According to Policy

The door opened warily, revealing one eyeball, a nose, and three-quarters of a bearded mouth. Before that mouth could sound an alarm or menace a threat, our hero started in, his voice intruding where his steps dared not to go:

"Good afternoon, Good Sir. My name is Don."

His drone continued on auto-pilot, running through his spiel with pretended animation, anticipating the moment the door would slam in his face--

Slam! This time it came a bit sooner than expected.

He sighed and ducked off the porch, thankful yet again that a door had slammed rather than a gun had shot or a dog had bitten. He squinted up at the sun as soon as he was out from under the awning's shade, wiping his high brow with a handkerchief while looking for a spot to break for lunch. At the end of the street, a park bench beckoned from its position half-buried under the branches of a willow, vis-a-vis a motionless merry-go-round. His weary feet moved in that direction even before his brain had seized the decision to aim for it.

By the time he reached the bench, he had all but forgotten the next three slammed doors on which he had knocked during his half-block journey to the park. Sadly, he was used to them by now. Contrary to his expectations, he had not become a very good insurance salesman.

This destiny had haunted him from the first day he woke up in the so-called "American Dream." A newborn baby perhaps could not understand, nor remember the conversation, but he had been reminded of it later. His father proudly named him "Donald," aspiring to raise a son who would one day be a famous athlete like his favorite baseball player; coincidentally, his favorite race car driver was also named "Donald".

His father's father, however, did not share the hope. "Donald?" Grandpa muttered. "Like Donald Duck? Or Ronald McDonald? At best, the name sounds like an insurance salesman." And Grandpa should know. He had run off many a hapless insurance salesman from his doorstep, often inheriting a derby hat or spectacles that one left behind in his hasty flight. So, from about Day Two of his life, Donald had been called "Don"; after all, who wanted to be mistaken for an insurance salesman?

He bit into his cold fried-chicken leftovers, musing at the irony of it all. Here he sat, "Donald" after all, despite his best attempts to be a Don. "A Don? Don Quixote is more like it," his conscience sang, sounding more like Sancho Panza than he wanted to admit.

Forgetting he was arguing only with himself, he let his blood boil, defending himself passionately aloud. "I am not a failure! You know very well that the company offered me this position because of my expertise, and I meet an important need in society!" The birds on the bush off to his right, which had looked at him quizzically when he began his utterance, waited in vain for his conscience to reply. But Sancho remained silent, and wisely so.

After all, the Don was right. A prominent businessman in the past, he had done well. He never became popular or iconic, but in many ways he could have been the poster boy for the American Dream. Notwithstanding his humble beginnings, he earned a decent living by working hard, often during long hours. Moreover, he had carefully calculated this career change when the opportunity came, but the move seemed natural. Like his peers, he had his retirement plan and savings bonds backing up his stock market investments, and his insurance policies under-girded him in a nice safety net. In fact, he had purchased just about every policy offered by his insurance agency: life insurance, home insurance, car insurance, health insurance, travel insurance, earthquake insurance, flood insurance, and more. By now on a first-name basis with the agents, he had become their best client! He did not realize the agency had struggled to fill their vacated position for a few months, but he did know that they had decided to offer him the job because of his familiarity with their policies. Stifling his distaste for such a job title, he soon accepted the offer, recognizing the statistical demand for what he would be selling. Hardly an American lived a single day without insurance coverage of some sort, and usually each had numerous policies! Like any American would, he chose the opportunity that would overshadow the self-destroying identity he would have to assume. Millions survived in nine-to-fives cubicles or on assembly lines. The pay-off would more than make up for it.

Unfortunately, he had proved to be a rather sorry salesmen. His confidence grew with practice, yet was not enough to convince stubborn homeowners of their need to purchase another invisible product that would visibly cost a fortune. These were hard times, and his fast-talking plea met its match with steely resistance from tax-plundered wallets and unemployed egos. Furthermore, he had failed to consider the amount of insurance most people already owned, which left little room for additional sales.

Silently, he reflected on his day. An unfruitful morning and the late afternoon loomed ahead: hopefully slamming doors rather than shotguns! He thought about his wife and children, comforted that he had invested in such a way that they would be protected should something ever happen to him. He thought about his earnings and his investments, thinking about the government-insured bank accounts and feeling secure that they were padded with past successes that would carry him through these dismal months.

Suddenly, he began to feel invincible. What did it matter if today was hard? Things could only get better! After all, he was covered! He was ready to face the future! How far could he fall with so many safety nets stretched beneath him? How could he fail with so many plans and back-up plans in place? Who could touch him after he had so carefully prepared for the worst? He began to smile. He polished of the rest of his meal quickly, eager to start knocking on doors again. He felt sure of his success! He practically jumped to his feet, stuffed his garbage in the convenient can nearby, and began whistling as he set off again.

* * *

Donald's wife opened the letter without feeling. She had remained numb for weeks after his death. True, all her hope was riding on this letter, but her shock had dimmed her expectancy. Who would have guessed that her husband would have disappeared so suddenly? Even worse was the fact that the authorities had never located his body; who knew what had happened? She had no closure. Fortunately, he had always prepared for the worst in every way he could, and most certainly he had insured himself against everything known to man. For once his obsessive foresight would pay off! She almost smiled to think of it as she tore open the envelope, ripping through the return address of the insurance agency. This check would help her arrange the next hard months of life's challenges.

Suddenly, she froze as her eyes pierced the unfolding page--"We regret to inform you...." She scanned more closely, and then re-read the letter word-for-word. She choked on the cry that fell from her lips when she finally remembered to breathe again, now in disbelief. The equation finally made sense through her denial, even if the legal jargon did not:

Numerous policies + years of paid premiums + fine print + no body = NOT COVERED.