THE POLICY Page 2

  “This place is cool,” Hunt said admiringly.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Remember our clubhouse? Roland stole that stop sign from the highway, and we had that old mirror we found in the garbage that we hung up next to that Mötley Crüe poster Mike’s brother gave us? This”—he gestured around the room—“is what we were going for.”

  “You’re right. We would’ve loved this. Especially the sign.” Joel laughed. “I have the aesthetic taste of an eight-year-old.”

  “No, you’ve made it. And you didn’t sell out. You are, after all is said and done—”

  “The Man!” they shouted in unison.

  Joel clapped a hand on Hunt’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “I didn’t know it, but I missed you.”

  “Me, too.”

  They walked back out to the living room.

  “So,” Hunt asked, “do you stay in contact with… anyone?”

  Joel shook his head. “No. I get a Christmas card from Jordan each year, and I send him one back, but that’s about the extent of it.” He looked embarrassed. “I don’t know why. I’ve never even thought about it before, and there’s no excuse for it, but… it happened.”

  “Say no more, say no more,” Hunt said, falling into his best Monty Python rhythm.

  “Are you planning to reunite the old gang?”

  “Not really. I called around and most of them are gone, scattered to the wind. Victor’s parents don’t even know where he is.”

  Joel frowned. “Victor?”

  “Oh, that’s right, he was a high school friend. High school and college. I don’t think you ever met him.”

  Joel put on some music, brought out some beers, and they sat around for the next hour, laughingly talking about old times.

  When Hunt looked at his watch, it was after eight. He made a move to get up.

  “You don’t have to leave, do you?” Joel asked.

  “Well…”

  “Come on, stay awhile.”

  “My motel’s on the other side of town, and I wanted to get an early start. It’s a long trip back to Seal Beach.”

  “I didn’t realize you were going back tomorrow.”

  He thought for a second, settled back in his seat. “What the hell. I’m not.”

  “Good, good. Stacy and Lilly should be back soon. I want you to meet them.”

  Hunt saw framed photographs of the family on top of a stereo cabinet. “Is that them?”

  “Yeah.”

  He got up to investigate and saw a picture of Joel and a pretty young girl standing in front of the Matterhorn at Disneyland, another picture of the girl with her smiling mother at the Grand Canyon, and a photo of all three posing by the giraffe pen at the zoo. Something about the woman looked familiar, and Hunt studied her face for a moment before an identity suggested itself to him.

  He turned toward Joel, incredulous. “You married Stacy Williams?”

  His friend grinned. “Yeah.”

  “Whoa.”

  “I tell myself that every day.”

  Stacy had been both smart and gorgeous, the valedictorian of their junior high and high school, head cheerleader, and—impossibly and simultaneously—editor of the school paper; one of those girls so far out of their league that she didn’t even know they existed. And Joel married her?

  Hunt asked the only logical question. “How did this happen?”

  “We both went to U of A, and we met again in sociology class. Or, rather, she met me for the first time. Of course, I knew exactly who she was. That’s why I sat down next to her. And when I casually let slip that I’d attended John Adams, too, it was like old home week. She was feeling alone and overwhelmed, and was grateful for someone familiar to talk to. Well, not exactly familiar, but someone who had the same background. We hit it off, and we even started studying together and had coffee after class a few times. I didn’t think anything would come of it. I didn’t think I had a chance because… well, because she was Stacy Williams.

  “Then, at the last class, she gave me a Christmas card. Inside, she’d written a message thanking me for being someone she could talk to, for helping her through a hard semester, and at the bottom she’d put her phone number. I hadn’t gotten her anything—it hadn’t even crossed my mind—and on the spur of the moment I asked her out to dinner. Out of guilt. I thought of it as a Christmas present, not a date… but it was a date. And after that we started going out steadily, and”—he grinned—“after graduation I married her.”

  At that moment the front door opened, and Joel’s wife and daughter bustled into the foyer, talking, laughing, noisily setting plastic bags atop the seat of the hall tree. Stacy looked, if possible, even more beautiful than she had in the photographs—more beautiful than she had in high school—and there was about her the no-nonsense practicality of a mother, which only added to her charm.

  “You must be Hunt,” she said, reaching around Lilly to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you. Joel said you’d called and were coming over. You went to John Adams too, huh?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. And Bodie Junior High and Peppertree Elementary.”

  “Me, too!” Pushing her daughter in front of her, Stacy headed toward the stairs. “I’m sorry to rush like this, but the meeting ran late, and it’s past Lilly’s bedtime. School night,” she explained. “Just let me put her to bed and I’ll be right down. Say good night, Lilly.”

  “Good night,” the girl said cheerfully.

  “Good night,” Hunt told her.

  The two of them hurried up the steps.

  Hunt shook his head. “Stacy Williams.”

  “Stacy McCain now.”

  “You are one lucky bastard, you know that?”

  “Yes, I do. Hey, stay right there, will you? I’m going upstairs and say good night to Lilly. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.”

  Joel started up the steps.

  “Your wife doesn’t happen to have any single friends, does she?”

  Joel turned around, grinning. “She might,” he said. “She just might.”

  2

  After calling around, Hunt discovered that the cheapest way to transport his belongings back from California was not to rent a U-Haul or Ryder truck but to get one from a local agency called Eezee Rent, which undercut its lowest competitor by ten bucks and offered fifty free miles besides. He left his car in the driveway of his new home, had Joel take him to the rental place, and from there he took off, heading back to California on what he hoped would be a two-day trip.

  He arrived shortly after dark and spent the evening packing. Most of the books and records he’d boxed before driving out to Arizona, but a lot of kitchen utensils and food and clothes and miscellaneous items still needed to be crated up, and it was after midnight before he finally crashed.

  He awoke to the alarm at six in the morning, and finished boxing some last-minute items before going out for a quick breakfast of donuts and coffee. It was a Saturday, so most people were home, and as he’d hoped, the two of his neighbors with whom he was closest, Bill Curtis and David Vigil, saw him carrying boxes and offered to help him load the truck. He bought both men lunch as payment, and by midafternoon, the truck was packed and the apartment cleaned. After all that heavy lifting, he was too tired to make the nine-hour trip back to Tucson, so he drove down to Ocean Avenue and walked the Seal Beach pier one last time. Since the separation, he’d taken to strolling the pier, watching the fishermen, watching the waves, watching the seagulls, watching the babes. He found that it relaxed him. And as he walked against the offshore breeze toward Ruby’s restaurant at the pier’s end, he realized he was going to miss this.

  He spent the night in a sleeping bag on the floor of his old apartment. In the morning, he left early, hitting the road before it was light. He made it back to Tucson just after one, and the first thing he noticed when he pulled the truck into the driveway was that his car had a cracked rear windshield.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.
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br />   He got out of the cab and automatically glanced toward the plywood shack next door. There was no one about, only an angry skinny dog tethered by frayed rope to a metal stake. If he had to guess, the ball or rock or whatever broke his window probably came from there. He walked up to the back of the car to examine the glass. He’d expected to see dirt or rock chips, a pulverized area at the point of impact. But there was nothing—no indication that the crack was anything other than a natural occurrence.

  “Goddamn it.”

  He called Joel, who helped him unload and arrange the furniture and took him back to the rental place. The next morning, he phoned his insurance company. The details of his policy were buried somewhere in one of the boxes still in the center of the living room, but he had a proof-of-insurance card in his wallet, and he took it out and dialed the number.

  After one quick ring, a recording informed him that he had accessed the automated phone system of United Automobile Insurance.

  United Automobile Insurance? He had Statewide Insurance.

  Hunt frowned, hung up, and dialed again, but got the same recorded greeting. He stayed on the line this time and listened to a list of six options before the recording stated, “To speak with the next available representative, please press zero or stay on the line.”

  He pressed zero.

  “Please wait,” the bland recorded voice of a woman instructed him. “A customer service representative will be with you shortly. Please have your name, policy number, and vehicle make and model. Your call may be monitored to ensure better service to our customers.”

  Muzak came on, and he waited for one minute, two minutes, five, six, seven. He was about to hang up and dial again when the Muzak stopped and a man said, “United Automobile Insurance. How may I help you?”

  “Hello. I, uh… I don’t have United Automobile Insurance,” Hunt said hesitantly. “I have Statewide Insurance. But when I called the number on my card, I got your company.”

  “We recently acquired SI. You should have already received a notice in the mail.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Well, we’re now administering all former Statewide policies. Now how may I help you?”

  “I have a cracked rear windshield on my—”

  “Policy number?”

  Hunt looked down at his card, read off the number.

  There was a short pause. “You’re Hunt Jackson? And the vehicle in question would be a Saab?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you live at 114 Tenth Street, apartment B, Seal Beach?”

  “Actually, no. I just moved to Tucson, Arizona. Yesterday, to be exact. I haven’t had a chance to change my address yet.”

  “Where did the accident occur, sir?”

  “I’m not sure I’d call it an accident.”

  “Well, where did the incident occur that resulted in the cracking of your rear windshield?”

  “Tucson. In the driveway of my home.” He realized that he didn’t know the address. “Hold on a sec.” He ran over to the kitchen counter, where he’d placed a copy of the rental agreement. He picked up the phone again. “That’s 2112 Jackrabbit Lane.”

  “And how did it happen?”

  “I don’t know. I parked my car in the driveway and rented a truck to move my furniture from California. I was gone for two days, and when I returned the window was cracked.”

  “When did this occur?”

  “Sometime in the past two days.”

  “I need a time.”

  “I don’t know a time.”

  “I can accept an approximation.”

  Hunt was starting to become annoyed. “Look, can you just tell me what my deductible is? If I can find someone to replace it for less than that—”

  “I need the time of the incident.”

  “I told you. I was gone for two days, and when I came back the window was broken. It happened sometime in that two-day period.”

  “I have to put down something.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You can put down whatever.”

  “Half past a monkey’s ass, a quarter to his balls.”

  Hunt blinked. “What?”

  “That’s what I’m entering for the time.”

  “You can’t—”

  “These fields must be filled in, and since you’re being uncooperative, I’m forced to use my own discretion and fill them in for myself. Now do you have an approximate time for me?”

  “I told you—”

  Hunt heard the clicking sound of keys being typed in the background. “Half past a monkey’s ass, a quarter to his balls.” This time the representative said the words in an exaggerated sing-songy Southern accent, stretching out the word “balls,” to two syllables: ba-wuls.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Hunt demanded. “I want to talk to your supervisor.”

  “Just a minute.”

  There was a click, and the line went dead.

  What the—? The asshole had hung up on him! Hunt immediately dialed the number again. This time, after the prerecorded message and a five-minute wait, a female representative came on the line. She was courteous, efficient, and had no explanation for the bizarre previous call. Hunt gave the woman—Kara, she said, with a K—the pertinent information about his rear windshield, which she took down. She told him she did not need a precise time for the accident and that an adjuster would be out sometime this morning to assess the damage. She then took down his new address and phone number, asked him to send the company a photocopy of his Arizona registration once it had been transferred, and told him that a new policy reflecting his changed address would be issued and sent out within the next week.

  “May I make a suggestion?” Kara said.

  “Sure. What?”

  “You should think about obtaining renter’s insurance. According to the statistics in front of me, you’re located in, not exactly a high crime area, but an area that is above average in the amount of reported vandalism.”

  “Aren’t you a car insurance company?”

  “We don’t sell renter’s insurance,” she admitted. “But we are affiliated with All Homes Insurance, and they offer what is probably the most comprehensive coverage on the market. They don’t redline, so you’ll be assured of receiving a fair and reasonable price quote. I could transfer you if you’d like.”

  “Not right now.”

  “Well then, may I suggest that when you do buy renter’s insurance, you sign up for the maximum limits. You’re going to need it.”

  You’re going to need it?

  For some reason, that sounded like a threat.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Kara asked.

  “What about that first guy who answered the phone? Are you going to tell your supervisor? He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with behavior like that.”

  “What was his name again?”

  “He didn’t give his name.”

  “All phone representatives are required to state their names.”

  “Obviously that guy doesn’t follow company procedures.”

  “Are you sure he was a real phone representative for United?”

  “I called this same number and went through your automated system before I got to him. And he had access to my policy information. So, yeah, I would say so.”

  “Well, all I can say is, I’m sorry, and rest assured we will be investigating this incident.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hunt said good-bye and hung up.

  Weird, he thought. Weird.

  3

  Hunt spent two weeks in a fruitless job search: reading classified ads, sending out resumes and haunting the unemployment office (or the Department of Economic Security, as it was euphemistically called). He filled out applications at every company and corporation, every hospital and school, every city, county, state, and federal office he could find. Most places were laying off, not hiring, and in this PC-based world, there did not seem to be much call for mainframe operators like himself. His severan
ce pay was almost gone, and while the interstate paperwork had finally been sorted out and he was once again collecting unemployment, it was barely enough to pay for his rent. He needed a quick infusion of cash, but he could think of no solution other than to become a Kelly girl and get a temp job, or apply at a fast-food joint for a minimum-wage position flipping burgers.

  As luck would have it, he was scanning the “Employment Opportunities” in the classifieds when Reed Abrams, personnel manager for the county, called to offer him a job. Only it wasn’t the computer operations position for which he had applied, but tree-trimming work in the maintenance services department.

  “When you filled out your initial application, you checked the ‘Other’ box as well,” the manager explained. “Which means that you asked to be considered for any open positions. So even though you’re vastly overqualified, there’s an opening on the landscape maintenance crew. It’s an entry-level position with no prior experience necessary. While this might not seem like a job for someone with your background and qualifications, just let me point out that once you’re working for the county, it’s easier to effect a lateral transfer to another department or even a promotion once new positions become available. We’re not looking for anyone in Computer Operations just now, but when we do, we’ll look in-house before we advertise, and you’ll be in prime position.”

  Hunt asked a few perfunctory questions, playing hard to get, but he’d already made the decision to take it. What choice did he have? It was either that or McDonald’s.