LIKE A BURNT MARSHMALLOW

Every year I tell my insurance man, “I can’t complain.”

He won’t accept that. He breaks me down.  He starts by telling me horror stories from his other customers, like the jeweler who had 30 jewelry stores and is now down to two, or the real estate investor who wanted to put 50 percent down on a shopping strip center but the bank wouldn’t give him a mortgage even with 50 percent down.

Eventually, I sing for the insurance man: “Jerry, my expenses are up and my income is down!”

But I try to remember what the hardware store guy once told me: “You can’t complain, Stratton.  You’ve had some good years.”  (The hardware guy could complain.  Home Depot was a mile away.)

I complain for the insurance guy. This Noh drama has been running for decades.  The insurance guy sold insurance to my father.  The insurance guy’s father sold insurance to my father’s father.  Not true — but close: The insurance man’s father sold insurance to my brother-in-law’s father.

My rates hadn’t gone up much.  I asked my insurance guy why.  He said, “Because you’ve been a good boy.” I hadn’t started too many fires.

My last fire was 14 years ago.  An elderly tenant put a cigar butt in an upholstered chair, then forgot about the butt.  That destroyed the unit but not the building.

I didn’t let the smoker move back. He was a nice old guy but I was afraid he’d re-light.

My buildings have been hit by lightning — a couple chimneys.  Several cars have rammed into the buildings.  Boilers have cracked.  Water mains have burst.

Fire is the worst by far.  You get religion real fast when you’re standing in an apartment that looks like a burnt marshmallow.
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1 of 2 posts for 12/30/09.  Please see the post below too.