Wait Your Turn

I am sitting here with tears in my eyes, but they are not tears of pain or remorse. They are tears of happiness. The State of California has sent me my last $336 payment for a non-occupational disability. It is on a tri-colored check with a sunburst design. I have never seen anything so beautiful.

It is not the money I’m in awe of or even the blending of lavender, green and yellow tastefully utilized in the spidery sunburst over Sacramento. We are talking moral victory here. We are talking triumph over bureaucracy. The Little Man in me is singing.

As you might recall, I was off six weeks due to a past life of debauchery that led to double bypass surgery. It also led to the necessity of filling out forms that would free funds on my behalf in the Unemployment Disability Insurance Account of the Employment Development Department.

The L.A. Times continued paying my salary during my disability, except for $336 a week, which the state was expected to pay. I don’t know why $336 particularly. I didn’t ask and no one told me. It is none of my business.

I dislike filling out forms and sometimes amuse myself by writing that I am a Klingon or that my mother was part Vulcan. Not this time.

I answered every question with proper sobriety, checked every box, moistened the edge of the envelope as instructed and folded along the dotted line. Where it said PLEASE PRINT, I printed. Where it said DO NOT STAPLE, I glued.

My wife was proud of me. “Very good,” she said. “You can have a nonfat cookie. OPEN YOUR MOUTH. EAT.” I ate.

Then Trouble reared its head. It began with my cardiologist. He didn’t send in his form. Without a physician’s form, the state will not pay. Little People are known to lie, cheat and connive. Doctors? Never.

Cardiologists make big bucks. They drive $150,000 cars and live in sprawling, hilltop homes with maids and gardeners. A lousy $336 does not seem important to them. They spend that much for dinner at L’Ermitage.

My cardiologist assured me he would send in the form immediately. He didn’t. Days passed. “It’s probably in his car somewhere,” his secretary said. “I’ll get on him.”

Still he did not send it in. “He hasn’t mailed it yet?” his secretary said two weeks later. She couldn’t believe it. “I’ll tell him.”

I telephoned the State Disability Office. A recording assured me my call was important to them, but they were busy. Could I wait? Sure. I waited. And waited. And then got disconnected.

On the sixth try, a human answered. I explained my problem. “We can’t give you money until your physician sends his form in,” she said. How could I get him to send the form in? “Bug him,” she said.

I badgered his secretary and I badgered him. I badgered the state when I could get through. When all else failed, I badgered my wife.

“You badger me once more,” she said, “and I punch out your lights.”

In desperation, I got a copy of the physician’s statement and took it personally to a dingy state building on South Broadway. I was still weak from heart surgery, in addition to which my back had gone out and I hadn’t shaved for several days. Also, I mutter when I’m angry.

I walked into the disability office ragged and muttering and dragging my right foot. I looked like a troll. “Help me,” I said to the lady at the desk. The place was filled with other non-occupationally disabled.

The lady spoke to me in Spanish. “I don’t speak Spanish,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re saying.” She said in English, “Wait your turn.” But a bilingual Mexican felt sorry for the ragged gringo troll. “You can take my place,” he said.

The lady checked her computer. “Good news,” she said. “Your physician’s statement arrived. Your check will go out tonight.”

Two days later I received a check for $192. It was $1,824 short. NOTICE OF FINAL PAYMENT, it said. That’s when I discovered, damn me, I had entered the wrong dates for the period of my disability. They were paying me for 4 days, not 6 weeks.

I telephoned, waited, was disconnected, telephoned again, waited and got Ernie. They only give their first names. I explained my problem to Ernie. I had to send in a corrected form. So did the cardiologist. This time, his secretary handled it.

A few days later, I received two checks. One for $240 and one for $336. NOTICE OF WAIVER OF WAITING PERIOD DETERMINATION, they said. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it still wasn’t enough.

Dial, wait, get disconnected, dial again, wait, get a human. “We screwed up,” Conchita said. “The Update Unit will handle.”

God bless the Update Unit. This morning I received the last of my money. The state and I are even. I also received a bill from my cardiologist. It’s in my car. I’ll pay it, of course. But he’ll have to wait his turn.