Three Shades of White

Three Shades of White
Kalamazoo, 1965

Ted Winters was a milkman, 5’5” or so. Twenty-six, with bags under his eyes and hollow cheeks, maybe 130 pounds. He was shy, but unembarrassed as he stood in front of the reception desk inside the door of my eleventh floor office and asked to see me, then a 22 year old manager of First National Credit Bureau, recently promoted from the smaller, ailing Muskegon branch where I had managed to show a few monthly profits for the first time in years. Training a new collector, a Viet Nam vet, I had left an “urgent” message at Ted’s new job delivering milk for Coulder’s Dairy.

Winters had come to town about $52 owed on his wife’s doctor bill. Ted was very angry with me - I used my real name but allowed desk names for the collectors - for telling Coulder's bookkeeper about the bill and asking when Ted got paid next as our office was filing a wage garnishment on behalf of the doctor.

“May I help you?”  The receptionist was instructed to be polite, but not smile at visitors unless she recognized them as Home Office in from Detroit. I sat behind the cigarette-burned and scarred blonde desk, veteran of a thousand collection interviews.  Winters stared at me from his side. We were jammed into a tiny cubicle. Past me, Winters saw most of what passed for Kalamazoo’s downtown high-rise buildings in the middle sixties.

“Big shot.” said Ted, “Crummiest job in the world and you think you're a big deal.”  His thought was interrupted by me rapping the desktop with my knuckles,

“Hello? Mr. Winters? I hope you’ve come to pay off this balance in full. I can’t accept any more of your broken promises. That’s $52.90, including interest to date. I need it in cash as well. Did you come here today with $52.90?”

Ted's face went bright red and immediately to sheet white, like water circling a drain, “How would you like a fist in the mouth, Big Shot?”

Ted's face went bright red and immediately to sheet white, like water circling a drain, “How would you like a fist in the mouth, Big Shot?”

Standing up, I tossed the file on the desk, "Come on!"

Inches shorter and 30 pounds lighter, Winters leaned against the desk, then hopped over it, grabbing me in a bear hug, and pushing us both hard against the window overlooking the newly-opened pedestrian mall eleven floors below. The plate glass flexed as I struggled to get one arm free and grab the window frame. Up on his toes, Ted kept pushing us, rocking the glass. Time slogged to a near stop. The new collector dashed from the adjacent cubicle, pulled Winters’ left arm, forcing it backwards and up. Ted yelped and immediately relaxed, defeated. Because I had just learned nothing, there was no acceptance of splattered death for us before, during or after the incident.  I had been lucky, no more.  Hell, I was 22, immortal.