Audrey hated her job. A lot. Her job was to sit in from of the camera and sell It insurance. In a few words, she told the camera It was going to die. It needed to be prepared.
It needed to plan its funeral. To purchase The Sympathy Plan, a prepaid, all-expense sendoff to the Great Beyond. Unpleasant as it was, the camera absolutely needed to know that Its family would be devastated with grief from its death.
Unfortunately, Its wife and Its children, Its brother and Its sister, Its mother and Its father would have to deal with something that most cameras find difficult. In the middle of their devastation, they would have to think about The Funeral.
They would have to agree at the worst possible moment. “He would want this,” one would say. “No, he would want that,” another said. “How are we going to pay for this?” his wife asked.
So here Audrey sat behind the desk and in front of the camera, telling It the truth. Years of voice lessons, acting training and staying in shape, giving up her cookies and her milk shakes and all the food she loved, food that would make her fat. And for what? To tell the damned camera It was going to die.
Her voice dropped into silence. She couldn’t do it.
She rose from the table like Lazarus’ rising from the grave. She looked into the camera. “I can’t do this. I won’t do this.”
She walked past the director. On her way to the door, she came to the camera, kissed It and said, “You aren’t going to die. At least, not soon.”
She was wrong about that. The next day, in the same studio, shooting another actress doing another commercial, a crew member accidentally tripped on the camera’s cord and pull It to the floor, crashing It into several pieces, Its lens beyond repair.
Audrey walked out of the studio and down the hall and out into the afternoon sunlight.
Free at last.