May 24, 2011
It unnerves him to speak on the phone—the eruptions are like the black and white keys bouncing on a piano. The movement holds no mercy and he must press himself to answer those questions. How would you like it if I draft your life's plan for you? What do you see happening in twenty, thirty years' time when you'll be the only left, in a solitude that will only end on the day you die?
'Ten per cent off if you get it for both your parents,' the insurance agent says, 'Fifteen if you sign up, too.'
There comes a loud creak at the other end of the line. The agent must be juggling the call with half a dozen folders in his hands, while he pushes through the swinging doors into the office. Does the agent ever mix up the clients' profiles: what they do, how they live, how they plan to retreat from life?
'The fees won't go up as they grow older. Not until they turn eighty-five.'
Will he even get to see his parents at that age, with the thirty cancer sticks he smokes everyday? His grandparents died in their early nineties a few years ago. His parents will outlive him, white-haired phantoms at his funeral, mourning a death that will last forever. That is how they will beat the insurance plans, by tweaking and outliving the life expectancy imposed on them.
He will be the cruel joke in the mix.
'Sure. I'll get it for everybody,' he says.
'Great!' the insurance agent says, 'Let's meet up and go over the details. What about Tuesday?'
No comments:
Post a Comment