Mostly rambles, few brambles
The Life Insurance Salesman
The life insurance rep said he needed me to be completely honest. “Okay,” I said, “your haircut looks like you’re going to your First Communion.” He sort of froze and an involuntary sound simmered off his beardless, childlike mouth. “You’re, what, like, thirty-five? You look like a doll that came to life.”
“I assure you—” he started, but I cut him off before he could claim that he wasn’t a living doll.
“That painted on haircut tells me everything—I mean, have you ever really lived?” I battered him with questions and every answer left me more disappointed. His appetite had never bankrupted a buffet. He had never outdrank a racehorse. He had never tried real drugs or played fiddle against the devil. “What do you even do?” I asked.
He said he sold life insurance, and that his premium was very affordable.
He furrowed his porcelain brow as he read over my questionnaire. The deviled egg item, he said, had been particularly troublesome. I clarified that it was far easier just to count trays than individual eggs. “Spare me your protein powders and creatine shakes,” I reflexively started into my elevator pitch, “deviled eggs are a far more effective and delicious way to bulk up and add mass.” I brandished my ample gut and started into my egg chant to give him the full effect of what the commercial would look like.
He didn’t respond immediately, nor did he chant anything back, or do anything with his waifish doll arms. Smart move, I thought; he would be a fool to provoke me into wrestling. “Yes,” he finally said as he cleared his throat, “like I was saying…”
He made the mistake of pausing. “Say,” I said as I kicked my boots up onto his spotless desk lacking any personal artifacts, “do you believe in love at first sight?” He said he knew it was on the questionnaire, but no, he didn’t, mostly because he knew that answering yes would raise his premium. Studies showed that those who answered yes to that question were far more likely to have unchecked hopes and venereal disease. “I’m guessing that’s the same data for the question about how often do consenting strangers lick you?”
“How low is your premium; I mean, or are you vying for some first-class funeral?” He sort of shrugged and failed to mention anything about a rocket casket or hyper-eternal flame that cooks hot dogs. I told him he could stop calculating the crazy ten-dollar-an-hour number to insure my egg-first-ask-questions-later lifestyle. “But listen, Doll Face,” I felt bad for him and his lack of a life that, apparently, he thought needed insuring, “why don’t you come out to the bar with me tonight, as in now.” I said that we could wrestle before we go, if he, like, wanted to get amped up.
He said he didn’t want to wrestle.
Even if I didn’t have my shirt on, he said he still didn’t want to wrestle.
Though I promised to take him to a place with a great egg menu and a blind eye in regards to drunk horses, he politely declined. I told him he was just too damn insurable
“Sorry,” he said in a reflex. I stood up, I took all of his pens because I knew he wouldn’t chase me, and I set off for the bar, ready to overdose on yolk and shut up one particularly boastful thoroughbred.