THE R.E.P.O. ELF: A John Elfman Novel

By Steven D. Tomlinson

John Elfman is The R.E.P.O. Elf in spite of himself because of the decisions he made and the situations he created as a repossession artist. People purchase many things on credit for incalculable reasons but fail to make the payments. Collectible, Muscle and regular cars and trucks and even people's businesses provide a steady diet for one man to outwit the owners and solve their problems with the bank or finance company. John learns, over time, that repossession is not always the answer. Life teaches John that it is not a straight line from beginning to end but a myriad series of twists, turns and switchbacks. As John moves through the various repossessions, he determines that first there must be possessions. And possessions are often precious to people.

People and their possessions are delicately intertwined and separating them is a tenuous task, even for seasoned repossession professionals. Repossession work is not for the faint of heart nor, as John learns, one he can go alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823011181

Steven D. Tomlinson

Steven D. Tomlinson is a retired corporate and banking executive who currently divides his time between residences in Pitt County and the Outer Banks of North Carolina with his wife. He is the proud father of two adult children who live in Indiana and Ohio. As a graduate of Wingate College, Wake Forest University and The University of Evansville he is also the author of If You Doubt Me. His years as a repossession officer for a North Carolina bank provided him with the inspiration for his second work of fiction.

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© 2023 Steven D. Tomlinson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  07/05/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-1117-4 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-1118-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023912098

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1     1973 Plymouth Road Runner

Chapter 2     The Deluxe Grill

Chapter 3     1972 Buick Electra 225 Limited

Chapter 4     1973 VW 1600

Chapter 5     Electrolux Vacuum Cleaner

Chapter 6     Duck - A Healing Sanctuary

Chapter 7     1976 Continental Mark IV Designer Series

Chapter 8     1978 Ford Mustang King Cobra

Chapter 9     1971 Ford F100 Explorer

Chapter 10   1978 Diamond Reo Giant

Chapter 11   1971 Camaro Z-28

Chapter 12   1966 Austin Healy 3000 Mark III BJ-8

Chapter 13   1947 Tucker Torpedo

Epilogue

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

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1973 Plymouth

Road Runner

M y name is John Elfman. I am known as Repo Elf and various other names, complimentary or not because of my adeptness at appearing suddenly in people’s lives and they finding certain property they owned with the bank disappearing with me. But let’s go back to my life before I became The Repo Elf.

On a beautiful day in June 1972, I became a proud graduate of Norgate Junior College with an associate degree in business. I was ready for the world. My Momma and Daddy were proud and somewhat surprised that day their many prayers had been answered.

As I walked across the stage to get my diploma, I was full of pride about my triumph at Norgate. It was well worth my efforts and time, and it was loads of fun. I mean what’s not to like about attending a religious school that allowed no dancing on campus, which was located in a dry county where drinking alcohol, smoking, chewing and spitting were restricted or forbidden? The town of Norgate, North Carolina was located 28 miles from Charlotte. The population of Norgate was 675 with an additional 1,200 reverent (most of which were knowledge seeking) students. The nearby burg of Sunrise notwithstanding, there were possibly 2,000 or so people who were spread out at that time around the highway between the village of Norgate and the big city. It was a relatively lonely 28 miles.

That great school of higher learning came to afford me a lifestyle to which I would, over time, become accustomed. My two years at Norgate Junior College afforded me the opportunity to mature just enough to go out and make a modest impact on the world at large. Unknown to me that Saturday, I was a lucky, lucky man.

I should mention that Norgate’s other redeemable grace, for me, was the fact that it was a co-educational college and as I found out – there was more to college life than classroom or book study. My education was broadened by the diligent attention of the fairer sex in attendance at Norgate who saw me as a project for improvement. I learned from the ladies that there were other wonderful things to do and enjoy during my days and nights at Norgate. I was an excellent and attentive student with an outstanding record of attendance. I remain forever grateful for and proud of my performance in their courses.

I must say, Norgate plus life’s tuition was quick to afford me the difference between education and knowledge. I determined soon after my graduation that one receives an education, if one so chooses, while knowledge is earned rudely and sometimes, painfully.

I was fully prepared to take on the world as a banker, my chosen line of work. Obviously, I was still quite ignorant. I began my banking career in a howling storm the Monday following my graduation day as an employee of The Northeastern Bank in Kernersville, North Carolina. By the end of my first day, not only did tree limbs and other debris litter the landscape but my two years of college education were washed away by the reality of the cold, cruel world I had now entered. The only education of value from my great school of higher education was to be reduced to my intensive and extensive scholarship from the ladies of Norgate Junior College and, as I was to learn, the only relevant knowledge of value in my current life.

Nine months in the bank manager training program exposed me to time in the teller window, as a data processing trainee and commercial loan and installment loan clerk. All of this training taught me about the lamentable side of people. They could act nice to a young man when they needed access to their funds or a loan and to the inner workings of a bank and its cast of characters. My fellow workers presented themselves as wonderful, customer oriented and dedicated employees to the public but backbiting, status seeking, shallow feeding sharks in the water to a young, oblivious, naïve boy scout such as myself.

To work for a bank, I learned I must possess two good dark suits, three shirts in blue, white and ecru, two pairs of black wing tip shoes and three neckties of blue, red and red/blue stripe. Being from the south side of Winston-Salem (aka Tobacco City), I did not know how to dress like this up to this point in my life.

Being a former boy scout and practicing their mantra – Be Prepared, I was not familiar with bankers’ dress requirements, and I knew I needed help. Prior to my graduation and the ensuing interview process and job acceptance with the bank, I learned to properly present myself.

I visited my somewhat older family friend, a local banker at Wachovia Bank, Charles Whisnant, III, and discussed my situation. Charles, always a jovial fellow, stood up and said to his secretary, this young fellow and I are going to one of my favorite places now, the haberdashery store. I will return soon. With that, he took me by the arm with a smile on his face and walked me to his car in the parking lot. We stopped at his gleaming fully restored black 1956 Continental Mark II, where I stood open-mouthed and fully flabbergasted. I said, Maybe I should drive. Charles looked at me and said, What do you drive? I pointed at my original 1959 pea green Renault Dauphine and Charles roared with laughter. Well, believe me, no self-respecting banker would be caught dead in that. No, get in. We will take my car. I am not sure what Frank would think if he saw me ride up in that.

Feeling fully chastised about the Dauphine I felt compelled to defend my little car to Charles. As we stood there in the parking lot, I launched into my brief history of ownership of the car. I explained it was the first car I drove to North Forsyth High School and a large smile began to grow on Charles’s face. You drove that to high school? You are a brave man. I am sure you were a big hit with the girls. Feeling slapped in the face again, I said, No, the car did not impress anyone but me. But it is a solid little car. I placed second in a two-car race with my friend Doug Colquitt who drove a vibrant red 1960 Dauphine when we raced down 27th street hill one day. At this, Charles began to laugh and said, How fast did you go? We both reached 65 MPH, but he beat me by just a foot or so to the bottom of the hill. My car had 36 horsepower, but I’d swear his had 40 horsepower.

Charles closed our discussion like a slammed door when he responded that all he knew about Renault Dauphines was an article he read in Motor Trend. He quoted the article by saying, the Renault Dauphine was the most ineffective bit of French engineering since the Maginot Line, and it could actually be heard rusting.

Charles motioned me into this car, started it and pulled from the bank lot to a wave of hands and Howdy, Charles from passing motorists. I looked at Charles and said, Are we going to the clothing store after your stop at the haberdashery store? Charles wheeled the Continental to an immediate stop at the roadside and burst out in laughter. After a few minutes, he dried his eyes, looked in the rearview mirror, straightened his tie and continued driving toward town. With as straight a face as he could muster, Charles said, Yes, that is the plan, and burst out laughing again.

Charles parked on Cherry Street in front of Frank A. Stith Company and motioned me to exit the car and follow him into the store. I knew this was the finest men’s clothing store in Winston-Salem even though I had never been here before in my life. Truthfully, I knew of no south of Salem Creek boys, like me, who had ever visited this store. We usually bought our clothes at Roses, Sears, W.T. Grant, or my personal favorite, G.C. Murphy.

I was intimidated to be in the store and held back near the door. Charles was greeted enthusiastically by a robust looking man, who Charles introduced to me as Frank. Being naturally slow of thought and confused, I connected the dots in my mind and realized this was Mr. Frank Stith. I was cowed by his direct approach to me and his firm handshake. He was impeccably dressed in a cool white linen shirt with dark trousers and oddly, a pair of black crocodile loafers with a simple brass emblem. I was to learn later that the brass detail was common only to Gucci products.

Mr. Stith looked at Charles with a question on his face and Charles, with a wink, said Frank, this young man is going into the second oldest profession and almost as profitable - banking. It is left to you and me to prepare him for being a banker. Frank, with a look of amusement in his eye said, Shouldn’t we try to talk him out of it first? Charles laughed out loud and said, No, too late for that, he has been infected and soon begins with The Northeastern Bank as a trainee. Let’s get him suited up and prepare him for the upcoming financial wars. Put it all on my account if you please.

Mr. Stith and Charles had a thoroughly fun time guiding me through the choices and requirements for dressing as a banker. First, Mr. Stith showed me the shoes. I said, the shoes? and Mr. Stith said, like any good structure, you must start from the ground up. As I stood there on my shoeless feet, with a tsk, tsk from both men because my toes were sticking through the ends of my socks. Mr. Stith provided me with a pair of store socks for fitting shoes and Mr. Stith used a tape measure to measure length, width and height. When Mr. Stith had finished the measurements, he selected two pairs of Florsheim shoes, a Royal Imperial Wing-T and one in a Captoe design and placed both on the counter. When I asked about trying the shoes on to see if they fit, Mr. Stith looked aghast at me and Charles said, My apologies for my naïve protégé Frank, he means no insult. Looking at me, Charles said simply, they will fit like a glove. Mr. Stith then guided me to the socks, the underwear, the shirts, ties and finally the suits, suspenders and belts.

Although my Momma taught me well about how to dress when leaving the house, I was greatly relieved that no further measurements were required until we arrived at the suits. Thinking I was cool, I had taken to going commando at this point in my life.

Mr. Stith looked at me and pulled two handsome suits from the rack, one in dark blue and one in black. He murmured to himself, 38 shorts should do the trick and handed the suits to me. I turned to go to the dressing room, and with a gentle hand on my shoulder, Mr. Stith said, not so fast, first, I measure for the absolute fit for both suits since they are by different clothiers, Hickey-Freeman and Brooks Brothers. Charles, almost giddy, said Yes, yes! Two of the best in the world!

All of this happened under the watchful and approving gaze of Charles, who was beaming at me, Mr. Stith and the selection of wonderful banker’s clothes. Charles remarked, offhandedly, I believe the young man, with these clothes, will look more like a banker than I do. Mr. Stith stepped back, looked at the clothes and Charles and said, You are correct. Do you have time to update this tawdry ensemble you have worn today? Charles, roared with laughter again and said, No, but put together a new selection for me and have it tailored to fit since you know my measurements.

Once in the dressing room with my new ensemble of clothes perfectly fitting me from my head to my toes, a familiar refrain entered my head, you can put lipstick on a pig but……. One of my friends, Brent Fox always said, you look like someone put socks on a rooster.

My days as the Retrieval Event Property Officer, aka The R.E.P.O. Man, for the Northeastern Bank, Kernersville, branch started as I began my tenth month at the bank when I was assigned my first repossession for the bank. I was 20 years old, single and I had been with the bank less than one year as a trainee. I began my career with the bank as a trainee hoping to rapidly progress through the hierarchy but, let me say now, the words manager and officer in banks actually meant you were a low paid lackey for the bank. It was a not a so private joke among bankers that the pittance paid first-time hires was made up in titles.

Being fully prepared and suited for the job, and now an Officer, I found the main qualifications to be that the repo jock be single, fleet of foot and fairly clever. As my Dad, James Henry, said when I told him about my promotion, Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

My boss was the installment loan manager, James Campson and he assigned me to search and retrieve, based on the specification sheet handed to me, a 1973 Plymouth Road Runner, Basin Street blue with dual exhaust, 727 Slap Stick MOPAR Torque flite automatic transmission and powered by a 440 cubic inch V-8 engine with a four-barrel carburetor, rated at 280 horsepower (net) with blue interior and customer applied white racing stripes. This car was a strong runner for The Chrysler Corporation, and it was as road worthy as any of the Big 3 cars of its day.

Mr. Campson, who unlike most bank people was somewhat kind to me, said, When you go out on a repossession wear a comfortable jacket, shirt, blue jeans, thick socks and a sturdy pair of water-proof ankle tall boots. Your suit is for work inside the bank only. Gee, I thought, who knew a banker had to wear special clothes for work inside and outside the bank? My education knows no bounds. As I stood there with a question on my face, Mr. Campson glared at me and said, What? I said, Does the bank reimburse me for these clothes? Mr. Campson roared with laughter and said, No. What you choose to wear to work comes out of your pocket.

Now fully updated and clear about things, it occurred to me that a rival banker cared more about my clothing choices than did my own employer. I thought, Strange world, strange world, indeed. Such an education I was getting. To calm my nerves, I felt the need for a Moon Pie and RC Cola.

My Grand Ma, Myrtle Jackson, who was related to Stonewall Jackson, (all Jackson’s are related to Stonewall you know), gave me my first Moon Pie and RC Cola. What a wonderful day that was for me. I had just come in from the wood shed where my Grand Pa, Tom, had just completed my discipline training for a window I broke with a perfectly thrown rock. As I walked ever so slowly to the house, Grand Ma motioned me through the door to come in. Moving gingerly and with a limp, I navigated my way up the steps onto the back stoop where she put her arm around me and helped me to the kitchen.

Once in the kitchen she sat a mysterious deep brown cola bottle, with top off, in front of me with the letters RC emblazoned on it. Then she placed an unwrapped chocolate covered cookie beside it on a saucer. After consuming both and (sad to say, without a thank you), I jumped up and ran out of the front door to play away the rest of my day.

It was later I learned the name of the cookie, Moon Pie, and its delightful ingredients which consisted of two round graham cookies with marshmallow filling in the center and dipped in a flavored coating. The RC Cola secret recipe is well protected, but I am sure it included a lot of sugar.

Forgive me, I digress. For my first job, as my personally assigned name, R.E.P.O. Man, I was assigned the help of my trusty bank associate, Hardy Nail. Hardy was 5’5 tall and he weighed 150 pounds with a white pasty looking skin color and a pock marked face. He had vibrant blue eyes and dark black hair trimmed tight to his head. He was dressed in a nice dark suit with a white shirt buttoned to the top with no tie. His ensemble was purchased from W.T. Grant, and it was loose in the coat with pants that stopped above his ankles. He wore superior quality, high top, lace type black boots that gleamed in the sunlight. As I stood there taking in his dress outfit, Hardy uttered, I am a Quaker!" For Hardy that explained everything, for me, well, I sank deeper into hopelessness. If I had not just ingested a Moon Pie and RC Cola, I would have felt the need to do so.

The Road Runner was easy to identify because the white racing stripes were applied backward across both the front hood and rear trunk lid. Apparently, once dry, it was easier and simpler for the owner to just leave them as they were and hope no one noticed. I would have done the same thing.

The Road Runner was sold new by the dealer, George Armistead Jenkins Motor Company of Kernersville, North Carolina. Now, George was one of those loud, demonstrative car types that thought he looked great on TV pitching his array of new and used cars. Unfortunately, it appeared none of his three former wives educated him about how to dress. Strangely, a too short tie stopping above his ample stomach and too tight pants, appealed to a certain class of customer.