer for a few seconds, and then produced a business card. “Perhaps this gentleman can help you, “He said, passing me the card. “He doesn’t have to answer to a board of directors so he can be a little more flexible than a bank.”

R. Preston Roberts, Money To Loan, was located out on West 14th Avenue and looked an awful lot like a pawnshop. There was a locked display case of jewelry and guns, several dozen assorted guitars and amps and other musical instruments, and long shelves full of hand and power tools that he’d apparently loaned money on. Roberts was a pudgy man about sixty years old, and after greeting me he led me into a small office that reeked of cigar smoke. “What is it that you wish to purchase and how much money do you need?” He asked after I was seated.

“It’s a ’66 Mustang,” I explained. “It has a 289 and four speed and only has forty thousand miles. I can get it for twelve hundred, but I know it’s worth a lot more.”

“I see,” he said paging through a small blue booklet. He asked a few questions about the car, and finally laid the book down. “It appears that twelve hundred dollars exceeds the wholesale value of the car.” He laid the same line of shit on me that the banker had. “Perhaps you have other assets that could be used for collateral?”

As if. I was renting a small furnished apartment with about the floor space and elegance as a Motel Six room, and other than the worthless Dodge, the only things I owned were the clothes in the closet.

He put the book back in a desk drawer and looked at me slowly, side to side and up and down as if scanning me into his memory banks. “Almost everyone has other assets that can be used as collateral, they just don’t know it. All males, for instance, have something that certain other males would willingly pay to possess. That asset is something that could be used as collateral against a loan, provided of course, that the owner is willing to risk their loss in the event of default.”

I should have picked up on his meaning and hauled ass right then, but I was a naïve nineteen-year-old hayseed new to the city and didn’t have a clue. “How’s that?” I asked.

“All of the stuff in that room,” he gestured towards the front of the store, “was offered as collateral against money that I loaned. The loans weren’t repaid and the merchandise became mine to sell or dispose of as I please. In certain cases, such as yours, I accept other forms of collateral.” He was still way over my head and he must have sensed that I was pretty dense. “I’ll loan you the full twelve hundred dollars and you can have the check right now,” he continued, “all you have to do is offer your balls as collateral.”

I finally got the point, and immediately jumped out of the chair. “No fucking way, you pervert!” I shouted, heading for the door.

“If you want the car, sit down and hear me out,” he said. I wanted the car all right, but no way in hell was I going to let anyone castrate me to get it and I told him just that. “Your testicles remain in your possession to use and enjoy and are perfectly safe as long as you don’t default on the loan. You assured me that you have a good job and can manage the payments,” he calmly explained, “and I believe you. If you have absolute confidence in your ability to repay the loan, then you have no worries. If you don’t, then you probably don’t have the balls to handle a car like that anyway.”

Basically, he was insinuating that I was too chickenshit to accept his offer. Now, I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I know when I’ve been challenged and I’m definitely not a chickenshit coward. “Write it up.” I retorted.

“I will need to, ah, inspect the collateral first,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe how many people lie to me and claim that they own things that they really don’t have.”

I felt like a sixth grader in the locker room on the first day of PE as I stood before him, naked. “Very nice,” he said, reaching out to gently cup my balls them in his hand. Nice? As far as I knew my balls were just like everyone else’s. They did what they were supposed to do, and once I got the Mustang I planned on them being a lot busier. “Perfectly normal,” he finally announced. “You can get dressed now, and I’ll get your check and the paperwork ready. There won’t be any need for you to bring me the title to the car,” he pointed to my crotch. “Those are all the collateral I need.”

“Let’s go over this,” he said producing the contract for my signature. “The amount of the loan is twelve hundred dollars, secured by your testicles. The interest rate is six and a half percent, and the term is for two years. The monthly payments are sixty-two forty and are due on the twentieth of the month. In event of default, ownership of the secured property, your testicles, reverts to me for sale, removal, or disposal at my pleasure. Is that clear?”

I must say he didn’t try and deceive me, and he gave me every chance to run away. “Yes,” I said and signed my name on the dotted line. I picked up the car that same evening and it was everything I hoped it would be. It was bright red and chicks loved it. They all wanted to sit in it, and one drive around town with the windows open and the radio blaring was enough to get most of them to spread their legs for me. Punching the gas pedal would make the tires spin and snap them back in the seat, and I swear that every time I did it my cock felt a little longer. I washed the car every Saturday and waxed it once a month and loved it like a brother.

“You heard the latest?” A co-worker asked me three months later.

“No. What?”

“The mill’s going to shut down.”

“Bullshit. They just put five or six million dollars in upgrades,” I replied. “No way in hell will they shut it down now. Where do you get this shit anyway?”

“Paul Johnson applied for a mortgage and the bank told him that working here right now was the same as being unemployed. He’s already put in an application at Pope and Talbot.” A few other guys had also heard the rumor, and by quitting time that night it was official: Economic conditions-lack of timber- regretfully inform you-full cooperation-thank you for your years of service.

I wasn’t worried to start with; there were several other mills in the area and I shouldn’t have any trouble finding a job, and in the meantime I could collect unemployment insurance.

“Why can’t I get benefits?” I asked the lady at the Bureau of Labor. “I’ve been working steady.”

“Because you don’t have any base year income reported,” she patiently explained. “You need to understand that the last three months don’t count. Your compensation is based on the first four of the last five quarters. You either weren’t working then or you were working for an exempt or non-contributing employer.” Right. I had been working on the farm for cash then, and Dad didn’t do all that paperwork crap. Fuck.

I left the office just as Paul Johnson was joining the long line. “I thought that you got on at Pope and Talbot,” I commented.

“They’re shutting down the swing and graveyard shifts. They laid off a bunch of their own guys. Same thing over at Georgia Pacific.”

I finally got a job piling crap at a junkyard, but it only paid minimum wage and wouldn’t let me both pay the rent and keep the car, let alone eat and entertain myself, and by the twentieth of the month I was short. I had no choice but to sell the car, and even if I couldn’t get the full price for it, at least I could get enough to make the loan payment for a few months until I could get sorted out.

“I’m short of money this month, Mr. Roberts,” I explained. “I can pay half of it now, and I’ll sell the car and pay the note off completely by the end of next month.”

“That’s no problem at all, Mr. Wyatt,” he said. “You’ll need something to live on though, so you don’t have to pay anything right now, just wait until you sell the car.” I’m sure that my sigh of relief was audible even above the noise of the store. I hated like hell to have to sell the car, but what choice did I have? At least this way I could sleep at nights without worrying.

I had just gone to bed that night when the doorbell rang. “Yeah?” I said sleepily. “Who is it?”

Three men stared stood in the small entryway, and one produced a piece of paper. “I purchased this contract from Preston Roberts,” He explained. “And I’m here to collect the collateral.”

“I talked to Mr. Roberts today. He said I could have until next month.”

“Mr. Roberts is no longer a part of this contract. It, and the collateral, now belongs to me.” I tried to slam the door, but they were one step ahead of me. I also tried to fight them off, but the three to one odds also made that futile, and in the end they left with what they had came for.

I sued R. Preston Roberts. It seems as how it was illegal for him to enter into contract with anyone younger than twenty-one. I got enough to buy a small house and a new pick up, but that didn’t even begin to cover the real loss. I put the Mustang into storage right after that and I still have it. I take it out for a car show or local cruise-in now and then and it’s still a chick magnet. Lots of good that does me now.