Irwin Steeve was known for “catching critters” – the deadliest and most poisonous found in California. He used a grabstick to capture rattlers, a gloved hand to garner black widows, and his bare tongue to entice the feared California purple glow worm, visible only in the glow of an expensive $5 purple beam flashlight – out of its secluded burrow. He knew that he couldn’t keep on tempting fate forever, one of these days a California-indigenous critter would rear up and he’d end up like that Australian, what was his name?   

But Irwin had a son. He’d watched his son Irwin Jr. grow up — a day at a time. Except most of the time, the phenomenon known as Irwin Steeve was never home, and so Junior, as he was called, grew up pretty much alone, except for his own beloved critters and also his mother. He preferred his pets, a circus of fleas that the boy was training for the big time. Junior had named most of them, all but the most talented one, and the tiny fleas practiced death-defying stunts under the boy’s paternal-like supervision, until finally … Irwin Steeve’s kid was a junior in high school, sweet sixteen. 

Irwin the critter catcher began thinking about his only child anew, what about college, he pondered, and what if God forbid, something were to happen to me? So he visited a California Health Insurance agent one fine sunny day, and bought a policy, available via ING Financial Services, money back term life insurance, like a one-way ticket to financial security for the boy and his fleas, and for the first time in many a year, Irwin Steve the original knew, if not bliss due to looking a glow worm in the eye, then a certain peace of mind just in case of the unthinkable.

A few months afterwards, the unthinkable was brought to bear by the God who plans such things, or if you’re an atheist, by a certain Mr. Fate, that peculiar name which Junior had bestowed upon the most talented flea, the star of his miniature circus, an aerialist extraordinaire able to leap tall toys in a single bound, and in any case, Irwin was attacked by an enraged harbor seal, bitten on his posterior, the wound became infected, and the rest is Golden State history.

As for Junior, he went to college on his ING money back term life insurance, with an assist from a California Health Insurance agent, and his late father, dead, just like the Australian, what was his name? Junior majored in animal husbandry, minored in the flea business, and as for Mr. Fate – he’s still talked about.

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Silas Behrens was still working full-time at 96. But he wanted to find a way to provide for his great-great grandsons Pete and Troy, ages 13 and 16 respectively, who now lived with him. Their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents had passed on, but their great-great grandfather Silas was like the Energizer Bunny. He kept going, and going. The perceptive teens and the man they deceptively called “Grampy Gramps” were having a conversation around the kitchen table. Grampy Gramps seemed no different than he’d ever been, but other kids at school had placed doubt in Pete’s heart, as well as in Troy’s, about their relative’s long-term future.

Pete was speaking through his anxiety which had so far been unwarranted. “Grampy gramps, it’s just that you’re older than most of the other parents of kids at our school,” he said in his still pre-pubertal voice, “What if something happens and you get laid off, and can’t find another job?”

Troy, already through puberty as was his Grampy Gramps, put it more succinctly, “What if you d-die?” The idea wasn’t so farfetched, especially in their family, which had been one of the Grim Reaper’s favored destinations.

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Silas tried to nip such fears in the bud. “I won’t get laid off. I’ve been at Brown Sod for seventy-five years, and the boss recently reassured me about that, my dear great-great grandson. Besides, I’m still fit as ever. Even if this economy were to put me out of a job, experienced diddlers don’t grow on trees.” Neither teen was quite sure about what their Grampy Gramps actually did at work, but he played tackle football with them out in the field by the Escondido creek and could still outrun them both – as well as most of their friends.

“What if you have a heart attack and d-die?” Troy repeated, tears in his eyes.

“Okay, I’ll go see that nice young man Matt Lockard at his insurance agency. My health insurance and the kid plans for you guys we bought from him. I’ll see about some term life.” His great-great-grandsons smiled, as both liked Mr. Lockard. Their “Grampy Gramps” always knew what to do.

To make this story shorter, Matt proved as resourceful as Silas Behrens. He took his teens with him to Matt’s office, after the long drive in the immaculate Rambler wagon. After a half-hour meeting, Mr. Lockard had improvised a plan that would re-assure Pete and Troy until they were well into adulthood, until their beloved Grampy Gramps’s turned 118.

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Andy’s parents, Don and Jane, were a little opportunistic, some might say exploitive. Andy was diagnosed with progeria at three, and by the time he was four, the condition was in full swing. The little boy only three feet tall looked around seventy-eight. He was cute as most toddlers go, but not in the traditional sense. His little wispy growth of hair was beyond gray, more a fading white, like old man snow. It was a little like that Brad Pitt movie. Wrinkles lined his face like detour lines, directing the traffic of his experience in the wrong direction. But his curse was not the rare, incurable disease, but was instead Andy’s parents. They not only failed to love their son, they weren’t above exploiting him for personal gain, if they could find an angle.

Don had once been a carnival barker traveling state to state. “It’s too bad this wasn’t forty years ago,” he told Jane, “We could have sold Andy to a freak show.” Andy was out of earshot reading a Bugs Bunny book up in his room when this particularly callous remark was uttered. The boy was perceptive well beyond his years and already learned to read more than cartoonish rabbit stories. Did he know the history of P.T. Barnum? It was within the realm of possibility.

Jane voiced her own cruel suggestion in a whisper, out of consideration for her son, she said. “We could go on Oprah,” she said, “and maybe cash in.”

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Finally they learned about term life insurance policies, and how some California insurance agents sold it. They picked the California insurance agent straight out of a brand new phone book, Pacific Bell ding-ring-a-ling. The next day they were in the agent’s door, little Andy in tow. He was quite inured to being paraded in front of strangers. For him it was normal. He knew that his parents didn’t love him. Kids can sense such things. He was a quiet child though, and extremely polite.

At first the agent was polite, not realizing the parents’ intentions. “How can I help you?” he asked, naïve to this particular nuance of greed. His Thousand Oaks office brought in a motley crew of potential customers, though few of this ilk. The California insurance agent sized up the couple quickly, but the child, why was he so old? He vaguely guessed the illness he had; feeling a wave of compassion, but the name … it didn’t come to mind. The little boy smiled, melting the agent’s heart.

“We want a term life insurance policy, on our son,” Don said nonchalantly, as if he were merely sneezing. It was at that moment when the agent understood the enormity of it all.

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“Get out,” he said, “of my office.” He felt like calling a social worker, or maybe a cop. But the boy emphasized with the agent, the marvelous little boy. “Don’t worry, sir,” he said in his little pipsqueak voice, “I’m like that movie.”

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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