It's Called Disturbing

by Buddy Roy Baldry

  Tom floated on air as walked through the store. “Hello Charles,” he called out to Charles. “Hello Carla,” he shouted to Debbie who nodded and didn’t bother to correct him. “How are the kids?” he said to a cashier he hoped had kids. He was elated. He had an appointment and, by extension, a guaranteed sale. A sale! It wasn’t exactly what he was hoping for, it was a family member and not a true prospect, but it did fill him with a sort of confidence that had been lacking. He could do this. Uncle was frightened enough by his near-death (or near-broken-face) experience to think about looking at his financial coverage. He was disturbed. Tom saw the theory in action. You had to disturb the client. Tom was starting to understand. The pneumatic doors opened with a whoosh and in Tom’s mind they rang out like a Ta-Da!

  Chapter 7

  Tom was lucky early in the week to draw a hot lead from a draw Consumer Life set up at a carnival. A clever agent lugged the water cooler from the office and put it in front of their booth with a sign that read: “WATER you doing without Life Insurance?” The cooler went glug, glug, glug as people were lured in by the play on words and a draw for a new television set graciously provided by pooling representatives of Consumer Life. Tom was not one of them; he was not able to pitch in to purchase a television. Yet, he was allowed his share of the names pulled from the draw box, complete with phone numbers and addresses. He promised to pay up as soon as his first big sale came through from the bounty.

  All that week he pulled his list of names from the top drawer of his desk and sat with the phone in hand ready to call. He sat with a mirror placed upright on his desk and smiled into it for each call and each time tried to maintain his smile when someone hung up on him. Some were polite, some were not. Most merely disconnected without a word after ‘hello’ and hearing Tom begin his spiel.

  “Hello, there, this is Tom Ryder from Consumer Life, we met at the...”

  Click.

  “This is Tom Ryder, we met at the business fair this past weekend.”

  “Who?”

  “Tom Ryder, I’m with Consumer Life.”

  “Not interested.” Click.

  “This is...”

  Click.

  “This...”

  “Go to hell!” Click.

  Then, right when he was ready to throw in the towel, the one he used to wipe sweat from his brow every time he dialled a number, a man responded favourably. “Shit, I guess we should think about these things. We got twins, you know.”

  “Well, I know, and you really should,” Tom stammered, excited to have a positive response after so many negative and hostile calls. “I can help you with this, it can be confusing at times.”

  “I’ll have to talk it over with the wife, but you could come by, I suppose. Not gonna hurt a goddamn thing.” The man slurred.

  “Won’t hurt a goddamn bit.” Tom smiled into his mirror.

  $$$

  Tom decided to park half a block from his prospect’s home so they would not look out their window at the sound of him approaching and see what sort of car he drove. “When you’re dealing with people’$ money,” he heard Wally’s voice, “you have to look like you know what you’re talking about.” It would not serve him well if the prospect were to see him climbing out of his Cobalt. Suit and tie intact, but one hubcap missing and a dent in the rear fender, near the trunk. Where the spare tire should be. Did Tom have the spare tire? He made a mental note to check. Tom’s mental notes were the equivalent of sticky notes of various colours that eventually get lost or thrown away. Thrown away usually because the message was outdated or the message too cryptic and the memory too vague to make any sense. And quickly this mental note was edited beyond recognition with this addendum: Try the spare tire routine right now on this fellow and his family.

  As he approached the home he noticed the large pickup truck in the driveway. Lifted higher than usual somehow and exposing massive black tires. Surely getting a jack under that thing would be difficult. He thought of his own scissor jack in his trunk. Did he have the spare tire? The mental note was retrieved from the bin, un-crumpled and understood, for it was recent. Yet, the addendum was still there. Surely this fellow would worry about a spare tire for his family. Tom did a cursory once over of the vehicle. In the dark, he could make out a vague shape of wings or something painted white on the tinted back window. This framed by aesthetic chrome piping, curving and bending in a powerful, but artistic way.

  Tom walked to the front of the truck. He imagined himself going up to the door, just like Wally told him, “Picture the interview in your mind fir$t.” So, this was how he pictured it: Walk up to the door. He reached for the doorbell, lit with a soft yellow glow. The chime inside was pleasant and accompanied by sounds of cheering from children, obviously, and good-natured laughing from two adults. The door opened, and an attractive blond woman smiled up at him. She was bent over roughing the fur on a dog that sat obediently by her side. “We’ve been waiting for you,” She said.

  Tom smiled back as the woman stood. “Oh, good! My name is Tom Ryder I’m with Consumer Life Insurance.” They shook hands, her small hands daintily pressing against his. And did they linger there just a little too long?

  “I know, please come in. I’m Sarah.” She pronounced it Sah-rah.

  Tom took off his shoes at the entrance and put them in a line with the others ordered there, large to small. Sarah took his coat and hung it on an ornately curled coat rack next to a handsome leather overcoat. The living room was furnished with rich, dark cherry wood end tables and plush sofas and chairs. Strategically placed photographs adorned the walls. All black and white, all from various foreign places, all with an interesting slant to them, a picture taken by someone with a better eye than most. Sarah noticed him looking at the photos, “Those are mine,” she said, “I took those.”

  “Wonderful,” he said. Almost a whisper. He was entranced by the attitude and beauty the photos radiated.

  “Thank you.” Her face reddened and she smiled down at the polished hardwood floor.

  Beyond the living room, Tom could see the dining room. Three people were sitting down to eat dinner. A man in a slightly loosened tie and twin boy and girl were saying grace. Sarah’s place sat empty next to them. “Oh, my, I’ve interrupted your dinner,” Tom said.

  “Not at all.” Sarah tilted her head so her hair fell over her shoulders. “We’ve set a place for you. This is my husband Joe and these two are...” Tom’s fantasy did not allow for the children’s names.

  Through a delicious chicken dinner, they told him to feel free to tell them all they needed to know. The children ate and politely listened while Joe and Sarah asked thoughtful and intelligent questions throughout. Tom expounded on the necessity of life insurance, using examples and scenarios to attack the emotions of Joe and Sarah. He explained the benefits of Whole Life policies on both the children, the financial benefits the child would receive from said policies twenty years from now. And after dessert, the children cleared the table and Joe and Sarah glanced over the pamphlets Tom put before them.

  “I am convinced,” Joe said, nodding his head. “But you know, the tipping point for me was the spare tire story. That got me,” he pounded his chest. “Right there.”

  “Me too.” Sarah sat up in her chair. “I pictured it all in my mind and it scared me so bad I was ready to sign right then and there, it wouldn’t matter what you said next.”

  “Definitely,” Joe said. “Thank you for helping us out, Tom.”

  “It’s nothing.” Tom started putting his papers in his briefcase. “I mean, you knew the basics already. You insure your truck, don’t you? Why wouldn’t you insure the most important thing to you as well?”

  Suddenly the truck roared and settled on a loud purr, jarring Tom out of his role-playing fantasy. Lights came on inside the cab, all manner of colours and blinking. The headlights, too, flashed once and dimmed, waiting for more instructions. Above the fierce-looking chrome grille, painted across the hood, Tom read the inscription: ‘No
thing is more important than my truck.’ Written in bone white paint with orange flames at the top of each letter. Out of his shock, Tom’s mind raced quickly to the logical explanation; remote start.

  Tom quickly tried to compose himself as he approached the front door of his prospect’s house. $tay in control. Be in command of the conver$ation. Plan your talk $o it come$ off natural, but take the client where you need them to go. Now, ring the doorbell.

  But there was no doorbell, at least one that worked. Tom jabbed the button but heard nothing from inside. He stood listening simultaneously to the roaring vehicle behind him and the non-existent noises from inside the house. Hesitantly he knocked on the door. As though the occupants were waiting for him, the door opened at the same time as he was knocking, making him reach as the door swung to complete his knocking. A woman in a large down-filled jacket slung her purse over her shoulder as she took a step forward, nearly bumping faces with Tom. “Oh!” she said in surprise. Her brow curled over her small close-set eyes. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Tom Ryder,” he said, “from Consumer Life Insurance.” He tried to smile but could tell by the woman’s demeanour that she had no idea who he was. “We have an appointment tonight,” he added hopefully.

  “From what?” She made no effort to move aside to let him in and Tom shuffled his shoes on the concrete step.

  “Consumer Life,” he said. “We have an appointment. I spoke to your husband on the phone.”

  “Joe?” the woman shouted without taking her eyes off Tom. “There’s a guy at the door here says you got an appointment.” Tom heard Joe from somewhere in the house, his voice shouting something Tom could not decipher. The woman obviously could. “What is this for?” she asked.

  “Life Insurance.”

  “Life Insurance.” She yelled in Tom’s face.

  “Fuck!” Tom heard that. Joe’s complaining voice grew louder as he walked through the house. “It’s dinnertime,” he shouted.

  “He must have forgot,” the woman said, sliding past Tom out the door. “He’ll be down in a minute. I have to run.” She offered no other explanation and marched down the driveway to the truck. She had to hoist her tremendous bulk into the lifted cab and Tom watched her back out and drive away, tail-lights occasionally flaming red.

  Tom stood in the cluttered doorway. Coats, boots, school backpacks all lay haphazardly along the entrance. Tentatively, he closed the door behind him and waited. The living room just off the foyer was a mosaic of furniture style and colour. Spread across the laminate flooring were blankets, video game and DVD cases, some t-shirts and a large bone of some type. The bone was well chewed, and Tom could see the salt stains of drool on the floor.

  “Sit the fuck down,” Tom heard. “Hello? Sit down, dammit, eat! Hello?”

  “Hello?” Tom said.

  “Come in, we’re in the kitchen. I forgot all about it. Sit down you two, what did I say?”

  Tom picked his way carefully through the piles of laundry in the hallway toward the sound of the voices from the kitchen. Joe was ladling out macaroni dinner onto three plates. He had a handful of chopped hot dogs, which he dumped onto the plates and gave a casual stir with a fork. He placed the meal in front of two fidgeting children, twins obviously, from the matching unkempt blonde hair and the hard, blue eyes that concentrated on nothing but the leather briefcase Tom had gripped in his hand.

  Tom entered the small kitchen and extended his hand to Joe. “I’m Tom,” he said and smiled.

  Joe looked at his hand for an instant and then wiped his own hands on his shirt. The grip crushed Tom’s hand and he wanted to let go long before Joe chose to. “Sorry ‘bout that,” Joe said, “I forgot. You caught us at dinner.”

  Joe placed his setting of macaroni and wieners on the table and sat down. “Could we make this another time? Eat, for Christ’s sake.” The twins ignored their father’s instructions and continued to slap and bat at each other. It appeared to Tom they were both trying to get his attention. The one on the left would splat her fist into the Kraft dinner, sending a yellow stream of juice up and over her hair

  “Well... um...” Tom said.

  “Fuck it, never mind. Let’s just do it. What do you got?” Joe said and reached over to arbitrarily cuff one of the twins on the back of the head. Besides the misplaced hair, the twins had no reaction to their father’s brand of discipline. “Eat!”

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” Tom managed, sounding small to his own ears. Remembering Wally’s instructions: $peak with authority. You are doing them a favour, here. Protecting their family. “Let me ask you this, Joe, you have a spare tire, don’t you?” Tom started.

  “A spare tire?” Uncomprehending.

  “A spare tire, in the trunk of your car?”

  “I own a truck.”

  “OK, in the truck. You have a spare tire, don’t you?” Tom gripped his case tighter. The leather felt sticky in his hands, he noticed his palms were beginning to sweat.

  “Sure, I’ve got a spare tire, what’s that got to do with anything. I thought this was insurance?” Joe blinked. “Are you selling tires, now?”

  “No, but you have a spare tire, right? Have you ever seen it?”

  “Of course, I’ve seen it. It’s in the back of the truck, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Have you ever had to use it?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Joe said, “Yeah, I’ve had to use it. Don’t you have a spare tire?”

  “No, I mean, do you have a spare tire?”

  “I just fucking told you I did,” Joe said and turned to his twins. They were looking at Tom the same way they had looked at their dinner. Half smiles and eyes that showed mischief, something that amused them. “Eat!” Joe shouted and turned back to Tom before he could see whether they followed his succinct instructions.

  “Have you ever seen it,” Tom asked. Where was he in this script? Had he already said that last part? Was he missing an important line that would lead Joe flawlessly down the path he wanted him to go?

  “OK, look I’ve told you three times I’ve seen my goddamned spare tire. What is it with you and the spare tire? Do you need...? Oh, do you have a flat?” Joe’s voice went soft. Tom had heard his Uncle use the same change in tone on him. When his Uncle suddenly realized that young Tommy was not being stupid because he was lazy or incompetent, he was being stupid because he was stupid. “Why didn’t you say so there fella?” Joe said. “Do you need to fix a tire. It’s those fucking kids; they play with my toolbox and leave shit all over the yard. You probably got a nail, I’m sorry. I told you kids not to leave nails and shit on the drive!”

  “No, you don’t understand, what I am trying to do...” Is disturb you... Tom went unfinished. And here is the fatal mistake of the man aiding and the man in need. If the weary traveller had placed his hands on the Good Samaritan who only wanted to aid, the scenario, or the perception of the scenario would have changed immediately from a man in need of help to a man attempting a mugging. Frustrated, Tom held Joe by his shoulder, wishing him to stop talking and get back on track. Instinctively, easily even, Joe shrugged Tom off and said, “Whoa?” his uni-brow somehow knitting even closer together.

  Tom did not mean to grab the man. Tom felt he was not getting through properly. And when Joe turned to leave, apparently to turn the metaphorical spare tire into a physical reality, Tom couldn’t help himself. It was as instinctive for him as it was for Joe to slug him a nanosecond later. Tom sprawled against the kitchen table, sending two-thirds of the allotted portions per child dancing and spilling across the table. At which the children, one out of alarm and one out of sympathy, lamented loudly.

  It went no further. Both men realizing the enormity of what was happening, and what could happen. Things were calm except for the wailing children, prophetically sounding like sirens. “You better leave,” Joe said, his chest moved up and down and his hand pointed in the vicinity of the kitchen’s upper left cupboard.

  Despite the misdir
ection, Tom backed toward the foyer door. “No, this is all wrong. You’ve got me all wrong, here.” He tried to smile. In a parody of escort, Joe backed him toward the exit and Tom fumbled for his shoes, looking imploringly up at the man. “I’m here to talk about life insurance.” His voice trembled.

  “Huh?”

  “For you and your wife,” Tom said. “In case... and some life insurance for the children, too. Because I...”

  “On my kids?” Joe exploded. “Cash in on my fucking kids if they die?” And said kids shouted even louder.

  “Not like you think.” This particular objection had come up in the training manuals. What was the response? His mind was racing, “Not like that. Money for their college, money for a wedding.”

  “Or a fucking coffin?”

  But Tom was never good with irony. “Maybe, sure. I don’t know how much they cost, but they’re probably custom made and expensive...” Tom never got his ballpark quote out of his mouth. Joe’s fist slammed into it so hard, it caused Tom to step back two steps, his head to relax and his tongue to taste blood. Enough so that Joe was able to shove him gently out the door and slam it in his face. The knocker knocked once, and Tom’s body filled with rage. Which for a man of Tom’s temperament consisted of:

  Stepping back a few more paces

  Staring at the door in slight disbelief

  Whispering, as people will when punched in the mouth: “you motherfucker”

  Then shouting: “You motherfucker!”

  Retreating across the lawn as though ready to light out of the yard

  Spying a stupid looking ceramic gnome that someone thought was a good lawn ornament

  Angrily throwing this gnome toward the house

  The gnome went through the picture window, parting the curtain like a strong wind and landed in the middle of the living room. The gnome shattered open, leaving white dust and dirt over the laminate. Joe appeared framed in the center of the window, his arms held open in the universal sign for ‘What the fuck?’