The phone rings twice before I finally decide to answer. One hand on the receiver and the other circling red lines around names in the obituary column of today's paper, I systematically say "Thank you for calling C&P Insurance. My name is Carla, how may I be of assistance?"

I start all of my phone calls off with this line. It's company policy to introduce yourself in the most welcoming manner possible. No slang, no abbreviations, no strange pronunciations, these people have been traumatized.

On the other end of the phone I hear sobbing and slurring. "We were in a car accident, I need to report a car accident."

It's safe to assume that 99% of the people calling in today or tomorrow or any other day have all been in car accidents. If it's a small fender bender, I'll have someone screaming at me on the phone like it was my fault. "Rotten fucking kids. How many times do I have to tell them not to take my fucking car?!" A Mr. John Yohanson yelled through the receiver.
"I don't know sir, but can you tell me your policy number first before I answer that?"

Most days though I'll hear calls from people in tragic situations, the kind where someone somewhere was hurt or even killed. These people either cry or laugh away the fact that they have to report the death of their teen son or daughter to some insurance agency, or even some part-time college student. I tap my red pen against the desk and ask the sobbing woman for her policy number. She rattles off the numbers, and just for kicks I ask her to repeat it.

"Ok Mrs. Caples, was the vehicle totaled in the accident?" I asked, clicking my red pen and writing down the last name on the top of my obituary page.

"Yes." she says quietly. "He's a good guy, you know. We were just married."

She's talking about her husband in the present tense, like he's still alive sitting next to her, helping her report his own death claim or maybe even circling out places in the paper where they could get something to eat.

"I'm sure he was, Mrs. Caples." I say, trying to avoid hearing her tell me anymore about how wonderful and exciting their first date was, or how one time he surprised her with a candle lit dinner.

"Do you like poetry?" She asks me.

"No."

"Why not? Poetry is food for the soul, you know."

"I don't have a soul, Mrs. Caples."

People like me are trained not to care. That's not to say that I didn't care in the beginning. I would listen, and when I say I'd listen, I really listened. They'd call crying and I'd cry with them. They'd tell me about how their daughter's car hydroplaned into a tree, and how she was nearly split in half, and somehow I'd feel that tree wrenching its way through my guts too.

I'd drive home late at night, bitter and torn in half. Sometimes just driving to get the ghosts out of my head.
I'm glancing down at the newspaper. Sarah Kennedy, 20 years old, killed when her car slid into a busy intersection during some drenching storm. I handled her claim yesterday. Ironically, the weatherman on channel 6 referred to it as the "Killer Storm", I guess he didn't know how right he was. I circled the name, and wrote down the time and date of the funeral.

"I could read you some poetry if you'd like." Mrs Caples is still talking on the phone, trying to convince me that if I heard just one poem, I'd change my mind.

"Mrs. Caples, really. I was kidding, I love poetry, but I'm a busy woman."

"Just one line then." she pleaded "It's mine and Joe's favorite."

I slump back into my seat. "Ok Mrs. Caples. Ok."

'I'll love you, dear,'� she spoke softly, whispering the lines from her favorite Auden poem, probably sitting clenching the book in her hands. I bet Joe gave it to her.

'I'll love you till China and Africa meet and the river jumps over the mountain and the salmon sing in the street.'�

I'm staring at the obituaries, scanning the names over and over again. A Mr. Joseph Caples, 31 years old, died when a tractor trailer slide off the road and collided with his car. I circled the name, and wrote down the time and date of the funeral.

'It's a lovely poem, isn't it?'�

'It was beautiful,'� I say, pounding my fist against my head.

'I have to let you go now, I'm sorry for your loss and rest assure that everything will be taken care of.'�

I say goodbye to Mrs. Caples and hang up the phone.

Tapping my red pen against the desk, I'm staring off into space, thinking about all of the chaotic shit this world has to offer.

'Busy day Carla?'� I hear my boss's voice coming from up above, raining down on me like some rain cloud spewing shit.

'Sort of.'�

'That's the business,'� he said. 'You never know what some people will get themselves into these days.'�

He starts to walk away in his dark blue suit and matching blue green tie and I yell back at him, 'Hey Joe! I think I'm going to need Friday off.'�

'What for?'� He says leaning back over the cheap walls surrounding my desk.


'I've got this funeral to go to.'�

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