I don’t like callin and botherin people. “Hello this is Darnell calling from EastLine Asset Management…” It’s the job I never wanted. “Hello this is Darnell calling from EastLine Asset Management…” Sometimes calling a invoice is like trying to get with silly girls in high school. The kind of girl who would say she was goin with you and then switch once she fucked a basketball player. Those are the ones who fake like they’re gonna pay and don’t until 20 or more phone calls later. “Yes, Ms. Ingram we’re showing a balance of $868.83. How do you intend to pay for that? Check? Money Order?”

I know how she’s going to pay. If she got kids she might ignore it. She might pay for their school clothes, a birthday party, a pair of shoes for herself. Of course she tells me the check is in the mail. Of course I tell my supervisor that Ms. Ingram is gonna pay and I’ll get my commission from closing the account. But I know better. “Hello? Oh this isn’t Natasha? Can you tell her Darnell called?” You get to first names when its time to get serious. Call 33. Promise 50. Natasha is always nice when I call. We talk about her job, her other bills choking her bank account. She tells me that she feels embarrassed that I have to call. I feel quietly embarrassed because I haven’t paid my fees for my cooking classes, embarrassed that my glasses are cracked on the right lens and I haven’t had insurance since undergrad. I’m embarrassed that I even went to undergrad…

“Hi, oh, is your mommy there? She’s not? Can you tell her Mr. Darnell called?” Its all a game. I wake up everyday and wear a suit full of lies, drive 40 miles to the call center where our supervisor gets dumb fucks hype by telling em they’re “debt professionals”. Ms. Ingram, Natasha, might never answer the phone again. I probably won’t get this commission. My supervisor will wear pants that are too small and his feet are gonna hang over the sides of his shoes like overstuffed fanny-packs. I know he’s gonna make us do a cheer before we go to our desks and pick up the phones that are damn near warm from the night before. I will do my shift. “Hello, this is Darnell…” Natasha answers. She asks me if I have any other payment options. I smile before I reply. That is one thing I don’t know.

This is my attempt at flash fiction or micro fiction My central quandary was: How does a bill collector feel? Is it possible for them to like a job that is truly based on an elevated form of hunting and harassment? How does the survival of one almost always mean the non-survival of another?