Albert and the Afterlife Insurance Agent

Life insurance in an alternate Earth universe.

Albert blinked. The sun shone. Palm trees waves. Cars rolled around the shallow crater in 33rd street, honking. A mustached man in a hawaiian shirt waited patiently. When he caught Albert’s attention, he smiled.

“Hello.”

Albert nodded. It seemed the thing to do. “Hello,” he said. Warm wind tousled his hair. An ambulance parked neaby, hogging the middle of the narrow road. A squadron of white coats loaded a body into the ambulance. The body was covered by a white sheet. The outline struck Albert as strangely familiar.

Hawaiian Shirt followed Albert’s gaze, pursing his lips beneath his furry mustache. He cleared his throat, adjusting his shades.

“Don’t think about it,” he said, clapping Albert on the shoulder. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Think about what?” Albert said, losing his train of thought.

“Er, never mind.” Hawaiian Shirt — his name tag read Sam, Afterlife Agent — plucked a pen from behind his ears, twirled it like a magician, and clicked it. “What’s the last thing you remember, mister, uhh, Smith?” Somewhere distant, sirens blared. Probably a building fire. Those happened a lot around summer, when things got hot and the city’s Weather Machines malfunctioned. Albert’s compnay dealt with the cleanup. He worked in contruction. Just paperwork, but all the same.

Albert frowned. He adusted his tie. His tie? Then he remembered. “Cat!” he swore, checking his watch. “I’m gonna be late for work.” His boss was not going to be happy. She never was, but tardiness made it worse. A stranger brushed past him, coughing up a lung and smelling of cigarette smoke.

Sam the Agent flipped thorugh his clipboard, ignoring Albert’s distress, which somehow made it less pressing. He was official, after all. Official people knew things. Them, and their fancy clipboards.

Albert watched the ambulence roll away, carrying with it the strange body. A small drone flitted through the air, gleaming in the afternoon sun. It circled the crater in the street like a vulture, ignoring the crowds of people walking along the sidewalk.

“You’ll be fine,” the stranger in the Hawaiian shirt announced, looking up from his papers. He frowned at Albert, his mustache bristling as if alive. “It’s your first time. Says so right here,” he said, tapping the clipboard with his magician’s pen.

“First time?” Albert said. “First time what? And do I know you?”

“First time dying. Of course, I know you. We’ve spoken over the phone. I’m your insurance agent, Sam P. Freud.”

Albert stared at the man. He glanced at his nametag. “You’re an insurance agent?” The man’s Hawaiian shirt opened further, exposing a hairy chest.

“Yep,” the man said, completely unbothered by Albert’s skepticism. “Afterlife Agency. Life insurance mostly, but we do health, too.”

Albert struggled to come up with a reason his insurance agent was speaking with him in the middle of the weekday, for no apparent reason at all. Then he processed what the man had said.

“I died?” “Yup.”

Albert scratched an itch on his neck, looking around. A few people eyed him, curious. “When?” A couple chose that moment to blow Sam a kiss, for no apparent reason at all.

“A minute or so ago,” Sam the Agent said, grinning toward the odd couple.

Albert looked at his pristine shoes. “Where? Here?”

“Nah. Right there.” Sam pointed to the divot in the road, one marked off by orange cones. Cars drove around it — mostly. One of the cones had already been nudged by an impatient cab driver.

“I find that hard to believe,” Albert said.

Sam the Agent shrugged. “Then don’t take my word for it. I‘ve got the official documents right here. While you’re at it, sign these.” He shoved the clipboard into Albert’s hands, smelling vaguely of sweat and coconut. “Remember to fill in any blanks, and ignore the top half. That’s for administration.”

“What’s all this?” Albert said, squinting at the cramped font. Words and check boxes squiggled across the page in rivers of black ink. The paper glared wth reflected sunlight. He shaded the paper with his palm, only to discover he was holding a brown leather briefcase.

“Paperwork,” the insurance agent said, ignorning Albert’s confusion in favor of adjusting his cool shades and flexing his biceps. “All standard stuff. Most of it was prefilled when you filed for coverage. This is just to make sure the cloning process is up to standard.” He chuckled, his voice deep. “Don’t want you walking around with SPD, freaking out your parents.”

“SPD?”

“Severe, uh, personality deviation.”

“That sounds bad.”

“Meh,” Sam said, tilting his hairy hand. “It’s usually mild. Like spontaneous cheese cravings, but intense. Or you forget how to pet dogs, or something. It’s only a problem when you lose something important. Like a childhood memory.” He gestured at the clipboard. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

Albert carefully set down his briefcase and took the offered pen, mumbling his thanks. He skimmed the first few questions.

What is your name? What is your birthday? What color is the sun? Do you agree to resume existing under the alias Albert Smith, age 30, son of Robert Smith, assuming his legal rights and responsibilities as determined by FSA and NCA law?

Albert had to admit, it all looked very official. His eyes drifted to his watch. He had a client to meet. Best to get this paper-signing business over with.

Albert jotted down his answers, then handed back the clipboard. He frowned. “How did I die? I don’t remember it.” A woman in heels click-clacked by, bouncing a screaming child and carrying a pink purse.

Sam scowled at the kid, tugging the hem of his shirt. “Kids these days,” he muttered. He licked the top of his pen, flipped through a few pages of check boxes, and began ticking them off one by one. “How’d you die? That would be the explosion.”

“Explosion!”

The insurance agent jerked his thumb at the street. “Some idiot buried a bomb in the intersection. Don’t ask me why. Those MADs are a couple shades short of an outfit, you know? Probably left the damn ticker lying around a contruction site and forgot about it. Luckily, a couple folks caught in the blast radius were covered.” He lowered his shades at Albert. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Albert bristled. “For what?”

“Selling you that policy, of course.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks, I think.”

The insurance agent grinned, sliding his glasses back up his nose bridge. “Anytime, Mister Smith.”

Albert waited for the Afterlife insurance agent to finish looking his papers over, tapping his foot.

Opposite the crater, another muscular man in a Hawaiian shirt spoke with a baffled-looking motorcyclist holding a clipboard. Albert supposed she was other insured person. Albert resisted the sudden urge to call out to her and ask her for her name and phone number. He settled for just watching.

The little robot copter buzzing overhead swooped down. It hovered over a dark spot on the sidewalk. A limb emerged from its underbelly, extending a tiny chrome ray gun. It zapped a bit of sidewalk, charring it black. Then again, and once more. Pedestrians pointed to it, laughing or frowning.

“What’s it doing?” Albert said, his curiosity getting the better of him. “The drone thingy.”

“Hmm?” Sam said. He glanced at Albert, then the drone. “Ah. That’s cleanup. Can’t go leaving DNA lying around for anyone to find it. Otherwise Compliance will throw a fit.” He shook his shaggy head. “Apparently, we’re on the hook if some MAD starts a cloning business with our clients’ genetics.” Sam paused his scribbling. He grimaced. “Probably shouldn’t have told you that. Classified.”

“I won’t tell,” Albert said. For some odd reason, he felt he owed the agent. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but he did. He had sold Albert the policy, probably, so maybe it was that?

Sam looked at Albert, bushy eyebrows raised. The meaty man twirled his pen between thick knuckles, lips pressed in consideration. It was, despite Albert’s impatience, a little intimidating.

The sound of traffic washed over them. Someone honked. A breeze carried with it salt flavor, a brief taste of the Pacific.

“Well, alright,” Sam the Agent said, smoothing his mustache. “You’re good to go.” The insurance agent tucked the clipboard under his armpit, lodging it there. He held out his hand for Albert to shake.

Albert clasped the big man’s hand. They shook.

“We’ll contact you if there are any complications,” Sam said, suddenly all smiles. “Feel free to reach our to our department via phone, email, or digital representative. We don’t take magic sendings, though. Too messy.”

“Okay,” Albert said, suddenly worried he’d signed something he shouldn’t have. But it was too late now to examine the fine print, anyway.

Sam the Agent stuffed the clipboard into his own briefcase. He picked it up and, without looking back, ambled down the street, getting lost in the afternoon shuffle. A thin sea of people flowed, steppoing into cafes and mid-morning diners. A few capes zoomed by overhead, sending trash fluttering across the asphalt to be crushed beneath rubber tires.

Albert watched the drone rise into the air. It zipped off, glinting.

The scent of gravel and scarred sidewalk drifted, mingling with the sharp tang of metal and fresh paint that never quite went away. Albert picked up his briefcase, wiping his sweaty hands on his slacks. He had work, but he hoped his manager would take his death as a valid reason for tardiness.

The motorcyclist seemed to have finished her post-death interview, too. She hopped on a hoverbike and throttled the engine. She sped into traffic, threading cars like a demon possessed. Angry honking ripped outward, spreading proof of her passing.

Albert shook his head. “People will be people.” He checked his watch. “Cat!” Lunch had ended approximately 30 seconds ago. He ignored the mom who scowled at him as she walked past, covering her son’s ears.

Albert hurried toward his office, merging with the crowds. Like everyone else in the megalopolis that was New Los Angeles, he had places to be.