In lieu of a day off on that fateful August 15^th, Matt Lockard wanted to at least have a relatively easy day. Most of his fondest memories in some way were involved with National Relaxation Day, or at least a degree of relaxation.

By 11 a.m., he’d seen seven clients, customers and prior policyholders march through his office door, families with their family plans, the elderly and the newlyweds, and even a llama that ambled in off the street and actually wasn’t a customer.

A woman from somewhere in the Middle East came by in a burka, and a pirate wanted one of those special policies to protect his interests on the high seas – as he was wary of other pirates with all that’d been going on lately in the Indian Ocean. They came in to make the day ultra-hectic and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

Cripes Matt Lockard whined (fortunately only in his mind’s eye), it’s National Relaxation Day and I can’t have a leisurely day just because my gig is California Health Insurance policies. It seems that everyone in California has some kind of health care concern that a policy can address.

Just then some college students came in, and they wanted a group policy that would protect them from potential injuries incurred at keg parties. Five of the six were young men, all enrolled in California schools getting in-state tuition and the straggler was an attractive young woman, unmarried but majoring in animal husbandry she soon revealed. Ten minutes later, Matt was at it again, part of a flurry of frenetic, attending to needs of people that had to be met.

More pirates in the afternoon, but these happened to be transplants to the Los Angeles environs from Pittsburgh. A bald-headed centenarian walked in preceded by his cane, and he wanted a policy that would somehow last to provide a legacy perhaps. Soon it was five of the clock and the sun was beginning to approach the horizon and Matt Lockard, a man who had missed his chance to relax, was about to set. The phone rang just then …

The Donegans, Bob, Mitzy, and their kids, Joey, Johnny, and Jimmy loved to light fireworks on their land near Eureka. They’d get it from Tijuana, and drive up past San Francisco with enough firepower every 4^th of July to start their own preemptive war. Their family health insurance plan typically served for mundane family catastrophes that might occur at other times of the year. Except for this single idiosyncrasy, a well-intentioned rite for celebrating our nation’s birthday, the Donegans were pretty ordinary. Bob was a self-employed entrepreneur with a computer repair business. Mitzy did the company’s books, and the kids, already quite computer literate, did the troubleshooting if the trouble wasn’t too complicated.

Around June 29^th the family drove off merrily humming. Their black hummer headed south for the border towards Tijuana’s fireworks stands, some with supermarket-like inventories,  to stock up on Roman candles and bottle rockets, salutes and M-80s, blockbusters and cherry bombs, even sparklers and snakes for little Jimmy, who was only twelve and a bit more timid than his brothers and parents.

Once back home, preparation for festive explosions and “the lighting” always was a big production. Neighbors came from miles around. Bob and Mitzy were relatively safety-conscious, but their boys could be downright careless – especially Johnny, a sullen 14-year-old who loved to see just about anything “blow up.” He was about to stuff a live M-80 into the unsuspecting maw of Spritzy, the family’s beloved Dalmatian, when the explosive power of that quarter-stick of dynamite exploded prematurely and blew up near a horrified Jimmy, trying to save the dog.  Mitzy dialed her family’s California Health Insurance agent in the nick of time. “Dial 911 – Stat!” he screamed over the phone. She did, and Jimmy was rushed to the nearest regional medical center via ambulance.

They all went to visit Jimmy after the surgery. He was bandaged up. “You look just like The Mummy from that movie,” remarked Johnny, displaying his usual contemptuous flair for the insensitive.   

“How’s Spritzy?” Jimmy managed to ask, barely audible through his wrappings.

The Olsens were headed from their village of Orange Hollow straight to Los Angeles to go camping in the nearby foothills for 4^th of July weekend. But a wrong turn led Biff, the family’s patriarch, into East LA. A camping trailer couldn’t help but attract attention. It was inevitable when Biff and his lovely wife Beatrice, their sons Brian, Bill, and Bobby, only eleven – heard the first knock. “Who could that be?” whispered Beatrice. “It’s not Matt Lockard,” Biff said, “He doesn’t know we’re here.” The Olsens had recently purchased a family health insurance plan from Matt, a California Health Insurance agent if ever there was one. Once he’d invited the Olsens to the Los Angeles area, in a casual aside, but where their trailer was parked now was no place for tourists.

“Can I go outside?” said Bobby, being only eleven.

The knock came again. Fifteen-year-old Brian opened the door, and a youth gang poured into the family’s trailer en masse all wearing hockey shirts embossed with the logo of the Los Angeles Kings.  The Olsen kids, after a childhood spent cooped up in Orange Hollow, were keen on adventure. When one of the Kings offered to “show them around,” it sounded like adventure.

When the Olsen boys went with the others, Beatrice became momentarily worried. “Where are they going?” she said.  

“Boys will be boys, let them explore,” replied Biff.  

A few hours later, another knock came. This time it was a SWAT team, armed with a search warrant. The police officers discovered a Bible with certain passages from the Book of Revelations clearly marked, and also brought news of their boys – Brian, Bill, and Bobby, who was only eleven. “They were involved in an altercation with a rival gang,” one officer said, “Your youngest was shot in the leg.”

“That’d be Bobby,” replied Beatrice, “he’s only eleven.”

“We’d better call Matt Lockard and go to that hospital,” Biff said to Beatrice, after the SWAT team left, “Sounds like their exploring got out of hand.”

Bastille Day falls on July 14^th every year. Lately, septuagenarian Pritella Pratt felt like storming a few Bastilles herself, and she wasn’t even French. She did enjoy French salad dressing on her Romaine lettuce, and had eaten French fries, but that doesn’t count. But on Bastille Day, 2010, the French Independence Day, Pritella was in a hurry and tripped coming down some cement steps. She kept her balance, but it was Pritella’s pratfall nonetheless, as by evening of that day, several hours later, she felt a sharp nagging ache in her lower back. What was Pritella to do? She called Mabel, her beloved California Health Insurance agent (Mabel had also been her pinochle partner when her husband had been alive), to learn if her Medigap supplemental coverage was still in effect. “Yes indeedy,” Mabel said in her strange Irish brogue, “it is.” Medicare was great, but after Plan D of the Bush years, she didn’t know what to expect. She rushed out of her house, headed for her car, a Studebaker, and tripped, more seriously this time, a second pratfall. “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” she whispered as loudly as she could. Several more such vocalizations left Pritella feeling very old indeedy, and now her back was much worse. It was still Bastille Day, but almost dusk. A crow was cawing. Finally a good Samaritan named Sam came by, and helped Pritella to her Studebaker. Deep down the seventy-six-year-old felt a sprig of hope, like a probing tendril, because of Mabel’s affirmative words “Yes indeedy.” Those precious words were all that mattered now. Three blocks later, the urgent care center came into view. She could have walked there if it weren’t for her pratfalls. It was now dusk and a second crow cawed. Her back was killing her, perhaps literally as she didn’t know what was wrong.  Feeling a surge of “old lady” adrenalin, she managed to open the glass doors, and walked into the health care facility. “I’ve got Medicare, and Medigap supplemental,” she proudly said when asked by the receptionist, and promptly fainted.

It turned out that she’d “ruptured something,” and she needed to go the hospital for observation. Waking up in her hospital bed, her first thoughts were of Mabel – and not the bill.

Matt Lockard, California Health Insurance agent extraordinaire, didn’t know. He was really clueless about National Hug-A-Cat Day being celebrated on the 4^th of June.

When the calls from cat-loving clients kept ringing him up on the 3^rd, a whole slew of them, Matt was puzzled and even wary. “I assumed it was some sort of practical joke,” Matt explained.

Matt was less than enthused, especially when clients such as Mrs. Bessie Morgenthau began texting him on his Smartphone. “After she texted me about a dozen times, I’d had enough,” Matt said, “When I texted her back, I told her that I didn’t even like cats.”

This did not go over well. During the remainder of Hug-a-Cat Day eve, the calls kept coming in, overwhelmingly pro-cat, increasingly irate.

“Why aren’t you out with your cat preparing for the hug-a-cat-a-thon?” a client who refused to be identified finally asked the exasperated Matt, hearing a distinct purring in the background.  “I don’t have a cat,” Matt replied, but at that moment, he almost wished he did.

The next day, National Hug-A-Cat Day, dawned smoggy and putrid, a little like if a disgusting cat box had been left in Matt’s office. Matt opened the door to like any dutiful and hardworking California Health Insurance agent might, and entered. “What’s that smell?” Matt immediately said. A few seconds later, he saw it, a real cat box, and several little cat houses made of hard plastic not far from where the litter would go if he had any. “Oh no!” Matt cried, and then, perhaps instinctively, “Here kitty?

Suddenly, out from the cat houses came one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight of them, Matt counted. Matt sat down and began sobbing, and then a strange thing happened. The cats started coming up to him, nestling against his trouser shins which were soon covered in cat hairs. Matt reached out and started petting. “These animals just want to be fed,” Matt said aloud. Still, despite his best instincts, he picked one up, little more than a kitten, and hugged it.

John Smith and his wife Becca were preparing for their annual Father’s Day “cookout and fleshly barbeque” when the unthinkable happened. Usually the event drew the Smith’s three remaining children – Michael (named after the archangel), Mary (named after the mother of Jesus), and John Jr. (named after his Dad), ages 27, 29, and 31 respectively. Another Smith spawn was seldom spoken of. He’d left home at 18 for parts unknown, although rumors had surfaced that he’d become a Major League Baseball superstar for the Dodgers. Since the Smiths all hated baseball and none of them owned a television or radio, even if Daemon was playing shortstop with the Dodgers, his family wouldn’t have known. In fact, the family’s “black sheep” had become almost as famous as Manny Ramirez. Daemon was 32 now, and in fourteen years, there hadn’t been a single letter from the prodigal Smith son to any of his family members. Perhaps strangely, Daemon had become estranged.  

The accident involved the elder Smith. He was on the far side of Beverly Hills, his musket in hand, searching for a main course for the family’s upcoming “cookout and fleshly barbeque.”  If he’d been watching TV, he’d have known to avoid the far side of Beverly Hills. This nefarious region had become the lair of the infamous “Beverly Hills Wolverine.” It was on the news almost non-stop that day. The far side of Beverly Hills was like a ghost town.  “It’s awful quiet in these parts. Just me and my blunderbuss,” John Smith managed to say aloud, before the wolverine pounced. Wolverines are quite vicious. Just ask anyone from Michigan.

A California Health Insurance agent living in the neighborhood discovered Mr. Smith, who had purchased a policy on a prudent whim a few months back. The agent called ‘911.’ His second call was to the TV news stations.

On Father’s Day, the Smiths settled for turkey as their main course. Becca, Michael, Mary, and John Jr. were sitting down at the family picnic table with the bandaged John Sr., everyone in a melancholy mood when guess who showed up, bringing half the Dodgers?

In the Roman Catholic Church, there are holy days of obligation when Catholics feel obliged to attend Mass. The Catholic holy days are significant to devout Catholics, but downright silly to Mormons and Moslems. Insurance Awareness Day, which has been celebrated (according to certain obscure calendars such as the Jivan—pronounced jive-an, for thousands of years) — is a sacred day to every California Health Insurance agent. “Most of us begin the sacred holy day with a ritual jog before heading into the office,” explains Matt Lockard, “or else we jump up and down for several minutes to get the blood going.”

Once in the office, a candle is lit. It’s usually purple and delivers a pungent odor, especially in a confined space like an office setting. “I usually light the candle with a customer, my first appointment of the day, already in the office. No matter what kind of policy they’re buying, the lighting of the candle on Insurance Awareness Day seldom fails to elicit a response,” Matt explains. It seems to remind many people of exotic dancers.

In fact, an exotic dancer is sometimes hired to heighten the festivities, but the dance performed, the “Insurance Dance,” is very protective in nature. “Just watching it performed gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling all over,” Matt asserts, “I also get kind of tingly.” By the time the ritualistic dance is completed, most customers also feel covered. “It doesn’t matter what kind of policy you’re buying. When someone is doing the Dance, and there’s a California Health Insurance agent in the room, who wouldn’t feel that they could withstand any medical emergency?” Matt argues.

After the dance, Matt typically recites “The Insurance Poem of Light,” always uttered in a reverent tone, and then refreshments are served. “I’ve been known to serve cookies and milk, or lemonade and pretzels if it’s hot,” Matt explains, “and everyone leaves happy.”

So is it like a party? About this sensitive subject, Matt Lockard appeared subdued. “It’s not anyone’s birthday,” Matt says abruptly, “It’s Insurance Awareness Day.”

Matt Lockard considered it a perplexing question. He’d been hearing it from clients a lot lately. Are those “lazy hazy days in May” covered best by family or individual plans?

A young girl named Hazel, only fourteen, and still under the umbrella of a child’s plan, was the first to call. “It’s a lazy, hazy day in May,” she said, “Calloo Calay,” and then she sighed the way adolescents always do.

“How are your parents?” Matt asked her, considering tenderly that he had a daughter who was about the same age, although her name wasn’t Hazel. “How can I help you or them?”

Hazel was swift and to the point. She pounced as if her femur were about to break, but hadn’t. “Calloo Calay,” she repeated, “My mom wanted to know whether those lazy hazy days in May that people are always talking about are covered best by what kind of plan? She’s serious.”

“Calloo Calay,” said Matt, attempting to approach the spirit of how the question had been posed, “This is a grave matter, nothing to joke about. These kind of days can lead to a rash of accidents. People don’t pay as much attention to what they should be doing.” Almost as an afterthought, he added for emphasis, “Calloo Calay.”

Hazel was quite impressed, especially when Matt added the part about the family plan being best in their case, but that circumstances varied by family, or individuals, and about how a given demographic responded to the “lazy hazies,” as they are customarily referred to by California Health Insurance agents in the know.

A flood of calls ensued; however, as several “lazy, hazy days in May” began to influence the behavior of careless Californians. Matt started to second guess himself, and third guess, and fourth guess himself, in a profusion of guessing. This profusion caused a certain confusion. When he left his office to walk down the street for a sandwich on a particular lazy hazy day, he got lazy, and soon felt hazy, when he tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and fell on his knee. Fortunately, he landed directly on a carpet beetle wandering aimlessly about, which cushioned the blow. As for the beetle …

Matt Lockard, a California Health Insurance agent, had assumed he’d heard it all until he spoke to Dustin Coughman, at least as far as warm weather allergies were concerned. Most of the time, warm weather allergies, ragweed, rhinitis, and the like can infest nearby hills and vacant city lots to make his clients miserable, but it didn’t end there. Policyholders had been given the wheezies by such culprits as Russian thistle, or tumbleweed, coastal sage, mug woort, and pig weed, but until Dustin called on that fateful day, he’d never imagined what redroot could do to a human respiratory system, and also to the skin of a grown man.

Dustin sounded positively wretched when he decided to ring Matt up. “Matt,” he began, “May is my bad pollen month.”

It seemed that the only time that Dustin called was when he was in the midst of a bad allergy month. “I thought that April was your bad allergy month.”

“It’s bad too,” Dustin admitted in a pitiful croak which was becoming chronic, “but May is the worst.”

“What are your symptoms today?” Matt asked, attempting to be helpful.

“You don’t want to know,” Dustin croaked again, sounding even worse if that was possible.

“I do,” reiterated Matt, “That’s why I asked.”

There was a pause, as Dustin gathered up remnants of vocal cord, having to sort of bunch them to get his words out. The man’s throat was obviously inflamed. “Matt,” he said, “It’s my throa –“

“I figured that out already,” Matt replied, perhaps a little too smugly, “What are you allergic to in May? Do you even know?”

“Of course,” Dustin re-croaked, although it came out very much like hoarse instead of course, “I know exactly what it is. It was the tea that I had – prepared by Vageena, my well-meaning niece. It had redroot in it – I’m sure of it.”

“Redroot – redroot – redroot tea,” Matt rhymed, sort of, remembering an ancient jingle, then blurted, “Vageena?”  

“We call her Geena,” Dustin re-croaked again.  

“I understand,” Matt said, and he did.

“Can…you…call…,” Dustin begged piteously.

Matt, being the well-versed California Health Insurance agent that he was realized that Dustin was trying to croak “Urgent Care.” Dustin was picked up by a cab.

But later Matt felt a strange compulsion. “Red root tea,” he said to himself, “Gotta have some.”

Health Insurance

Everyone has a mother – even in California. A mother is often the first memory we have, and in most cases, except where the mother happens to be a “bad Mommy,” and often not even then, we tend to cherish our mothers and want to celebrate them on that Sunday in May set aside. Andrew S. Samaritan, a California Health Insurance agent based in Fresno, kept getting calls from his clients.

“Did you hear what they’re doing? I read it in the paper,” an elderly woman screamed, one who had a policy in good standing, “Andrew, are you listening to me?”

Andrew tried at first to accept the loss of Mother’s Day with quiet resignation. His mother and he had never gotten along. He began quietly humming. “Andrew!” the woman screamed again, “Mother’s Day is my day. It’s the only day that my son Mordred realizes I’m alive!”

Andrew knew Mordred, and didn’t particularly like him either, although he also purchased a policy and it was a family plan in good standing.  “I’ll see what I can do,” Andrew said, determined to do nothing, and hoping it would all blow over. It didn’t.

Mordred called next. “I can’t stand it!” he screamed, “My mother is going crazy over this thing about Mother’s Day being cancelled. You know the governor’s influential aide. Will you drive up to Sacramento and help?”

“It’s only cancelled for this year,” Andrew said, “until they get money back in the till.” He said this in the tone not fitting for an empathetic California Health Insurance agent, as if the crisis was no big deal.

“It IS a big deal!” screamed Mordred, as if HE were able to read Andrew’s mind, and hung up.

Seventy-eight calls from clients later, Andrew Samaritan decided to become a Good Samaritan. He got in his Honda Accord and headed up to the State Capitol.

The task at hand was speaking to the influential aide that he knew. The aide was actually Andrew’s sixth cousin, twice removed, once forcibly, in many ways a bad Samaritan.

But this story has a happy ending, and Mother’s Day was restored. Things would be fine for awhile, until everybody discovered that they’d cancelled Christmas.