George the Insurance Salesman

George the insurance sales man never had a guilty thought about the people he swindled. He'd been selling insurance for most of his life. Now, almost sixty-two, George was looking forward to retirement. He had a flight booked for the very next day to go check out houses in Florida.

“It comes with the territory,” he told Marcus, the newbie who had been hired as his replacement, “People will pay out the nose if you instill the fear of God in them!”

Marcus just nodded. The two of men turned down a hallway of sea-green walls and worn out office carpeting.

“There's no shame in selling your product, but you have to make people believe that they need it,” George continued, “Think about your kids, their kids, and think about how many people you know and love could be the one in three to be burglarized. Statistics are always handy, but you can't rely on them completely. Sometimes you've got to paint a picture.”

Marcus nodded again. George pointed out the file cabinets in a corridor to the left and the restrooms to the right. At the end of the hall the carpet turned into faded yellow tile. There were three round tables with about ten chairs at each of them. There were men in business suits taking their morning coffee with eggs and toast or biscuits and gravy from the in-house cafe'.

“The lunch here is terrible, no one eats it. But they've got the best breakfast in ten miles. It's worth it to come in early to get the eggs benedict before they run out of hollandaise in the morning,” George directed Marcus through the cafeteria and out to another hallway. The carpeting was less distressed in this hall. The walls were covered in a soft, cloth-like wallpaper, conch lights, and a dozen landscape paintings.

“When you're selling insurance, you have to make it personal. Tell um, think about your son and his wife away on their honeymoon, and some bastard comes in and steals all their wedding gifts! Tell them they're making an investment because the price to replace their precious goods is more than the insurance. Suckers!”

Marcus nodded.

The two men turned into a room on the left with a waiting room and a receptionist's desk. Mrs. Collins, the human resources director, was in with another employee. George motioned for Marcus to take a seat. He did and George stood over him beaming proudly.

“Did they tell you why they're hiring, Mark?” George gleamed.

Marcus shook his head, “It's Marcus, Sir.”

“Well, Mark, It's my last day at this company. My last day of work period.”

Marcus lifted his eyebrows and gave an approving nod.

“I've got a six am flight to Tampa tomorrow, and I'm going to find myself a little place in the sun. No more snow, no more cold. You like the snow, Mark?”

Marcus shrugged.

“I never did care for it. I can't wait to get out of this place. I've got my things all packed up and ready to go. I just gotta head down to decide on the real estate. You own a home, Mark?”

“Yes, Sir, I live in...”

“That's good, Son. Now if you do this job well, like me that is, you'll accumulate an estate worth something. You'll have assets, and assets are the only leverage that really matter,” George rubbed his forehead. “How old are you, Mark?”

“It's Marcus, Sir. And I'm twenty-four.”

“A young buck, you are!” George laughed. His belly shook under his button down shirt and made his tie swish back and forth a little. “Well, you've got plenty of time to build it up, Mark. I didn't get started until I was almost thirty.”

Marcus nodded.

“Are ya married?” George asked.

Marcus just lifted his left hand to show the band.

“That'll slow you down, but I guess it's too late now, huh?”

Marcus cocked his head a little and winced at the statement.

“Well, I guess it's never too late. There's always divorce!” laughed George giving Marcus an enthusiastic whop on the back.

“Actually I've been...”

“Kids yet? Cause that's what really locks you in is the kids.”

Marcus nodded, “Two.”

“Sounds like you're stuck with her. That whole family bit, I never bought into it,” George lifted his left hand to show his bare ring finger to Marcus. “Never married. Never will,” he said. “I would have never gotten where I am today if I had let myself get tied down like that.”

Marcus let out a distracted sigh and nodded.

“Do you know what I have in my study at home, Mark?”

Marcus stared at the floor and shook his head.

“A diamond! A diamond the size of your fist!”

Marcus peered up at George, and for just a moment his hooded eyes looked sinister under his furrowed eyebrows.

“Mrs. Collins will see you now,” the receptionist sang out over her desk.

Marcus got up from his seat and shook George's hand. “Nice to meet you, Sir.”

“Nice to meet you, Mark. Enjoy my job!” George let out a roar of laughter.

That night George drove home feeling full of himself, full of retirement cake, and ready for the rest of his life. He set the alarm for 4:30 am, and poured himself a glass of scotch. A feeling of warmth washed over him as he sat in his leather recliner and looked around his home at his boxes and boxes of valuables. He fell fast asleep watching television.

The next day George woke with a slight headache, and an awkward, unfamiliar feeling in his stomach. He shrugged it off. After his hot shower he combed pomade through his thinning, gray hair and put on a gray leisure suit he's owned for years and never worn. He took a cab to the airport. His stomach was still doing acrobatics as he proceeded through security. He'd never gotten nervous about flying before, he thought that perhaps it was the excitement of going to find his next home, or perhaps he was just discombobulated because this was the very first personal trip on which he'd ever been.

On the plane, George closed his eyes and fell asleep. He dreamed about his clients. He saw the Johnson family driving off a cliff in their yellow station wagon. He saw the Peterson's sitting inside the scorched frame of what used to be their home, shuffling through bric-a-brac for their hundred year old photo album. He saw the Doolan family gathered around a hospital bed with tears spilling out of the twin girls, Ashley and Amber Doolan. Then he dreamed he saw Marcus. Young, quiet, married, happy Marcus playing with his two children in the front yard of his home with a big smile on his face, his beautiful wife walking out of the house holding a tray of ice water and crackers. George opened his eyes to find himself covered in sweat. The plane had started its decent.

George checked into a hotel. The wheels of his suitcase clicked as they rolled across the tile of the lobby. There were older couples milling around waiting for help with their bags or help finding the nearest beach or waiting for the lounge to open so they could get breakfast. George became keenly aware of his aloneness, yet he held his head high trying to remember all that he had instead.

When he got to his room he showered off the stink of his in-flight nightmares. He put on a pair of khaki shorts and a polo shirt he'd purchased two weeks ago for this very occasion. On his way out the door he looked in the mirror and couldn't understand why he didn't feel happy. He tried to force a smile. “Fake it until you make it, George,” he whispered to his reflection.

After a weekend of touring beautiful homes in the Florida sun, George was exhausted, but sleeping had become rather unpleasant as he was haunted by clients and their families. On the flight home he forced himself to stay awake. Even after imbibing several cups of coffee on the plane, he was drowsy on the ride home. When the cab pulled into his driveway, George saw that his lights were on. He paid the driver and took out his car keys. Hiding in the shadows of the passenger side of his big, black Lexus, George opened the door quietly, pulled a revolver from his glove box, and inched his way toward the house. George, who had never taken out a policy of his own, came home to a ransacked house. The precious accumulation of priceless art, electronics, and imported furniture was gone. And there wasn't a soul in sight.

“Had to be someone who knew you wouldn't be here. It would have taken a whole moving truck to clean out this place, Mr. Brawnson,” the officer had told him. “Can you think of anyone you're close to who might have a reason to rob you?”

George fondled his revolver. Tears gathered in his eyes as he shook his head slowly. A part of him knew who did it, but a bigger part of him knew whose fault it was. Not that George blamed himself for gloating to a near stranger, but he knew that he had never truly deserved the things he had, and that was why they were taken away. It was then that George realized that he only had his possessions for company, and now that he was old, and they were gone, he was alone, which wasn't the same as being lonely, it was worse. When the police left George looked around his bare walls and empty corners, and then looked down at the gun. There was no one there to comfort him, and no one to shoot. Well, almost no one...