With an eviction notice in one hand and my phone in the other, I listened to what my loan officer had to say.

“If you can pay the interest, we can push the principal out another six months.”

“I can’t pay the interest.”

“Can you pay a portion of it?”

I had less than five dollars. I laughed to myself. “No, I can’t.”

“If you can’t we’re going to have to come pick everything up. We could call it a voluntary repossession though. That’ll help you out, once you get back on your feet.”

She’d been my banker since I was in my mid-twenties and was well aware of what I’d been through. There were limitations to what she could do for me, though. The thought of losing all my vehicles, less the chopper, tasted bitter. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all.

I swallowed a lump of pride and cleared my throat. “If you could give me a little loan on my chopper. I could use that to--”

“We can’t loan money on the chopper,” she said. “It’s already on this note.”

I straightened my posture and widened my eyes. “What?”

“We put it on this note. We had to. It was the only way we could get to the principal you wanted to borrow.”

My heart sank. I’d had the motorcycle for over a decade. When I was arrested, the motorcycle, my cars, my SUV, and everything else of value was confiscated under a civil action lawsuit.

Per federal law, when a crime is committed, a lawsuit can be placed against any merchandise the defendant owns, claiming that it was the product of ill-gotten gains. The burden then falls on the owner to prove the merchandise was purchased with legitimate funds. The process isn’t as easy as one might think.

That particular lawsuit was entitled The United States of America v. (1) Big Dog Chopper.

The ATF filed it to simply prove a point. Although they later dropped the lawsuits against all my other merchandise, they maintained suit against the chopper.

I won the lawsuit, proving the motorcycle was purchased legally. Despite that victory, the ATF agent kept possession of it, and used it as a bargaining chip – hoping to coerce me to plead guilty. When I didn’t, he simply lost the motorcycle.

The judge ordered that it be returned. A search of the ATF’s warehouse determined it was somehow misplaced. A subsequent search of their records indicated it had mistakenly ended up in Kansas City on the ATF’s auction block.

As difficult as it was to believe, I managed to find out about it on the day of the auction. Speaking to the manager of the auction house while I drove, Teddy and I sped to Kansas City with the judge’s orders in hand.

Upon providing a copy of the judge’s signed order, the motorcycle was returned to me.

I’d proudly ridden it over the years, all the while considering it a trophy, of sorts. Proof of my only victory over the agency that ruined my life.

“Come get it,” I said. “Come get everything.”

“Scott. I know what the chopper means to you. Maybe we can--”

“Nope. Come get everything. I got myself into this situation. The only way to prevent me from doing this again is to learn a valuable lesson. Come get ‘em.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Scott. I’m so sorry. Maybe I could just loan you some of my money. You could pay me back--”

“Appreciate the offer, but I can’t. I need this, really. Come get ‘em.”

“I’ll get the paperwork processed. Again, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to write a book,” I said.

“What?”

“I’m going to write a book.”

“Seriously?”

For the twenty years that I’d worked in the construction industry, I belonged to a society of mechanical engineers. For sixteen of those twenty years, I sat on the board of directors. During that time, I wrote a monthly article for their magazine.

My articles won several awards. I’d never tried to write a book, but I’d always joked about it. With my back to the wall, and my wallet empty, it was time for me to put up or shut up.

I’d never been one to shut up.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m serious.”

“What’s it going to be about?”

When I was twenty-one, I left my girlfriend at the time to go to basic training in the Marine Corps. Upon returning to Wichita, I went to visit her.

Her father answered the door. His face was expressionless. “She left something for you,” he said. “Wait here.”

In a moment, he returned. After handing me an envelope, he started to push the door closed.

“Is she here?” I asked.

His face contorted. “You have no idea, do you?”

I could tell by the look on his face that something was wrong. “About what?”

“She committed suicide.”

With those words, he shut the door. The envelope contained a poem. I carried it in my wallet for years. To recover from the loss, I placed the poem – and my wallet – in storage. From that day on, I never carried a wallet.

With the phone cradled against my cheek, I reached into my left pocket and rubbed the money clip I’d carried since retiring the poem.

“It’s going to be about suicide,” I said. “Hopefully it’ll make a difference in someone’s life who’s considering it.”

“That’s amazing,” she said.

“We’ll find out in time,” I responded.

A few days later, the bank picked up my BMW, and all of my motorcycles, the chopper included.

It was exactly what I needed to fuel me to crawl out of the rut I’d allowed myself to sink into. When the last truck left, a motorcycle strapped to its wooden bed, I placed my laptop on my desk, opened it, and I began to tell my story.