Can You Dance?

I love it when I get unsolicited phone calls from people who want to sell me something.

Most folks don’t appreciate those phone calls. The instant they realize the call is from somebody they don’t know, a perfect stranger who wants to sell them a service or product, so they slam down the receiver or threaten the solicitor with police or the FBI.

Not me. Nope. I listen to the pitch like I did today. A woman called me from a 417 Area Code, which is where we live. She was from an insurance agency and began a little pitch about how she could save me money on my insurance and was getting into the details when I interrupted. Respectfully, of course.

I said, “Do you dance?”

Stone cold silence greeted me.  “Pardon me?”, she said.

“Are you a dancer?  The way you said pardon’ sounds French. I want to go to this singles dance Friday night at the American Legion, and I don’t have a dance partner.  If you’re not attached and like to dance…well, do you think you might be interested?”

There was another long silence. Then she laughed. And laughed. I joined her.

“Not really,” she said. “I mean, I dance. Of course I dance.  But…you’re a perfect stranger.”

“Yes,” I sighed. “And so are you. Like ships passing in the day. I just thought I would ask. Now what are you trying to sell me?”

Relaxed, she explained that she was from an national insurance agency in a town about 30 miles from Springfield, MO. where I lived with my daughter and grandchildren. I asked her how their rates compared with some of the insurance companies I had seen advertised on television, like the one with the quacking duck or the two crazy guys with the banjos who always have something to say.

“Oh,” she said laughing again. “You mean Aflac and Geico.”

“Yeah, those ones. Do your rates compare with theirs?”

“Sometimes. It depends on a lot of factors. But we’re in the ballpark. We do provide good service, though, in case you have an accident.”

I hesitated. “Well, that could prove a problem.”

“What could prove a problem?”

“Having an accident. I don’t own a car and I let my driver’s license expire while I was in the Caribbean. Down there, you can just buy a driver’s license at the police station, you know. For $50, they just stamp a paper, hand it to you and you can go drive to your heart’s content.”

‘Wow! Why did you leave there and come to Missouri?”

“Paradise bores me,” I said. “I wanted to come back to challenges, nasty weather, etc.  All the stuff that makes life worthwhile. Are you sure you don’t want to go dancing Friday night?”

When she hung up, Annie and I had become friends. She didn’t promise to meet me at the American Legion, but she said she’d give it her serious consideration. Really. And I told her I would do my best to renew my driver’s license and buy a car.

Really.