HERB BENHAM: Ah, the life of a life-insurance broker
| Thursday, Dec 08 2011 11:31 AM
Last Updated Thursday, Dec 08 2011 11:34 AM
The last time I met with Myron, my insurance agent, he had a new car. A powerful German car with impeccable pedigree. I don't think it was a Porsche, but that one was probably at home nestled in the garage under a nice soft cover.
I met with Myron recently to talk about my life insurance policy, which was drawing to the end of its term. Who knows what shiny new car he would be driving this time. I was curious in a grim sort of life-insurance-policy way.
"I parked far away so you wouldn't see my BMW," he said when he arrived, knowing that I might be sensitive to car shock.
His son, Ron, started the meeting by buying me a tall cup of coffee and a Ham & Cheddar Artisan Breakfast Sandwich at Starbucks. I couldn't remember if this was a first. I was ready to pay but my heart, which would probably be found to be diseased in the underwriting process, wasn't in it.
We were talking about a 15-year renewal of the policy for about double the price. That would take me to the age of 72. If I wanted to renew after that, I could for something like $22,000 month.
Seventy-two wasn't a bad age. Maybe die a year before that so the insurance company wouldn't be tempted to prop me up for a couple of months like Bernie and pretend I was alive until the policy elapsed.
"Herb has always been quiet," the adjuster might say. "His wife will sign an affidavit to that effect."
"What kind of shape are you in?" Myron asked, taking over from his kid as if to show how it was done.
This was Myron's way of playing hardball. See if my gaze slid into my coffee cup while I answered questions about my health.
What kind of shape am I in? What kind of shape do you think I'm in? On the outside, I'm rock hard, which means a crafty disease is probably lurking inside of me, lodged in some slippery organ.
"We might be able to get you preferred if your health is good," Myron said softly, as if he didn't want the underwriters to hear.
Preferred? I'd always wanted to be preferred. I want to be in the club.
It was my turn. I asked Myron how much time he was spending in Carpinteria. I knew he had a house there. A house with several parking places for his late- model German cars.
"I'm there Thursday through Tuesday," he said. "But I bring work."
You bring work? Sure you do. You're kind of George in "Seinfeld" with the Penske file. You move it from one hand to another while you're watching the whales breach.
I was envious. Can you tell? Myron was king of the castle and I was living on the wrong side of the moat.
That's when he let it slip that he bought another place in Carpinteria because of the kid overflow.
You have another place in Carpinteria? Two places at the beach? I was envious. Now, I am bitter.
The guy is successful, he's good looking, his cars are smooth and quiet and he doesn't even have a hitch in his giddy-up.
While we talked, my mountain bike was leaning against the window. It didn't have shocks, although I had splurged on new tires 21â2 years ago.
We shook hands. His was warm. It was a happy hand. It smelled like the beach, Carpinteria and fine German leather.
Myron could sell that. Myron could sell anything.
These are the opinions of Herb Benham, not necessarily those of The Californian. Email him at hbenham@bakersfield.com
