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Geronimo Jones believed that he’d been abducted by aliens, but his delusions didn’t end there. He went so far as to call a California Health Insurance agent to see if he’d be charged for their “very thorough” probes.

Thirty-four year old Geronimo Jones, hypochondriac and confirmed cheapskate, was lying in bed painfully pondering. He’d been plagued by headaches and this one was a “doozy.” Tylenol hadn’t helped. Geronimo’s split-level ranch in Modesto recently had an alarm installed; he’d gotten a deal. Drifting off to an anguished sleep, Geronimo possibly awakened; he wasn’t sure, instead of a clanging alarm he heard only silence, and was taken, by what appeared to be silver-throated aliens, at least several – one wearing a funny extraterrestrial baker’s hat. Up to the mother ship he possibly went, he wasn’t sure exactly how, it didn’t involve diesel. He lay naked on a metallic table unable to move anything but his pinkies, staring at what appeared to be a photograph of a cat; it probably had fur.

The probing began. One alien seemed to have a medical background, and was evidently very thorough.  It felt very good; whatever he was doing. But a weird voice oozing out of an orifice that might have been the creature’s mouth suddenly blasted Geronimo out of his reverie like a Buck Rogers laser beam.  “Do you have Earthling coverage?”

The next morning, Geronimo Jones for the first time in a year didn’t have a headache but was having a panic attack. “Are those aliens crazy? I didn’t ask to be admitted to their mother ship. Are they going to charge me for treatment?”

Geronimo charged. Impulsively, he put in a frantic call to his California Health Insurance agent. Ring. Ring. Pick up, pick up. “Yes,” said the agent, a woman with a pleasant feline voice, akin to a human purr.   

“This is Mr. Jones.”

“Geronimo from Modesto?”

“Yes. It happened last night.”

“What?”

“I was abducted by aliens.”

“Again?”

“This time they want to charge me for the medical care. Can they do that?”

The cat-like agent was quick on her feet. She pounced. “Yes, if they call me, they actually can. But they’ll have to call me.”

Geronimo felt calm again. Thinking it over, he felt like he’d made out like a bandit. More importantly, he didn’t have a headache.

The Blue Card System allows Blue Cross and Blue Shield policy holders to travel and still be covered “in-network” while traveling out-side their home state.

RV Sightseeing Trip Jeopardized By Avoidable

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Pete Klodhoppian and his wife Esmeralda’s close encounter of the worst kind only ends with a Blue Card System reprieve.

Peter C. “Pete” Klodhoppian and his beloved wife of 63 years, Esmeralda, had always dreamed of using their recreational vehicle, which they considered a spacious fourteen-footer, for a sightseeing trip through the American West. “Maybe we’ll get all the way to California,” Esmeralda told Pete one day when their dream still seemed unattainable.

It was unattainable, mainly because Esmeralda had never driven a vehicle, and Pete’s license had been suspended for twelve years, when he’d been caught with an open case of Nyquil in their Buick Electra, and been charged with a DUI as he put it, “just like a school kid.” Being a confirmed procrastinator, he’d missed numerous court dates when it had happened, and fearing the “red tape” that retired persons surely must face in order to reinstate driver’s licenses, he’d “never gotten around to it.”

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But one day he did and off they went. One thing Pete suddenly noticed about Esmeralda was her curiosity. Every place they stopped along the way, she would get out and stretch her legs, and peek under every rock within reach. These obsessive Esmeraldan activities were engaged in without incident until they reached Arizona’s Painted Desert. While lifting a two-pound rock, she’d begun poking around when Pete heard a scream. Is that a bobcat? Pete mused, his natural tendency to procrastinate kicking in. Nope. Lumbering over to where his wife was standing behind their RV, he saw in the glare of his flashlight a blotchy lizard holding on to her outstretched hand, his wife’s face contorted in pain.

“It won’t let go,” she yelled again, in a surprisingly hostile manner.

“I can see that,” he said, “Looks like you caught yourself a Gila monster.” Fortunately, Pete had a cell phone. He did procrastinate, but eventually called the BlueCard Worldwide Service Center, attempting to find the nearest hospital.

“Good thing we’re BlueCard members,” he told her later in the hospital, drooling as he kissed her grossly swollen left hand and forearm.

“Stop it you old fool,” she said, still grimacing.

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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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