Page 7 of Defying the Crown
Chapter 3
Daniel
"Ms. Sanders, I understand what you are saying. However, what I'm telling you is that this medication is not currently covered under Schedule H of your employer's benefit plan" I say, mentally banging my head against the wall in exasperation. I can hear phones ringing around the large cubicle filled office and my coworkers all repeating word for word the same line as me. The fluorescent lights above flicker slightly, giving me a headache that's becoming all too familiar.
To clarify, I work for a large medical insurance company named Insuricarica processing health claims. By processing, what I mean to say is finding creative ways to deny claims whenever possible to increase the profit margins for our corporate overlords. Yay capitalism. Sometimes I wonder if there's a special circle of hell reserved for insurance companies, right next to people who talk during movies.
"I've never been treated so badly before! I'm going to be speaking to my attorney!" The line goes dead as she hangs up on me. I resist the urge to bang my head on my desk, knowing it would only draw unwanted attention from my colleagues.
As if my life wasn't already sad enough, I do this job Monday to Fridayfrom nine to five. It's depressing and soul sucking, but in this economy I don't really have many choices. You take what you can get when you can get it. The alternative is no job, no money, and no crappy apartment in a rundown building in a bad part of town. And trust me, I've seen enough of being without those things to last a lifetime.
I look at the clock, and see that it's finally noon. Half my day in this penal colony has passed, and I'm now eligible for my legally mandated unpaid lunch break. Sending a quick message to my team, I quickly sign out and head to the sad corporate lunchroom. The walls are plastered in inspirational posters and corporate slogans, basically all the things someone higher up thought would motivate us peasants. My personal favorite is "TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK" written in Comic Sans, because nothing says professional quite like that font choice.
I grab my sad brown paper bag lunch from the break room fridge, dodging Karen from Accounts Payable who always wants to tell me about her latest MLM scheme. The tables are mostly full of my fellow corporate drones, all of us wearing the same defeated expressions and business casual attire that somehow makes everyone look equally miserable. I spot an empty corner table - my usual spot where I can scroll through my phone in peace while picking at whatever leftovers I managed to throw together this morning.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that sickly artificial glow that makes everyone look like they're one deadline away from a nervous breakdown. Another poster catches my eye - "SUCCESS IS A JOURNEY, NOT A DESTINATION" - which feels like a cruel joke when you're stuck processing denied claims all day. At least they didn't write that one in Comic Sans. Small mercies, I guess.
I pull out my slightly squished sandwich and try not to think about how I have another four hours of mind-numbing spreadsheets ahead of me. Sometimes I wonder if this is what social workers mean when they talk about "stable employment" - death by a thousand paper cuts in an office where the highlight of my day is when the coffee machine actually works.
Sandy from Human Resources glares at me from the table across the room. She's hated me ever since I forgot her Secret Santa present last year; I'm almost eighty percent certain she's the reason my bonus was lower this year. That woman can hold a grudge like nobody's business, and considering she's the one who processes our year-end reviews, I probably shouldhave tried harder with that gift.
"How are you Sandy?" I ask, trying to be polite. My mother - or what I remember of her before she gave me up - always said kill them with kindness. Though in Insuricarica's break room, that strategy seems about as effective as using a water gun against a forest fire.
"We don't need to talk; neither of us want this conversation" She replies bluntly, standing up to pack her lunch bag and going to leave the room. The way she aggressively zips up her designer lunch bag makes me wonder if she's imagining it's my neck.
"Always a pleasure." I mutter under my breath, watching her storm out like I'd personally offended her entire family tree.
My phone chimes and I glance at it to see a notification pop up for a new message on the support website Michael forced me to sign up for. Another one of his "healthy coping mechanisms" that he insists will help me process everything that happened with Alex.
I click into it and can see multiple replies, mostly from bots, advertising Sexy Single Latinas in my areaorIncredible Crypto Investing Opportunities - Guaranteed Returns.Clearly they don't know their target market if they're commenting on my post. I'm both gay and broke. Like, eating-ramen-for-dinner-three-nights-a-week broke. I stop at the last comment though, and it makes me unexpectedly laugh.
From DeprimeretPrins
20Sep2024 22:45
So I read your post and feel like you and I have a lot in common. I do have one extremely pressing question though, which I think needs an answer immediately if we are to be internet stranger friends. How was the Jell-O in the hospital, and did they have pudding?
Out of my entire post, the most important thing this guy picked out was that I was in the hospital, and therefore that had to mean that I had eaten either Jell-O or pudding. I'm not sure whether to be shocked or amused. His dry sense of humor is almost disarming, and makes me smile. It's refreshing compared to the usual pity-filled responses I get when people find out about my hospital stay. I quickly bring up the comment bar, my fingers hovering over the keyboard for just a moment before I dive in with my own brand of sass.
From: MindOverMatter
21Sep2024 12:10
So out of all the things I wrote, you decided the Jell-O was the most important aspect of the post? This either implies poor decision making and prioritization skills or a complete obsession with Jello-O. Which do you think it is?
Also, yes there was Jello-O. I ate it all. They "ran out" of Jell-O during my stay; I'm sure they were lying. It was a Jello-O conspiracy. Pudding is the devil; no one likes it. The texture alone is enough to make me question humanity's decisions as a species. IF we are to be judged on our creations, then pudding would indicate that we should not be the dominant species on this planet.
Sincerely,
Your Internet Stranger Friend
PS: Sexy Single Latinas can go away now, it's not happening ladies. Wrong tree, wrong bark, wrong everything.
As my lunch break finishes up, I start heading back to my desk only to find the path blocked by Cassandra. She's 5'2" and at least 200 pounds, though I suspect that's a conservative estimate. Her receding hairline is accentuated by the thick jowls that quiver as she walks, reminding me of a bowl of particularly active Jell-O. At the same time, she acts and talks like she's Dolores Umbridge from the Harry Potter series, which is fitting since they both share that same fake sweetness that makes my teeth hurt.
"Daniel sweetie, would you come see me in my office? We need to have a chat." She says, voice sickeningly sweet with a southern accent that's as authentic as the designer bag knockoff she carries.
"Sure Cassandra" I say, following her into her cramped office and taking the seat across from her. The desk and walls of her office are plastered in random photos of her extended family and her dogs; it feels like she has tried to make her office into her home. The overwhelming smell of vanilla air freshener makes me want to gag.
