There are two things to know.  The first is that I sell insurance.  The second is that people tell me things.  They open up as if I’m their psychiatrist.  I haven’t figured out why; maybe no one listens to them at home.  Perhaps they sense I have a caring personality.  Whatever the reason, they admit their sins and shortcomings.  They’re in confessional.  They tell me: Yes, I smoke, and I tried to quit with that new medication they have, but it didn’t work; it just made me a wreck.  I couldn’t sleep and I was grouchy.  It made me really angry. So I figured it was either keep taking the meds and kill my wife, or, keep smoking.

They say things like that.

I met this woman, although I can’t remember her name now, at a call center for a telemarketing company.  She was thirty-something, with three kids.  At the time she couldn’t take out any insurance, she said, because she was trying to save enough money to move out.  Her husband had died two years ago, and her and the kids were living with friends.  I told her I understood, we’re all tight on money, and started to fill out waiver forms for her to sign (I’m not a pushy salesman, and I suppose that’s why I’m not doing very well).  As I wrote, she continued to talk.  She said she knew how important life insurance was after what had happened with her husband.  They lost their house, and the bank repossessed their car.  They had nothing left.

No kidding, I said.

She shook her head yes.

Her hair was gold-colored and greasy, with black roots underneath.  Her teeth were glazed in a murky gray color, but they were straight.  At one time I think she had been pretty.  The funny thing is, she went on, after he died his mother went out and bought a new truck.  She also paid off the business she was paying on.  Very suspicious, I said.  She said: That’s what I thought.

I asked her to fill out some personal information, her social security number and address.  As she wrote on the form, I looked at her long skinny fingers and the loopy writing that only women do.  Then she asked, will have I have chance to sign up for this again?

Not until next December.

Oh, she said, disappointed. I have to wait that long.

I nodded.  Then I said: I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get you a quote for life insurance just in case you change your mind—so you’ll know what to expect.

As I pulled up the information on my computer, I asked her, I said: If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your husband?

She said he had surgery on his ankle, or his foot, maybe it was his knee, I can’t remember, but whatever it was he had screws implanted and the surgery wasn’t a success, because he was in a lot of pain everyday.  As she told me this, she rubbed her index finger beneath the corner of her eye, as if there were something in it, like an eyelash.  I think she was trying not to cry.  He was taking Demerol for the pain, she continued.  But then she said he hadn’t been to a doctor since he was eighteen, which didn’t make any sense because that meant his surgery had to have been performed years ago and the prescription still recent.

I looked at her quizzically.

He was getting pills from an old lady who had cancer, or had cancer but was now cancer free, I’m not sure, and she wasn’t specific about it.  But he was downing pills, and it never occurred to him to check the dosage, after all he’d been taking them forever.  The old lady never remembered she’d upped her dosage either during a stage of her treatments.  He had an allergic reaction and went into a seizure.  I didn’t know what the hell to do, she confided, and then he died right there.  That was two years ago, and she looked at me, her eyes black and drained.

I remember I didn’t know what to say, so I shook my head and sighed.  It was awkward.  And it was even more awkward for me to swivel the computer around so I could show her the life quote, as if I were emotionally numb, as if I were more concerned with making a sale than being a compassionate human being.

But then she asked: That’s all it costs?

Every pay period, I told her.

Well, I can do that.

Are you sure?

Yes, she said, it’s important.

And she did.  We tore up her waiver form and filled out an application.  When she got up to leave she shook my hand.  She thanked me and walked out of the room, a woman slowly rising above a tragedy as dark as her eyes.