This is part 5 in a series about my time working for the Combined Insurance Company. If you want to catch up, please check out Part 1: PMA Day, Part 2: Johnny B, Part 3: Ross, and Part 4: The Preacher.

Johnny B hated his wife.

Ross hated pretty much anything that wasn’t beer.

I hated my job.

For a company that promoted Positive Mental Attitude, there sure was a lot of hate just within our own branch.

I don’t think, however, any amount of hate was greater than that which was expressed by Misfits Guy.

I feel bad because I don’t remember the kid’s name, but he was in a really tough spot.

Misfits guy came on after me, during my third and final month with the company. He and his girlfriend lived in his dad’s basement, a living arrangement that wasn’t preferable for any of the parties involved.

His dad was a preacher (though not the one I talked about in an earlier post) and his girlfriend was pregnant.

Seemingly unable to get out from under his father’s thumb, Misfits guy was in a conundrum. 

At nineteen or twenty, he was having to pay for a wedding, prepare for a baby, and somehow save up for an apartment all at once.

He was starting from zero.

The old man would let them stay in the basement until they got on their feet — but “living in sin” wasn’t something he could tolerate for long. New living arrangements needed to be made ASAP.

Misfits guy didn’t love his baby’s mother and he loved his own father even less.

What he didn’t hate was the Misfits, and that’s what we bonded over, driving around trying in vain to make a few bucks in the insurance game.

I had my portable CD player connected to a cassette adapter in my old CRV and we’d blast the Misits at top volume.

I’ll never forget the day “Where Eagles Dare” came on and he sang every word through gritted teeth.

Of course, he was the son of a preacher, so his version was slightly edited:

I ain’t no god-dang son of a bitch, you better think about it, baby!

I ain’t no god-dang son of a bitch, you better think about it, baby!

He sang with such ferocity, I feared his teeth were going to shatter and his guts might explode. And while I thought it was hilarious to be that angry, yet still avoid certain curse words, I let him have it. 

PG-rated though it may have been, he needed that moment and I was happy to give it to him.

His baby would be 17 now. That’s not weird at all to think about. Gonna go ahead and not think about it, then.

More tomorrow.

-jtf

This is post 10 of 30 in my most recent attempt at tackling NaBloPoMo. Funsies and such.