California Health Insurance Quotes and Blog

 A quandary arose between partners in a law firm, and a buy-sell agreement offered within a life insurance plan by a California Health Insurance agent became the only solution.

Glarnes, Bensonhurst & Smith was a well-respected firm located in San Francisco’s affluent downtown, right off Market Street. The partners got along famously until the guys, Sam Glarnes and Johnson Bensonhurst, learned of the plot Tabitha Smith was hatching in the event of her premature demise. She was an attractive woman, with pretty auburn-hair coiffed in sleek feline waves, and well-versed in garment industry law, the firm’s obscure specialty. “If I should die,” Tabitha blurted one day, “Angela gets my share.”

Sam Glarnes was flabbergasted. Tabitha couldn’t mean her 1/3 share of their firm, could she? Especially since “Angela” was Tabitha’s pet cat.

Johnson Bensonhurst felt a sudden crushing weight on his chest. “You can’t be serious,” he told Tabitha Smith. “Isn’t Angela your cat? How can your cat become a partner?”

“She’s an intelligent tabby. She talks to me. You may not know that she’s studying for her law degree from Elysium University. I expect her to pass the bar next March.”

“You are serious,” said Bensonhurst, his mouth agape.

“Isn’t Elysium that diploma mill?” retorted Glarnes, getting defensive.

During the next few months, the guys tried to talk her out of it, but Tabitha was adamant. “It’s no longer open for discussion,” she said if asked.

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The office atmosphere grew increasingly tense. One day, when Tabitha brought “Angela” in to “assist in mediation,” the guys started giving Tabitha the silent treatment.  The next day, there was an accident, Tabitha stepped off a curb wrong trying to avoid a sprawled cat, and sprained her ankle. When she took a day off, the guys pounced and called a California Health Insurance agent. Glarnes spoke into the receiver to the local agent. “Do you offer life insurance plans?”

“Yes,” the agent replied.

“Buy-sell agreements?”

 Again, the affirmative.

The next afternoon, Glarnes had the agreement in hand. Tabitha had limped back to work. She wanted to make amends.

“Please sign it,” he begged. Bensonhurst witnessed. “Okay,” she said. Perhaps that’s what she’d wanted all along.

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Richard Garrison called Matt Lockard long distance one day … from another planet.

Richard Garrison was part of an advance guard of 21st century workers, in a profession that would’ve been unthinkable just a few decades before. He’d been an oil rig worker last century, but extensive retraining had opened up new worlds to him, literally. Like a traveling salesman in the classic Arthur Miller play, he’d become something vaguely similar, but infinitely more exotic. “I’m a traveling astronaut,” he’d tell people, and the itinerary was exhausting … the moon, Mars, a side journey to Neptune … a place called Delta 7.

The new job was draining enough to have cost him his marriage; the kids lived with a Pygmy nanny back in California and spoke Swahili. Still, he needed to provide for them. The kids needed health insurance in the worst way. He hadn’t even been home in seven months. He knew exactly who to call about that insurance. Luckily the phone he kept by his bed in the space ship’s traveling astronaut section was a Super Fiber Optic line.

Ring ding. Ring ding. Even the ring sounded funny when Matt Lockard, a California Health Insurance Agent, picked up in his office.

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“Matt? Matt Lockard?”

The voice on the other end sounded very, very far away. “Who’s this?” Matt asked, not quite recognizing the faint voice.

“Rich Garrison.”

“Rich. I thought you died a couple of years back.”

“No, it just seems that way because of my new job.”

“Where are you calling from?”

When Matt found out, he practically fainted. But he quickly recovered his composure, and like a pro, discovered the reason for his old friend’s call. Moments later, he’d arranged to sell the policy that Rich Garrison needed.

The next call came in via web cam one evening a few months later. Matt was at home. Rich was relatively close by, on the moon selling vacuum cleaners. “Hi Matt,” said his old friend’s voice, this time not quite so distant.

“Where are you this time?”

“Look out your window at the moon,” Rich said.

The moon was orange, and Matt mused, full of health insurance.

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Gilead McBride was laid off from his job at the refinery and used some accumulated capital to fulfill a lifelong dream and start a new business. But he ran into a glitch and needed Matt’s help.

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Gilead McBride called Matt one summer day to invite him to the candle factory. “I’ll make it worth your while,” Gilead said. Gilead and Matt went way back.

It was up in Oxnard, by the tracks, in a part of town that smelled bad. Matt didn’t know what to expect. When Matt Lockard opened the door to the factory, the aromatics were sinus-draining, making his eyes water. “What is this place?” he asked Gilead.

“We make candles,” Gilead replied.

“I thought you worked in a refinery outside of Escondido,” Matt said.

“Nope, they laid me off after twenty-six years. But this is my dream.”

“Making candles?”

 “Not just candles, we make candles with exotic scents.”

Matt followed Gilead to an assembly line where samples of scents lay at the ready.

He picked up a candle, yellow with black stripes. It vaguely resembled a candy cane impersonating a yellowjacket. “Here, smell it.” Gilead said.

Matt reluctantly took a whiff. Something vaguely like manure greeted his nostrils.

“Distant horse stable,” said Gideon proudly, without being asked. Other candles followed in quick succession. Soon Matt’s olfactory sense felt like it’d been assaulted.

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There was a subtle odor of something cooking. Smelled like walking through a tight knit apartment complex. Matt couldn’t quite put his finger on that smell. Familiar but not really inviting like you’ll never own it. “It’s called, ‘Hey, what’s that you’re eating?’” Gideon explained.

A beige-colored candle with the scent of baby powder and sour milk, its scent described as “baby fingers” almost made the California Health Insurance agent gag.

Finally, as Matt escaped into the candle factory’s sealed air-conditioned office, he found out what Gideon had been wanting all along.

“The state says I need group health insurance for my employees, and Cobra is too expensive,” the fledgling candle-maker explained. Matt had noticed some employees milling about in the factory. They seemed listless, probably from smelling too many of these candles. Group health insurance would be needed here, probably in a hurry.

“I can help,” Matt Lockard said, sniffing again once more just to see if he could.

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