“Yes?”
“Sure,” Tom said, trying to ignore Eddy glaring at him from her chair. He felt like throwing something at her at that moment but knew he would miss because the target was small. He spread his hands to her in petition and she shrugged and turned back to her jellyfish.
“I think this is it for me, mom,” Tom continued. “It’s a good opportunity.”
“It is, Tommy,” she said. “And we have the Lord to thank.”
“I know, Mom.”
“Have you and Eddy found a church, yet?”
“Umm...” He looked at Eddy, ready to look away should she roll her eyes, which she usually did when she overheard these conversations with his mother. “We went to this Catholic church the other Sunday, there.”
“Catholic?”
He immediately knew his mistake, “No, no. Not Catholic, that’s just the name, I am sure it was like a Baptist thing, or something.”
“Why would they have Catholic in the title if it wasn’t a catholic church?” His mother asked.
“I must have got the name wrong,” he lied. “That’s right, it was beside the Catholic church and that’s why I got mixed up.”
“All right,” his mother said, “I’ve got nothing against the Catholics, you know.”
“I know. That’s right, it was beside the Catholic church. They share a parking lot. That’s why I was confused.”
“I doubt that,” his mother said.
“Honest, mom,” he said.
“No, I mean I doubt the Baptists and the Catholics share a parking lot.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve got nothing against Catholics.”
“I know, mom.”
“But I wouldn’t go near them.”
“You’re right, mom.”
“They have this belief about baptism that is just, well it’s just all wrong,” his mother went on. She discovered the Lord, or He had discovered her, shortly after Tom’s father was dead. Reverently she grasped the church and the people as though she were the one being buried day after day, clutching to the pant legs to hoist her up out of the grave. Tom was introduced to happy, smiling, plastic people by the dozens. He and Eddy were invited to countless barbecues. Retching, Eddy always begged off. Tom was happy for his mother. His Uncle was disgusted. Yet, when he spoke to them both about their respective projects, his mother the church and his Uncle the store, it appeared they were speaking of the same thing. The sentences were interchangeable.
As in, for example, who said these words:
“The main thing is to get as many people through the doors on Sunday.”
a.) Uncle
b.) Mom
c.) Both A and B are correct
d.) None of the above.
“People are attracted to a full parking lot. Attracting the people is what it’s all about.”
a.) Uncle
b.) Mom
c.) Both A and B are correct
d.) None of the above
“Once the people are inside they can (be) save(d).”
a.) Uncle
b.) Mom
c.) Both A and B are correct. The parentheses around the word ‘be’ and the letter ‘d’ indicate that the utterances are so similar that they are in fact, the same.
d.) Answer C is too convoluted to be correct.
So how did you score? Getting all the correct responses will make you look better. C? That’s right, the correct response in each of the questions is C.
Tom wished he could find something that captured him in this way. Something to throw himself into. Something to believe in and give himself to, without reservation.
An aptitude test in high school had baffled his guidance counsellor. Students around him were impressed with their prospects of doctors, lawyers, and indeed, chiefs of large concerns.
Tom’s results were inconclusive. He seemed to fit nowhere. “I’ve never seen this before.” The counsellor said and urged Tom to take the test again. The results were the same.
“I don’t know what to make of this,” the counsellor frowned. The fluorescent lights reflected off his bald head. There were posters tacked carefully and strategically around the office, which had once been a janitor’s closet. Each poster declared some positive message about education and children being the future of the world. A large map of the world served as a visual aid. Someone had written “you are here” in black ink with an arrow pointing to the North American continent. The counsellor looked at Tom as though his belief in these pronouncements about children as caretakers of the next generation scared the hell out of him. “Is there anything that interests you at all?”
Tom shrugged.
“Take the test again.” The counsellor said. “And this time... lie.”
When the test came back the third time, the doctored test, the counsellor proudly placed the results in front of Tom. Sales. This was what he was suited for.
Tom shrugged.
Tom imagined meeting the counsellor at a high school reunion, years in the future. The counsellor would fail to recognize the new, successful Tom. Tom would insist and procure a yearbook and flip to his picture. In his actual yearbook, which was tucked away in a closet, there was a dark shadow where his face should have been, even though Tom remembered dressing up for the occasion. The caption read: “Tom Ryder: photo not available.”
“You inspired me to become a Life Insurance salesman.” Tom would say at the high school reunion years in the future. But even in this fantasy, the scenario went badly. The counsellor held up both hands, “Don’t blame me,” He said and backed away. Tom’s eyes followed him as the counsellor turned and searched out more successful progenies. There was one other of Tom’s classmates who was in the insurance game in a different province. The man’s suit bulged at its center and Tom did not get to speak with him at all that evening. Tom would get very drunk. Drunk until all conversations blurred and began to exclude him. Until he found himself leering at women’s ankles. Until he threw up in the public toilet. Drunk until he couldn’t tell or care who was in the washroom with him when he vomited. He found an exit without telling Eddy he was leaving and he felt better when he stepped outside into the cool air. He did not want to walk or stumble where Eddy or anyone else would find him, so he serpentined through the football field behind the school toward the black border that was the woods. He followed the trail for as long as he could until in his drunkenness he became disoriented and fell twice. He knew he lost the trail but still, he stumbled forward, knowing his direction would not lead to any specific path, but further knowing there was no actual path to be found. Until finally he broke into the open, found a convenience store and purchased an orange slushy. Even in his fantasies, Tom was never the hero of the story.
“But what God has given you now is an opportunity.” His mother had changed gears as Tom’s mind drifted away. “He wants everything for you. He wants you to be successful like your Uncle. Like that nice man Walter.” Call me Wally. “You don’t want to end up like your father working a small job in a small town making a small wage. God wants you to have everything.”
“I know, Mom,” Tom said.
“I don’t think you do,” his mother admonished. “I don’t think you truly do know the gifts your heavenly father wants for you.”
“I know because you tell me all the time,” Tom said. Maybe too loudly. Certainly not loud enough to warrant the four-second pout.
“I’ll stop now Tommy. But I wish you took it seriously.”
“You are taking it seriously enough for the both of us.”
“Tom,” Her voice was stern, “you can’t be saved by proxy.”
There was another one. “You can(‘t) be saved by (P)roxy.” If Proxy was a brand of some sort, like a laundry detergent. “Washed free of the past,” was another. “Dad was happy doing what he was doing.” Tom countered, or maybe simply thought it, for his mother went on and on.
“Your father never made a mark on anything. He didn’t even seem to worry that yo
u wet the bed until you were ten.”
“Mom...”
“Well, he didn’t. He didn’t push you to do anything.”
“He taught me to ride a bike,” Tom said sullenly.
“...”
“I learned that from him,” Tom said.
“Even that took a while,” his mother sighed. “Listen, will you help me out with a church function next Saturday? A bake sale.”
“The Lord bakes and the Lord baketh away,” Tom said, and in the corner of his eye saw Eddy smile. Or wince.
“Tommy, don’t talk like that. Tom, the Lord does not like to be joked about.” She was speaking quickly now. Perhaps praying for him. But Tom was thinking about his first bike.
It was gold or rust coloured maybe. It was second hand, bought cheap or free. Much too big for Tom, his feet barely touched the ground and his arms reached uncomfortably and unsteady for the handlebars. Still, it was time he learned to ride. No easy task. Even learning to walk Tom held one end of a skipping rope and when his mother let go of her end he dropped to his bottom. His tricycle was not used to capacity, either. He preferred instead to grip the bars and propel it along with his right foot, his left foot on the backrest.
The bike too big or not, it was time Tom learned to ride a two-wheeler. His father steadied his hand lightly on Tom’s back until his overstretched arms found balance. Then a push forward until they were both moving, Tom’s terrified eyes watching the front wheel wobble while peripherally tracking his father. The drive was not paved. Small lakes were formed for Tom to splash in when it rained and then evaporated into deep craters he would need to navigate with the monstrous bike. His mother’s car, too, would leave petrified grooves and rivulets, proving she was there that morning and promising she would return that night. At night Tom would lay with his father’s shadowy form in bed and watch him trace Tommy’s name in the dark with the end of a glowing cigarette.
Sometime during the inaugural lesson, his father removed his hand and Tom would ride until he noticed his father no longer supported him. Then the front wheel would shake anxiously as Tom looked behind where his father stood half poised to chase if it looked as though Tom would fall.
“It was stupid. So stupid.” His mother would say years later. A bike too large, a road too rough, encouragement given in the form of chastisement. Tom would soothe her insecurities as a parent and in defence of his father. He did, after all, learn to ride finally. An empty lot down the street provided the smoothest surface to practice. The cracks in the pavement and the broken glass were too small to damage the tires.
This bike Tom kept for a long time. Traded, finally for a bigger one. Traded again for a motorcycle and again for his first car. Always in the car he would ignore the angry horns and finger gestures of others, leaving him wondering what he was doing wrong. Still he can feel his father’s hand on his back the way an amputee can feel the pain in a leg that is no longer a part of him.
Chapter 5
It was probably in some sort of memo Tom never read, but who was this guy and what is he doing here? He was dressed better than many of the agents and fawned over by management. Sitting in the corner with a smug smile on his face. Smiling at everyone as they walk in as though to say, “you should know who I am.” And some of them do. They are talking in an obscenely open and loud way for the occasion. The agents that don’t seem to know who the man is file into the boardroom for what could be a solemn affair. Any speaking done is always in a low tone, not a whisper, but so low a tone that the intended recipient would be the only one to hear.
Finally, the man Tom usually saw getting out of a car in the CEO’s parking stall stood and the room, to a man and as one man, swivelled their chairs to the front, rested an elbow on the table and leaned back. Tom followed quickly, but still was the last to swivel and lean, causing a few people to glance at him as though he’d spoken in a quiet movie theatre.
“Thank you for coming here today, I know you are all busy people,” the CEO said, and Tom snorted. No one looked at him or responded with their own laughter and the mistake was tactfully ignored.
“The book in front of you,” the CEO continued, “is one that’s been floating around the office for a while. And I have given it to a few of my top agents.”
A book lay near Tom’s elbow. He had never seen it before. He picked it up and turned it over. There was a picture of the mysterious guest in their midst. The man was smiling out at Tom and looked twenty years younger. And bigger.
There was applause and Tom knew he had missed the introduction. The man on the back of the book, Travis Bunk, now stood before their boardroom looking humble and saying hello to the people he knew, despite having just spoken with them. This was the sort of guy he was, the back of the book told Tom.
“I thank you for that wonderful introduction, I am glad you liked the book and I thought we could talk a bit about it, first, and then be open to questions afterward,” Travis Bunk said. “I wrote ‘Choose Your Own Reality’ because I noticed that there were a lot of sales-help books out there, and none of them really worked. So, I thought we needed one that does.” There was mild affirmation from those seated around the boardroom table. “And I knew there needed to be an industry-specific sales-help book. Just for life insurance agents. Because I was one before I turned to writing full time. Wally and I are old buds, isn’t that right?”
“That’$ right.” Wally nodded as much as the folds of his chin would allow.
“Yes, we go back.” Travis Bunk continued, “I was actually here at Consumer Life when I started out fourteen years ago. I worked here for two, oh, three months, I think.” He shook his puzzled head at Wally, waiting for the man to take the cue.
“That $ounds about right,” Wally said.
“Then I moved on to Ensurance, Ltd., I was there from ‘91 to ‘92, and then I was with Goto Health and Life from ‘92 to later ‘92. I worked as a consultant in ‘93 for a bit, but that fell through. We stumble, all of us. Let me be your inspiration. Umm, let’s see. I sold for banks in the late ’90s. So, I know the industry. I know it inside out. As do you.”
Tom was convinced.
“Now, who can tell me about Capital Gains and why it should be insured?” He scanned the room and his squinted eyes fell on Tom. His hand reached out in what could have been meant as a welcoming gesture. He smiled and Tom could not tell if it was genuine. He understood fully what he had read about ironic smiles. It took nanoseconds for Tom to respond, yet in that brief time these thoughts went through his head: He is looking at me. He is gesturing to me. He expects me to answer, or smile back. No, no, the hand is out. He expects me to answer. What was the question? Capital Gains. Why insure against capital gains. It was pretty basic. He remembered the principles. But if he gave a textbook answer he would look like a novice in front of all the seasoned agents. And in front of the guest. He had to explain it in a certain way, in his own words, in layman’s terms, that would make the guest and everyone in the room realize that Tom had internalized this information. He knew it deep, he knew it inside out. He did not have to simply regurgitate what he had read.
“The Capital Gains?” Tom said.
“Yes, why insure against Capital Gains?”
“Well,” Tom cocked his head and tried to smile out of the corner of his mouth. As though this were the easiest question in the world. As though: where to begin, with words, to explain such a basic concept that should be tattooed on the minds of everyone. Like trying to describe how to ride a bike. Do you begin with something as simple as “Get on the bike?” If the question is this simple, where could one begin the explanation or answer? “Well...” Tom said again.
Quickly, as though it did not happen, the guest’s eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared. The welcoming hand waved off to the side, dismissing Tom. Waving away a bad odour. Then the hand rose to the sky, leaving the question open to more competent men than the one Tom had been mistaken for. If this episode happened too quickly for the naked eye to catch, Tom felt
it. It was internalized.
“Capital Gain$ Tax can put a lot of $train on an e$tate.” Wally Russ began in a deep voice that was at once commanding and apologetic for having interrupted. His monologue was short and Tom recognized some of what he was saying. In fact, it was mostly taken from paragraphs three to seventeen on pages 96-105 of the training manual Tom read. Pure textbook. Yet the way Wally was saying it, the emphasis he put on certain words made the black dots Tom had seen on the pages dance around on a white canvas. Tom was beginning to believe every word.
When Wally finished there was an appreciative silence. The guest pulled a mock frown and nodded his head, deep in thought. “That’s correct.” Then the guest scanned the room again, wondering if anyone would counter such a reasonable and well-presented explanation of why life insurance is a good financial planning tool, and one particularly useful when planning an estate’s Capital Gains at time of termination. No one offered anything.
“That’s correct,” The guest said, “and while it is absolutely, 100% correct,” A long pause. An uncomfortable shifting in the seats. What the hell could be wrong with Wally’s answer? The guest continued, “And while it’s 100% correct, am I going to buy anything from you, Wally?” This hung in the air until the guest yanked it in, “And I don’t mean to pick on Wally here, we are old friends.” Relief laughter was louder than necessary, and Wally smiled, unaffected.
“Probably not on the fir$t vi$it.” Wally spread his hands apologetically. Knowing what was coming, there was no need to argue.
“That’s right! And why?” No one bothered to answer. Even Tom could sense the rhetorical nature of the question. Perhaps less rhetorical than narcissistic. It was a question that calls to be answered by the one questioning. “Because he told me a lot of crap...” This out of the corner of his mouth and his hand slightly raised in the caricature of informal confidentiality. The room is in on the joke. “He told me a lot of crap about securities and tax laws and all that mumbo-jumbo.”
It's Called Disturbing Page 4
