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Amelia Nosehart liked to fly through the malls to get a head start on Christmas. But a policy she’d purchased from California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard literally helped save her sight when “shopping” for Black Friday Deals 2009 went horribly wrong.

Amelia Nosehart’s favorite day of the year was the day after Thanksgiving when Rancho Bernardo shoppers could get a head start on their Christmas shopping with early bird specials.  Retail stores in neighboring burbs would open at two, three, four, five a.m. in efforts to woo obsessed shoppers just like Amelia.  But at Ye Olde Pet Shoppe what should have been a touch exotic as 3:37 a.m. sprees go almost turned deadly.  The chain store’s “exotic reptile” section was selling “Baby spitting cobras” for an amazing $1.99 each. As Amelia joined the crazed throng of “early birders” she knew she had to have two or three of the venomous little critters, assuming they’d been defanged of course, as pets for her nephews Josh and Andy, both notoriously difficult to buy for. As Amelia nearly “flew” through to the front of the frenzied crowd of typical Black Friday bargain hunters, a glass case accidentally cracked open in the madness and she heard a slight “hsst” and felt excruciating pain in her left eye, the one with its stigmatism.

Rushed to the nearest hospital for obligatory antivenin treatment and eye cleansing, Amelia  was obliged to stay overnight as a precaution, and called Matt Lockard, her friendly California Health Insurance agent at his office in Ventura, just to let him know what had happened at Ye Olde Pet Shoppe.

“Matt. Guess who this is? It’s Amelia. I’m in the hospital,” she said.

He kind of recognized her. “Like the legend?”

“Yes, sort of,” she said, “Guess what happened to me on Black Friday.”

“What?” he asked, remembering the policy he’d sold her just a few months back, covering just about any kind of emergency.

She provided the gory details, about the crowds, the frenzy, the early morning madness, and the baby snakes for her nephews.

“You’re lucky you can still see out of that eye,” Matt opined.

“I can’t at the moment. They gave me a patch. It’s still light-sensitive.”

“Oh,” Matt said, “but you sound so happy.”

“Why shouldn’t I be happy?” explained Amelia, “Ye Olde Pet Shoppe not only gave me the baby cobras for free, they threw in an EXTRA pair. They’re all in my semi-private room with me now in a convenient ‘holiday’ Plexiglas case. Josh and Andy are going to be absolutely thrilled!”

“I hope these have been defanged,” Matt offered.

Amelia squinted, feeling a twinge.

California Health Insurance Agent Matt Lockard was a pleasant voice to Mrs. Yakamora, but by the time they spoke, she’d had a close encounter with some undesirable avians.

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Mrs. Tumera Yakamora, 87, weighed less than ninety pounds, but her Medigap coverage purchased from that bird-loving Matt Lockard was in effect if she ever needed it. Long-widowed, a single passion remained:  Watching the birds that flocked to her Vallecito home.

Her mistake seemed innocent except when considered in retrospect. While stocking certain bird feeders, she began substituting small bits of pork chop instead of the recommended suet. “I think this will be a nice change of pace for my little friends,” Mrs. Yakamora said to no one in particular.  She often engaged in lively banter with no one in particular.

Pork chop in any form is not recommended for bird feeding.

She first saw the vultures, an inquisitive pair that she tolerantly chose to name Judy and Punch, on a Tuesday afternoon. But by Wednesday dozens hovered in the increasingly fetid air. Several perched aggressively in her desert willows. “There’s too many,” Mrs. Yakamora said, before making a second mistake of getting a broom and attempting to shoo them.

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 She became frightened when a cadre of the scavengers, only slightly smaller than condors, began circling very low, hissing, and chasing her about. A particularly vicious one caused her to trip and fall. When she noticed several pieces of decaying pork chop protruding from its beak, she couldn’t suppress a scream.  This sound bred of fear must have provoked the creature still further. Only barely did she manage to pick herself up and scurry back into her kitchen.  Mrs. Yakamora couldn’t help wondering if she’d been vulture-nipped as she reflectively sipped a cup of her favorite jasmine. She chose that moment to call Matt Lockard at his office far away in Ventura.  “Matt,” she managed, “it’s Tumera Yakamora.”

He had no idea what had been happening on the other end of the phone line when he said, “How’s the birding going? See any odd species lately?”

She began sobbing before she mentioned Judy or Punch.

“I saw a blue jay in my yard yesterday,” he said, “first one in a while.”

“Matt stop!” she shrieked, “I got vultures!”

“That’s okay,” he said without missing a beat, “You still have Medigap.”

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Jack DeVries was an expert at making gates for fences, but erecting entire fences was beyond the scope of his expertise. For reasons peculiar, he felt the same way about health insurance, and California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard had a solution.

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They were everywhere. Dotting the grasslands of California were vestigial gates, the beginnings of fences, thousands of such ethereal structures acting as portals to emptiness.  These creations were made by one Jack DeVries, an artist hailing from Modesto. One day the quasi-celebrity strolled in to California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard’s office. “I was expecting you,” Matt said.

“I’ve heard of you,” DeVries said.

“And I of you,” countered perhaps the most celebrated California Health Insurance agent in all of Ventura.

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The obvious question hung in the air. Why does DeVries do it? Leave so much to the imagination, unfenced, leave gates constructed that anyone could walk around in a few steps, and well, just enter.

The answers began pouring out of Jack DeVries’s gob, a trickle of words that grew into a torrent. DeVries spoke of a fixation, a fetish if you will, and perfection spent entirely with every detail tended to: To Jack DeVries, the Devil was indeed in the details, trapped in the gate. The artist’s only stipulation was that his gates be wooden.

It was then that Matt Lockard learned that the maker of stranded gates felt similarly about insurance. “I need a plan that is like my lovely gates,” the artist voiced in an odd creaking tenor that reminded Matt of a gate opening wide enough to let a health insurance salesman in.

Matt knew instantly what the man desired in his heart of hearts. “Oh, you must want a PPO Plan,” he said simply, a bit like Yoda in that movie.

Jack DeVries smiled a gate-like grin, and this time when he pursed his lips they made a creaking sound.

Matt Lockard had known immediately that a PPO bore a certain similitude to the gates. Although without accompanying fences, these unfinished structures were precisely perfect in every nuance, just as a PPO tailored to Jack DeVries would feature the masterpieces of physicians specializing in every aspect of a certain artist’s personal healthcare.

“That’s exactly what I need,” Jack DeVries croaked again, “How did you know?”

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