Will Not Attend: Lively Stories of Detachment and Isolation Read online

  We entered a small conference room, where Bob introduced me to the other agents as “the kid who’s gonna put a flame under all your asses.” This failed to cause much of a stir, but I shook a few hands, unsuccessfully avoiding one guy who had orange fingers from eating gas station cheese crackers, and getting a blast of Jovan Musk from another wearing Speedy Gonzales cufflinks. Any pangs of intimidation I may have had quickly faded.

  The meeting that day was a short one. Bob kicked things off with a joke about a man who, for reasons that remain unclear, had a wooden penis. The narrative contained such touchstones as a disagreeable prostitute, withheld information, and the jaunty punch line “So long, splinter lips!” After the laughter died down, Bob switched on the overhead projector, the bulb blew out, and he proclaimed, “Fuck it, go to work, you schlubs.” As we exited the conference room, he patted my shoulder and said, “Well, my friend, you’re off to the races.”

  Even the great Secretariat began his journey to the Triple Crown with those first wobbly steps as a foal, and I was no different. In order to become a licensed agent, I would have to pass the state insurance exam. Naturally this concerned me, as the absorption of knowledge was never my strength. And the conditions I was forced to study under were less than ideal. Because of water damage in the only spare office, I was given a desk in the common area next to the receptionist, Helen. Helen was a balding sixty-year-old part-time bartender at the VFW who also taught piano on weekends. Most of her days at the agency were spent doodling rabbits on WHILE YOU WERE OUT pads while humming such middle C chestnuts as “Hot Cross Buns” and “Au Clair de la Lune.” What I lost in concentration I gained in fantasies of drowning her in the toilet.

  Not that I could even begin to crack what I was supposed to be learning. This was a bleak piece of work, this insurance manual. Talk about an Aspergian jizz-fest of dry terminology and monotonous concepts. Sometimes I’d have to glance at the state seal on the cover just for entertainment. In what cockeyed reality could anyone think I was qualified to be an insurance salesman? I was a cranky teenage layabout who bought fireworks from the mop guy at Arby’s. Was I really the best choice to sit a man down, discuss his mortality, and monkey with his finances?

  By late afternoon on most days, the agents would stumble back to the office looking good and beat-up. It was always the same routine: Shane Simons would declare that this was not the business he started out in, Buddy Fowler would crow about some negligible victory (“I got a very good nibble from a fellow who works nights at the quarry”), and Pete Arbaghast would storm Bob’s office to bitch about some fiasco that may or may not have been Bob’s fault (but usually was).

  For me, it was goof-off time when the agents returned. I’d put down the insurance book, stretch, and wander around the office. I quickly discovered that striking up a bullshit conversation with an insurance agent is one of life’s easier tasks. For the most part, I gravitated toward Shane because we shared an interest in photography. Shane was a sullen man, but he could get quite animated when talking about filters and f-stops. One day, he brought in his portfolio, and I was genuinely impressed by the sheer number of angles in which he was able to photograph a gutted deer.

  • • •

  After failing the insurance exam three times in a row, I began to detect a pattern, but Bob cheered me on: “Dull knives still cut, Adam. Keep hacking away.” Sure enough, the fourth time was the charm. I’ll never forget the sight of my mother running from the mailbox to the house, screaming, “He passed it! He passed it!” before tripping and banging her knee on the porch step. She was limping and out of breath by the time she handed me the letter, repeating, “He passed it,” still using the third person. I won’t deny feeling a sense of accomplishment when I realized I was now licensed to sell life insurance in the state of Pennsylvania. Then it hit me: I was now licensed to sell life insurance in the state of Pennsylvania. The day I swore would never come had arrived: I was a fucking insurance salesman. A thought briefly entered my mind that was so horrible and disturbing it made me feel dizzy: Should I have tried a little harder in school?

  The one good thing about passing the exam was telling Bob, who was so thrilled that he threw me a little celebration party that evening at the Holiday Inn in Harrisburg. It was just the two of us at the bar, Bob belting down Crown Royals while I feasted on birch beer and Spanish peanuts. He asked me if I was sure I didn’t want a drink, and I told him no, I was pregnant. He let that one digest for several seconds before convulsing with laughter. “You know something, Adam? I like you! You’re a wise guy!”

  Bob put his arm around me and gave me the good news: I was now officially set for life. “In this business, we choose what we make,” he said loudly. “The sky’s the limit. Not like these other slobs who snake drains for a living and beg their wives for a piece of snatch every night.” Coincidentally, Bob had failed to sell a policy to a plumber earlier that week. “What do you want to make this year, Adam? Fifty grand? A hundred grand?” Those were outrageously high numbers. Not wanting to sound arrogant, I split the difference and went with seventy-five. “Bullshit!” he thundered. “You’re gonna make a hundred grand this year or I’ll take a piss all over this bar!” There were people around us, and I gently tried to shush him, but he waved me off, saying, “Hey, Adam, I love you, but I’m not gonna put on a top hat for these animals.”

  Essentially, though, Bob was what you’d call a “happy drunk.” One minute he’d be yapping it up with a man who distributed flange bolts, and the next, shaking his ass on the dance floor with a plump, giggly state worker. The only crimp in the evening was a heated exchange between Bob and the bartender over the tab: “I’d have to be a goddamn sperm whale to drink all this!” It ended agreeably, though, with Bob making nice and hugging him, repeating over and over, “You’re a good lad.” After we left the hotel, he proudly held up his trophies for the evening: a business card from the flange bolt guy and a scrap of napkin with his dance partner’s phone number. “So there you have it, my friend. I’ll sell one and bang the other. Can a plumber do that?”

  I bid my boss goodnight and watched his Monte Carlo flatten several traffic cones as it fishtailed down Second Street. It was at that moment I formulated my strategy: If the numbers Bob was throwing out were truly possible, all I had to do was work hard for three years and then parachute out with roughly a quarter of a million dollars. That kind of dough buys freedom, which was all I was after. And a Jeep.

  • • •

  Buddy Fowler invited me into his office the next day. A genteel man with the fat, hairless face of a baby, Buddy played French horn in the Leacock Drum and Bugle Corps. Everyone in the agency conspicuously avoided him for fear of hearing the dreaded words “Come on out this Sunday.” But it wasn’t drill formations Buddy had on his mind this particular morning.

  “Adam and Eve!” He chuckled pleasantly as I entered. I chuckled back as if I’d never heard that one before. “Adam,” he said, “now that you’re a fully licensed agent—and may I offer you a hundred-and-one salutes—I have a very unique business opportunity for you. Normally I would partner with a more seasoned man for a job like this, but I’ve always had a soft spot for the novice.” I observed a small blob of Pepto-Bismol on the carpet next to his desk.

  Buddy continued, lowering his voice a bit: “I’d like you to pick up a check from a gentleman out by Shippensburg named Russ Ziegler. Owns a little auto parts store. He will not be happy to see you, which I apologize for in advance. I need you to tell him the following: Mr. Fowler is no longer with the company. Do you understand, Adam? Advise him that I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and as far as you know, I’m convalescing with an uncle in Birmingham. It’s really that simple. If you get the check, and I’m certain you will, there’s a fifty-dollar bill on the clothesline for you.”

  Wow, I thought, this insurance thing is a breeze.

  The ride to Ziegler’s Auto Supply was long and dreamy. The AC in my car had been dead since the day I bought it
from Chet Dunlap’s brother, but recently antifreeze had been misting through the air vents, which I wisely sealed with duct tape. While my face no longer became glazed with ethylene, the interior still got a little fumy, even with the windows open. Man, fifty bucks, I kept thinking as I shook off sleep. At this rate, I might hit my goal of two hundred and fifty grand earlier than I projected.

  I don’t remember how many words I got out before Russ Ziegler started yelling and spraying spit all over me. “You tell Bud Fowler to go fuck himself!” I backed up a bit, knocking over a cardboard cutout of Cale Yarborough holding a spark plug. “I made some calls and I know what he’s up to. My brother-in-law told me I lost three grand on that last policy!”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. Buddy had been short on details.

  “Well, uh,” I stammered, “I’m sure Mr. Fowler, who doesn’t work for the company anymore because he lives with his uncle and has cancer, had reasons for telling you stuff that was trying to help you and—”

  He cut me off. “He thinks he can sell and resell me a policy every five years? You tell that lying son of a bitch I’ll shove that fucking horn down his throat!” Mr. Ziegler’s Battle of Inchon crew cut was now turning pink at the scalp, and he instructed me to get the hell out of his store before he broke me over his leg like a Popsicle. I remember thinking: Wouldn’t that be a little awkward, if not messy?

  As I patched out of the parking lot, I made a mental note to come back in a few years when I was more muscular and kick his old-man ass all the way from the fan belts to the wiper blades.

  Back at the agency, Buddy sighed and thanked me for my efforts. “Why don’t people want to help themselves, Adam?” he asked sadly. “It’s life’s ultimate mystery.” He gave me five dollars for gas and slunk back to his office. Later, Bob somehow got wind of the incident and I heard him lecturing Buddy in the hallway: “That kid’s not your goddamn janitor. Next time clean up your own shit.” On his way out that night, Buddy handed me another five bucks and a flyer for an upcoming parade in Mount Gretna.

  My phone rang early the next day. It was Bob, informing me that it was officially time to get my hands dirty and “start selling this crap.” He’d cleared his schedule for the day and was going to train me personally. Still feeling bad about the Buddy thing, he advised me to be wary of agents asking for favors. “Those other guys tend to overcomplicate their jobs sometimes. Stick with me and I’ll keep you out of Alcatraz.”

  I met Bob at Colonial Park Plaza, where his plan was to teach me, as he termed it, “the miraculous little foxhunt known as ‘cold calling.’” He stood there like an Indian wise man, making assessments in his head while silently looking up and down the mall. Finally, he declared: “Yeah, this’ll be a fucking log ride.” Then he reminded me of two things before we started out: 1) every business owner in the complex could greatly benefit from what we had to offer, and 2) for tactical purposes, he might occasionally introduce me as his nephew who recently lost both parents in a head-on collision.

  We’d barely begun our mission before finding ourselves seated in the office of the mall manager, where Bob was made to read the uncluttered details of a strict no-solicitation policy. He finished it with a sigh, took off his reading glasses, and sailed the document back across the manager’s desk. While he had very little in the way of rebuttal, he did let the man know that he was dear friends with former Pennsylvania lieutenant governor Ernie Kline.

  There wasn’t much in the way of cold calling after that. Bob took a game swipe at a Hispanic guy in a shoe repair place down the street, but this was ultimately aborted due to “cultural obstacles.” It was decided that we needed to regroup, and somehow that brought us to a nearby bowling alley, where Bob downed a beer and I played Q*bert. Leaning against the machine, he kept imploring me to “shoot the little prick,” which was not the object of the game. Finally, I explained that Q*bert was a lover not a fighter. That one hit Bob so hard he spit out a mouthful of Stroh’s and laughed until he started to choke. “Jesus, Adam, where do you get this shit?” A few beers later, he called it a day and said we’d pick it back up tomorrow.

  At home that night, my father asked me how things were going with Dirschberger. I told him it was difficult to tell. Reassuring me, he said, “In this business, you have to start in the gutter and get the shit kicked out of you a little bit. Dirschberger’s your man for that. One day, you’ll move on and work for a class act like Marty Stump.”

  Bob was out with the flu for a few days, but he arrived back at the office reenergized and waving a scrap of newspaper. It was an ad for a new tavern in Harrisburg called Totty’s Atmosphere. Restaurant owners, he asserted, make excellent prospects because they skim cash from the bar and need a place to park it. The bullpen didn’t stir. Under his breath, I heard Buddy Fowler refer to Bob as “a fiercely dedicated fool.” “C’mon, you hotshots,” Bob implored, “who wants in on this?” They all played dead. So I raised my hand. Bullshitters.

  Roughly two-thirds of the way to Totty’s, Bob began to realize the address was “on the hill,” referring to Allison Hill, a black neighborhood in Harrisburg that was generally considered unsafe. As the landscape changed around us, Bob muttered with concern, “Where the fuck are we?” His anxiety increased after observing some men on a porch playing dominoes. “Jesus,” he gasped, “by sundown they’ll be lucky to find our toenails.”

  We finally pulled up to Totty’s, and Bob let out a sigh. Through a crack in his window he offered an overly friendly “Hiya, fellas!” to some puzzled teenagers sitting on the curb. Then he turned to me and said in a low voice, “Adam, I can’t leave my car on this street unattended. Go in and talk to the owner. You can do it. Just follow the sales book. I’ll circle the block until you come out. If there’s no sign of you in thirty minutes, I’ll call the cavalry.” I stepped out of the car and Bob floored it.

  I was already sweating as I crossed the street. It had less to do with nerves than the suit I was wearing—a black pinstripe my mom bought me from a markdown place called Cindy’s for Men II. It was a decent suit, but not without its quirks; the shiny fabric refused to breathe and always felt moist to the touch, like the skin of sea cow. Additionally, the left lapel tended to pop up without warning, and something sharp, which I was never able to locate or identify, kept jabbing my shoulder blade. Still, it bore the name Pierre Cardin, so who was I to judge?

  It was dim and cool inside Totty’s Atmosphere. The jukebox glowed yellow through the cigarette smoke like a spacecraft as Stevie Wonder sang “My Cherie Amour.” A heavyset woman behind the bar greeted me with “How you doing today, hon?” and set down a wicker basket of Fritos. I’ve always had a fondness for ladies who call me “hon.” I took a seat at the bar and ordered a piece of lemon pie. The woman’s name was Larice, and in a short time I learned about her recent kidney operation and the birth of her latest grandchild, met the pastor of her church, and held a smudged picture of her mother in an open casket. There was no way I going to bring up fucking insurance.

  Larice took a phone call and I walked over to watch some guys play pool. I had a lot of shit running through my head. What was wrong with me? Bob was out there circling the block and I had a job to do. I was broke. Most of my friends had jobs or were going to college. My Dodge Colt was hacking up fluids, and there was zero chance I’d ever have sex with that chick who works at Italian Delight.

  I walked back to the bar. Unable to look Larice in the eye, I asked her if the owner was in. Soon there was a loud thud as the kitchen doors swung open and a man with one leg rolled out in a wheelchair. I suddenly became aware of the Vietnam War artifacts hanging from the walls. I stood to greet him. He noticed the vinyl binder tucked under my arm and jokingly asked, “You ain’t here to sell me nothin’, are ya?” I promptly replied, “No.” It was just a hunch, but for some reason, I felt he didn’t need a refresher course on the uncertainties of life from Adam Resnick.

  A moment later I was standing on the curb, flagging down Bob, who
had just screeched around the corner. He barely stopped as I jumped in the car.

  “It was a bust,” I told him. “The guy already has a policy with Mass Mutual.” Bob seemed happy just to get out of Dodge as he barreled down the street. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “I love jazz and the rest of it, but ever since Malcolm X, all bets are off.” After a long drag on his Carlton, he added, “Mass Mutual’s a whorehouse.”

  • • •

  I spent the next few months in a haze of cold calls and weak leads, floundering to make a single sale. The traction that allegedly comes to new agents never arrived in my case, and the idea of making a quarter of a million dollars in three years now seemed overly optimistic. I did not possess my father’s charisma, his verbal dexterity, or his ability to scare the shit out of people. The idea of me selling insurance was like sending in a pig to perform an angioplasty. (Something I think I saw once on Green Acres.)

  As my financial anxieties increased, I was forced to take a drastic and unusual step unbecoming of a state-licensed insurance agent: I applied for the six-to-midnight shift at the Uni-Mart on Front Street. Despite my worries, I was not deemed overqualified. I kept the job a secret from Bob, ashamed that I was now making a guaranteed income like those “other slobs.” Sure, it was only minimum wage, but I was able to supplement that by stealing. Money tossed on the counter for a quick pack of Winstons became my money. Things like Trac II razors and batteries for my Walkman were no longer a bothersome expense. And postage stamps? What kind of asshole pays for postage stamps?

  But how much longer could I go on like this—struggling to sell insurance by day and embezzling Eskimo Pies at night? I ball-parked it at a decade or two, yet, at the same time, I was beginning to have strange thoughts. Like a dog lurching along the grass, making guttural sounds from its esophagus, gooey, half-digested ideas began to emerge: Get your ass in gear. Get the fuck out of Harrisburg. Get away from your family. Don’t steal more than three lottery tickets per shift.