by Andre Farant
“People take death and their family’s welfare very seriously.” Why was he humouring this kid?
“As they should. But life insurance is a joke. Take this job, Roan.”
For a fleeting moment, Roan actually considered asking for more details. He really did hate his job. In fact, he’d applied for a slew of new positions that very morning. But this was just some kid. An unusually well-spoken and perceptive kid, but a kid nonetheless. “Thank you for calling La Dolce Vita Insurance, have a dolce day,” Roan said and disconnected the call.
*
During the following half-hour Roan Alten fielded six more calls. Not one of these six calls was in the least bit unusual. Each call could be labelled angry, irate, furious, or ballistic. The third call, from a woman who’d bought her husband life insurance as a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary gift, actually progressed through all four stages over the course of her one call. She began the call angry, then became irate, then furious and, just before hanging up, she had gone ballistic.
At nine twenty, just a few seconds after Francis Blondain became the second person not to die, the kid called again.
“Have you thought about that job, Roan?” the kid said before Roan could deliver his greeting.
“Look, you can’t keep calling here,” Roan said.
“Of course I can. Have you thought about it, Roan?”
“Thought about what? You’re a kid on the phone.”
“This is a serious job offer, Roan,” the kid said. He or she did indeed sound serious. “You are especially well suited to the position and, to be entirely honest, you don’t have much choice in the matter.”
Though Roan was contractually obligated to remain polite and patient with any and all callers, the rules were much looser when dealing with prank calls. There was little chance of losing business due to rude language directed at a nine-year-old playing phone games. With this in mind, Roan said, “Kid, get the hell off the line and don’t call back.”
“Roan, on your next call I want you to focus. I want you to focus and guess the caller’s time of death.”
“What?” Roan asked and, despite his anger, a chill danced up his spine.
“His time of death. When will he die, Roan?” the kid said and hung up.
*
Exactly two seconds after the kid hung up Roan’s line flashed. Almost as a reflex, Roan connected and said, “La Dolce Vita Insurance, Roan speaking, how can I make your vita dolce?”
“You can start by shutting the fuck up and listening closely, dumbshit.” The caller, Roan could tell, was irate with a seventy percent chance of furious.
“How else can I help you sir?”
“Well, seeing as you’re still talking, you haven’t helped for shit. I said listen. I had a medical exam six years ago when I first bought this crappy policy of yours. Now, outta the fuckin’ blue, I get a letter tellin’ me I gotta have another exam or else my policy is void! Now what in the holy hell is goin’ on over at your end, dumbshit? Explain yourself!”
Roan asked for the caller’s name, phone number and security question, all of which were provided along with a healthy dose of expletives. The man’s file popped up on his screen. Roan rolled his eyes.
“Sir,” he said, reading from his screen, “the terms of your policy stipulate that it is your responsibility to advise us of any serious health changes. Major changes can and will result in a new physical exam and the possible reassessment of your coverage and premiums.”
“Fine, yeah, sure, but I haven’t had any major—”
“Sir,” Roan interrupted as gently as possible,” it says here that, in the past two years, you’ve suffered two heart attacks and a minor stroke.”
“How in the hell do you know about that?”
“Sir, you reported these incidents yourself. As you are required to do.”
“I sure as hell did not!”
“Well, sir, you should have and, besides, it says right here that you did make a report by e-mail on—”
“Holy Jesus on a spit! Musta been my ex-wife. That bitch’s always tryin’ to screw me. How in the hell did she get access to my file?”
“Sir, your security question is ‘What is your wife’s maiden name?’ Does this refer to your current wife or . . . ?”
The man was silent at the other end. Finally, he said, “I don’t even need this thing. I’ll outlive you all.”
Fat chance, Roan thought. Two heart attacks and a temper? Buddy, I give you
(two-years-seven-months-and-thirteen-days)
three years.
“Sir,” Roan said, “can I help you with anything more?”
A long silence preceded the man’s response. “No.”
“Then I wish you a dolce day.”
“Go to hell.” The line went dead.
*
Over the thirty minutes leading up to the moment at which Edward Eric did not die, Roan Alten took five more calls. They went like this: irate, angry, angry, ballistic, angry.
At two past ten the kid called again.
“When will he die, Roan?”
“Oh, for crying out loud. Will you please leave me alone?”
“Think about it, Roan. He called just thirty minutes ago. Now tell me when he will die. Tell me how much longer the man has to live.”
“Kid, you’re starting to creep me out.”
“How much longer, Roan?”
“Creep me out and piss me off.”
“How much longer?”
“Dammit.”
“Roan,” the kid said, “how much longer did that man have?”
Roan exploded: “God dammit! Two years, seven months and thirteen days, okay. You satisfied?”
“Yes,” the kid said, and Roan could hear the smile in the kid’s voice. “Yes I am.”
Roan took a deep breath and let it out very, very slowly. He did not know where the words had come from. He did not know how he’d come up with them. But, for some reason that he couldn’t begin to understand, he felt that those words had been entirely true.
“Try this Roan: how will he go?”
“What?”
“How will he die, Roan? In two years, seven months and thirteen days, how will he die?”
“I don’t—” (car accident) “—know.”
“Yes, Roan. You do. It won’t be his heart, will it, Roan?”
“It’s—” (car accident) “—impossible.”
“No, Roan. It’s not.”
“Leave me alone,” Roan whispered.
“Fine, Roan. We’ll leave it, for now. You have a break coming, Roan. Watch the news.”
The kid hung up.
*
At eleven, Roan made his way to the break room. He’d coasted through the calls since his last talk with the kid, barely registering what was being said, answering by rote.
The break room was small and in a perpetual state of disarray. At the moment, only three other employees occupied the room. Two sat at one of two small tables, next to a bank of food-spattered microwaves, the third, Willy Hughes, sat on the tiny couch at the back of the room, eating from a Tupperware container and watching TV. Like most of the phone staff at Dolce Vita, including Roan himself, Willy was in his mid-to-late-twenties and just north of socially retarded. He slumped forward in his seat, his chin just inches above his dish, his dish just inches above his gut. Willy was a fat man and Roan was certain that he had been a fat kid, one of those who got picked last to the team in gym.
“Howya doing, Willy?”
Without looking from the TV, Willy said, “Good, you?”
Roan took a moment to formulate his answer. The truth was that he wasn’t doing well at all. He was freaked out and confused. Usually he was only confused. Roan chose to keep things simple, if not completely accurate. “Uh, pretty good,” he said.
“Cool.”
“Whatcha eating?”
“Chef Boyardee.”
Roan nodded to himself. He imagined that, after his meal, Willy would h
ave two tomato-sauce-coloured stains at the corners of his mouth. Fat kids always had those after Chef Boyardee.
“Hey,” Roan said, glancing at the TV. “Think we could flip it to the news for a sec?”
Willy was watching what appeared to be a game show that involved singing, trivia, and jousting with foam lances. “Guess so,” Willy said through a mouthful of canned pasta. “Was a news break just a minute ago, though.”
“A news break?”
Willy nodded. “Mm-hm. Yeah.”
For some reason, Roan felt his stomach tighten and his bladder loosen. “What about?”
“Dunno,” Willy said with a shrug. “Guy got hit by a truck up in Ville St-Laurent. Kinda weird.”
“Why weird?”
“Was really banged up. Nearly cut in half or something and pretty much bled out.”
“Okay?”
“Well, he lived. Doctors aren’t sure how. Saying it’s a miracle, y’know? That’s why the news break, I guess.”
Roan now felt freaked, confused, and more than a little frightened. “He should’ve been dead,” Roan whispered to himself.
“Seems that way,” Willy answered, not realizing Roan had not been asking a question.