This is the final part 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, Part 4: The Preacher, Part 5: Misfits Guy, Part 6: ICP Guy, Part 7: Diabetes Guy, Part 8: Pizza Delivery Guy, Part 9: Cocaine Guy, and Part 10: The Worst Day Ever.

At the time of this writing, I am nearing ever-so-closely to my 14th year in the company for which I currently work, which seems weird to be so long but also not quite long enough. I’ve been involved with the entertainment industry in some form for the last 18 years, and as frustrating as it can be at times, it’s never been full-on weird.

My job before starting this 14-years-and-counting ride was with a fertility clinic that I not-so-lovingly refer to as the Baby Farm.

That job was weird.

My two days working at Target before that were weird, too.

My time with the Combined Insurance Company, however, will not only go down as one of the weirdest jobs I’ve ever had but also one of the weirdest times in my life. I held that job for three months (four if you count training) in the winter of 2008/2009. At the time, I was an angry artist whose blood ran blazing hot with acidic vitriol for corporate America and small-town government. 

To add to the stress, I was convinced I’d never find another job in my industry but was desperate for work. It was my first time living away from home and I was getting a taste for just how expensive and demanding an independent life could be.

**Side note to say that’s hilarious to be writing this in Tr*mp’s America, 2025, remembering how I thought 2008 was expensive.**

I got my job at Combined thinking that instead of tirelessly trying to find more jobs in the entertainment industry – since there weren’t any in that area – I would be better off veering from my desired path drastically. I chose insurance because I thought it was a sure bet, an industry that will never die in this country.

Sure, I felt like I had been in a cult for four months (though never fully indoctrinated), and I struggled to sleep some nights knowing that I had sold a worthless supplemental insurance policy to someone who couldn’t afford it. My twice-daily fast food routine had left me terribly overweight and sometimes in pain as a result, and I was putting thousands of unnecessary miles on my vehicle.

I had to share a room with an Infidelitous coke head and had to show loyalty to a man who openly talked about wanting his wife to pass away. My colleagues – including Ross, Misfits Guy, and maybe even the Preacher – had all found themselves working for this company because, like me, they felt as though they had nowhere else to go, no more value to provide to the world.

I had been a server at O’Charley’s all through college, and I’ve always thought restaurant work was also a satisfactory backup plan if I needed cash between jobs. I was good at it and liked it. Still, when I was job hunting at the time, I was hesitant to consider it since I’d recklessly made such a big deal about finally getting out of that world when I finally quit. I couldn’t go back to waiting tables – that would be humiliating, right? 

Then I remembered the words of my friend PDG – never be embarrassed about what you do.

He was right. I knew I could make money waiting tables and there’s nothing wrong with that line of work. It would be way more physical, which my body would appreciate, and I would have way more control over how much money I could bring home. 

That was it, my mind was made up.

After a month of sales training, a month of riding with John B, a month of riding with Ross and a month being in the field alone, I hung it up. That fateful day in late February, I waited until after the morning meeting was over, then retrieved my box of policies from my car and marched them back up the stairs to the room where I first met John. I sat them on the table and took one last look around before leaving that office, that job, and that industry, forever.

Two weeks later, I was interviewing at my local Sagebrush restaurant with assistant manager Sarah. I’d work here for the rest of my time in Morganton – about six months.

As the interview concluded, Sarah noticed I had a college degree and asked, “If I hire you, how do I know you’re not going to find a better job one day and just leave us?”

My response was simple:

“You don’t.”

-jtf

This is post 16 of 30 in my most recent attempt at tackling NaBloPoMo. Funsies and such.