Risk

After Work

Martin loosened his tie and stepped out the door onto the Yonge Street sidewalk, walking north in the late afternoon sunshine, enjoying the breeze, and trying to imagine how good it felt to be George, riding around all day in this beautiful city. He walked up Yonge Street past the Eaton’s Center, where the two sidewalk drummers were putting on a show for the rush hour crowd, and the crazy pamphleteers and religious zealots were shouting about redemption and shaking leaflets or bibles in people’s faces. As he crossed over Dundas, he passed the man with the huge goiter on his neck.

“Eff you be-leaf in Jee-zuss Kuh-riced, you weel not pay-rish in Hal, but have eturr-nal life. Jee-zuss ees the own-lee way to Hay-vun. There ees no other way.”

The guy was there at 5 o’clock every day without fail. Amazing resolve to convert the sinners. And then there was the “True Face of God” guy out front of The Gap, holding up books with a picture of an emaciated space alien on the front cover. As if we don’t have enough problems with the gods we’ve got. Past Sam the Record Man and all the chess boys doing battle on the concrete tables on Gould Street; past College, and all the way up to the used bookstore district near Wellesley. The usual route.

Despite his resolve to leave work at the office, he couldn’t help thinking about the details of that loss on Ultimate Diecasting. Although it was forced on him, he still felt a sense of responsibility for the outcome. It was his file, now. And something wasn’t right about it. Either the loss was suspicious, or what they knew about the risk itself was incomplete. Neither situation was acceptable. As an underwriter, all he could do was investigate the details of the business and its products by ordering an inspection of the premises or by questioning the broker. He had to rely on Jason to investigate the claim.

Sometimes he felt like the Claims Department had a mindset of “just pay” the claims without questioning their legitimacy, because paying claims is what they do. Not that they shouldn’t pay legitimate claims, but there will always be a small percentage of claims presented which are in some way fraudulent or inflated. Or simply not covered. That was where the investigation part came in. They had a duty to all policyholders not to incur costs from baseless claims which would then drive up their costs and make everybody’s rates go up. But he had to leave that duty of care to Jason, the big lummox. What else was he going to do, investigate it himself?

He had to shake off these thoughts of the office world and enjoy his walk. The first stop after work every day was at one of several used bookstores for a paperback novel. Either a detective story or a police procedural, sometimes a western, even less frequently sci-fi. Once in a great long while he would choose a Romance novel of some sort, even though it created a painful longing sensation. Or resulted from a painful longing, who knows. Then over to the Brewer’s Retail near Bloor for a six pack—always domestic because they were cheaper, but sometimes lager, other times ale, depending on his mood. Never a stout, though. He was stout enough.

Then he’d fight his way into the Bloor subway station and ride the Rocket back to the ‘burbs with the other sardines. Off at Finch station, and walk the few blocks to his apartment. Up the elevator to the 9th floor. When he had first looked at the building, he’d made sure to request an apartment on one of the first ten floors. Above that, the balconies were inaccessible to the fire department ladders and you would have to jump into that little circle of tarp. Not this fat bastard, thank you very much. He would put a hole in their tarp and end up in a crater with his lung punctured by his femur.

The construction of the building was fire-resistive: concrete floors, walls, and roof, all with a minimum two-hour fire rating, and a monitored fire-detection system. The little metal noses of the sprinkler system were visible poking through the ceiling every ten feet and Martin found them very comforting. There were two emergency stairs with fire alarm pull-stations, one at each end of the hallway, and both were within the correct minimum distance of every unit described by the code. He had checked. There was a standpipe and hose on every floor, and a smoke detector in every unit. Martin also had his own fire extinguisher.

From his selection of microwaveable frozen dinners, he chose “Salisbury Steak with Potatoes au gratin” and gave it a thorough nuking. He then untied his silk inverted hangman’s noose, and removed his other office attire in favor of his pajamas. After retrieving his dinner, a beer, and his paperback, “Double Dealing at the 87th Precinct”, he settled into his easy chair for the evening.

Three hours later, he turned the last page of his book and somewhat blearily had the last swig of his sixth and final beer. He closed the cover, stood up and stretched. Only 10:30pm. Gathering up the chocolate bar wrappers, putting the book on his shelf, putting the six pack of empty bottles in his storage closet on top of a stack of ten others... it would soon be time to make a bottle return run. He rubbed his stomach thoughtfully. Maybe it wasn’t just the chocolate bars; maybe a partial beer belly? Molson muscle? Well, chocolate or beer, he wasn’t likely to quit either.

Then he moved to the bedroom, sat down on the bed, opened the bottom drawer of his bureau, and began to survey his collection of pornography in hopes of selecting a fetching beauty for the evening’s masturbation. As a practicing single male, he was limited in his choice of sexual outlets. He had been to strip clubs in search of stimulation, but found it an awkward social situation when the “dancers” would try to engage him in conversation in hopes of relieving him of some private dance money. He couldn’t hack it. The same reluctance, as well as a fear of other risks, extended to prostitution.

So that left him with his magazines. His few experiences with dating and girlfriends had also had an element of this awkwardness, so they had never come to, um, fruition, he liked to say. So that left him, at thirty-eight years old, step right up ladies and gentlemen, no crowding at the front there, you’ll scare the freak, here he is, the oldest Canadian virgin. Just one gander and then move along out of the tent. Other people have paid to see this, too. He should have his own website.

Afterward, he found himself in the doldrums a little, so he brushed his teeth and turned off the bedside lamp without reconciling his bank statement as he had planned. He lay down on his bed and closed his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t brood about this situation he found himself in, this puzzle of his personal life.