Compensation
Workmen's Compensation
IT’S LIKE AUDITING
a class -- you don’t have to pay for it, but you benefit from it just the same. I'm talking about the people you meet along the way.
Take Cliff for example. He was my contact at MetLife of California.
Nicest guy you could ever know.
I was customizing a patient-verification software system for them that would hopefully lower their costs of keeping their providers informed as to which patients were still covered and what co-pay to charge.
The deal was, if MetLife failed to notify a provider that one of its patients was no longer covered, and that provider serviced that patient, MetLife would still be on the hook, so to speak.
Of the hundreds of thousands of patients they insured, the number of people who quit their jobs each week was no small consideration.
Until MetLife discovered me, they were FedEx-ing 8,000 computer printouts -- each four inches thick -- to providers’ offices each week, indicating what patients were still covered! Not only was it expensive, they were still having to eat the costs of those patients who left their jobs right after a printout was distributed!
My solution was to tap into MetLife’s database each night after midnight. The next morning, when providers called to verify someone, my PC computers would answer the phone, get the patient’s ID number (via touch tones) and immediately voice back whether they were covered or not, and, if so, how much to charge for the co-pay.
For a one-time, upfront cost, MetLife was able to eliminate all those printouts, FedEx charges and slippage that occurred during the week after providers got their printouts.
Cliff was my interface.
I camped out in their parking lot in my RV, joined a health club less than a block away, and routinely ate breakfast at Burger King a block away in the opposite direction!
Although I had a VCR in the rig, I often would walk about a mile to a local theater for entertainment.
This worked out well for the three months it took to customize their system.
It also worked well when I customized the same software for Blue Cross of California three months later!
Having worked with Cliff for a number of weeks, I had sized him up as a friendly, practical, knowledgeable middle management type.
Imagine my shock and surprise when I showed up one morning to a yelling and screaming Cliff, accosting what was apparently a fellow employee, berating her unceasingly for a full five minutes!
After she sulked away, his demeanor instantly switched back to his easy-going, kind, friendly self …
“It’s none of my business,” I said, “but what was that
all about?!”
“Oh that?" he nonchalantly said.
" We’re just trying to get her to quit.”
“Why don’t you just fire her? Why all the theatrics?”
“Technically, she hasn’t done anything to warrant firing her,” he explained. “She’s just a royal pain in the back of the lap.
"Nobody likes her.
"So we collectively agreed to make her life miserable enough so that she voluntarily decides to leave.”
Having only worked at a few institutions, I had never heard of such a strategy.
* * *
Then there was Barbara.
She was a little strange …
She was the secretarial science teacher where I went to school.
She left before I was scheduled to take typing -- but her reputation preceded her.
She would walk down the hall -- stop and examine a crack in the wall -- then just crack up in a fit of laughter, like it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen!
Students would come into her typing class only to find her laying flat on her back on the floor between typing desks, skirt hiked up to her waist, legs peddling an upside-down imaginary bicycle, head tossing from side to side -- again with that laugh!
Our principal, Eric Bekowies, wouldn’t give her a recommendation that would have facilitated her subjecting the next school to what he’d been put through (courtesy of a glowing recommendation from the school she had just left!).
So … she took the civil service exam.
Passed it with flying colors! She ended up a keypunch operator in a room with 100 other girls at the same place where my mom worked.
If you’ve never encountered a keypunch machine, they were all the rage back when computers read 80-column Hollerith cards. One machine, the size of a small desk, would punch the card. Off to the side would be an identical-looking machine, but with a dramatically different purpose.
The operator of the first machine would create cards, typing from source documents.
The operator to the right would type those same documents, only no cards were being punched.
Instead, as she typed, each character was being compared to the holes in the card the first operator punched. If no discrepancies were found, the card was said to be certified. Cards with discrepancies would need to be visually inspected and retyped.
Suffice it to say, a room full of 100-plus machines was incredibly noisy.
This particular government operation was run by a general. On this particular day , a new general was meeting the troops, so to speak -- making the rounds from department to department.
When he and his entourage came to the keypunch room, all the girls stopped what they were doing and quickly stood quietly beside their chairs -- all, that is, except for Barbara. At 120 words a minute, she punched merrily on.
The general looked at the keypunch supervisor, who twirled her index finger beside her temple -- the universal gesture for “Kooky!”
He probably should have left good enough alone -- but he didn’t. He didn’t want to set a bad precedent for the ninety and nine.
He walks up beside Barbara, who is still vigorously typing, completely ignoring him.
So much for the power of presence …
When he realizes she isn’t going to acknowledge him, he loudly clears his throat: “Uh-hum -- excuse me,” he says, rather authoritatively. “What, may I ask, are you doing?”
She stops for a beat -- turning to face him. Looking up through her Coke-bottle glasses, she says in a clearly annoying tone, “I don’t come into your
office and ask what you’re
doing!”
Somewhat taken aback, the general looks to the supervisor -- still twirling her finger …
* * *
The summer before I attended Andrews University -- a small parochial institution in Southwestern Michigan -- I joined the construction crew that was building a brand new science complex. Having worked with my dad -- an electrical contractor with his own business -- I was assigned to work with Harvey -- one of the electricians -- for the summer.
Andrews is way out in the sticks. The nearest grocery store is something like eight miles away. Just about everyone brought their lunch, stopping wherever we happened to be, come lunchtime.
We sat down, then rummaged through our lunch boxes or bags before chowing down.
Always a great time for storytelling.
Somehow, the topic this particular day was hospitals. My boss recalled the only time he had been confined to a hospital bed.
He’s in a room with this little ol’ dried up, withered guy who looks like death warmed over. He spends most of his time curled up in a fetal position, moaning softly.
Every morning, five days a week, the same nurse comes in around 7:15 to take vitals.
She roughly grabs this old guy’s wrist, staring at her watch for 15 seconds, then throws his arm back on the bed. This is how she takes his pulse.
Next she jams a thermometer under his tongue. While waiting for that to register, she puts a cuff around his scrawny arm, pumping it up as high as it will go. This is how she takes his blood pressure. My boss figures she’s just a mean person.
Harvey's OK with this kind of treatment from Nurse Ratchet, but not for his roommate. This guy can hardly move without pain. To see him treated this way every morning finally gets to him.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs under his breath. “I’ll take care of her for you …”
* * *
The next morning around 7:00, Harvey takes the small lamp that’s sitting on the nightstand beside his bed, pulls it under the covers, removes the shade and unscrews the bulb, scooching as far away from the door as he can. Hospital policy mandates keeping the metal guardrails up except for meals and bathroom privileges.
Harvey sticks his thumb into the empty socket, taking care to only touch the copper threading the bulb screws into -- being extra careful not to touch the base of the socket that would otherwise connect him to ground.
He consciously avoids letting any part of his body touch the guardrail on the side of the bed away from the door.
As he hears the nurse coming, he pushes the switch with his other hand that then powers the rim.
Harvey plays possum …
Moments later, right on cue, Nurse Ratchet charges in.
In order to grab Harvey’s wrist, she has to lean over the guardrail, effectively grounding herself at the thigh.
The moment she touches his wrist, the circuit is complete --
110 volts course through his left thumb,
up his arm,
across his shoulders,
down his right arm,
out his right wrist,
through her iron grip,
up her right arm,
down her torso,
exiting her body through both thighs …
She shrieks as she jumps back from the bed, effectively breaking the circuit.
As she flies out of the room, Harvey turns the lamp off, then quickly screws the light bulb back in its socket before placing the shade back on the lamp and putting the lamp back on the stand --
This just moments before the room explodes with hospital personnel.
“What happened?!” they ask.
Harvey -- trying to keep a straight face -- says, “I don’t know -- she just went crazy, screaming as she ran out the door!”
The poor little guy in the next bed is doubled over, holding his sides, tears streaming down his cheeks, he’s laughing so hard he's crying!
“Needless to say,” Harvey says, as he puts his thermos away, “she never returned …”
* * *
You know how sometimes you get a song stuck in your head and you can’t seem to shake it?
That’s what happened to me one day while working with Harvey. Not the whole song -- just the opening phrase: I’m forever blowing bubbles.
It just keeps going through my mind, over and over and over again. Without meaning to, I find myself quietly singing along.
The first time Harvey hears me, he gets this weird look on his face -- kinda like some thought has hit him that leaves him with a blank stare …
The next time, a smile creeps into the corners of his mouth …
Next, a full-on Chessie cat grin …
Finally a full-on, out-and-out belly laugh!
From then on, raucous laughter to the point of tears in his eyes.
I have to ask: “What’s so funny?”
Through uncontrollable laughter, he manages to say:
“I’m Bubbles!”