WAIT - X

My desk at work is clean and austere. On it sits everything I need to work.

A basic keyboard and turtle, a reusable water bottle, a photo of my spouse, an administrator's notepad and pen. And of course the big screen, leering over the edge of the desk where its metal neck is clamped.

My chair is just the right amount of comfortable that it feels okay to sit in until the end of the day when I have to get up. For now I'm miserably early in my shift, so the chair seems like the least uncomfortable facet of the office. My work headset, unlike the chair, hurts my scalp the moment I pull it on, and my ear canal begins itching shortly thereafter.

On the screen, a window counts the time since my last caller. A red number shows the number of citizens in my local queue. It's in the hundreds. I tap a key and one such citizen routes to my headset. As they do, the script window opens, showing a dozen complaints by category that link to their follow-up questions.

I intone the greeting phrase, still crisp after thousands of utterances. I give them my name and department. I ask them their preferred address and nature of their issue and offer condolences on behalf of my employer.

The citizen starts talking, but soon trails off as she processes what I've said.

"Did you say... condolences?"

"Yes, Doctor." I've written 'dr' in my notebook. Don't wanna get this one wrong; doctors are more touchy about title now than ever. Far be it from me to blame them.  "The company for whom I am a contractor has been retained by your insurance provider to provide external consolation."

"Why would I need consolation?" she asks.

"Due to your provider's privacy policy, I don't have that information available. As you've been routed to us from them, it is likely that your claim, membership, or reimbursements have been denied."

"Denied?"

"Or deferred, yes."

"You don't even know which one? Or what I asked for?" Her voice cracks as she asks it. That rising tone, the frustrated rage of someone led along for weeks and then being cut loose, is familiar to me. I've felt it myself and I hear it at least once a week.

"No ma—Doctor." Oops. Let part of that one out. I spin the turtle's scroll wheel anxiously.

Luckily, the caller has momentum. "This is ridiculous! Who do I talk to about this?"

"I don't have that information, Doctor. You may call your provider's customer care line."

"I just called them. They sent me to you."

"Typically that means they cannot offer any solutions."

"But you don't know. That's just what that typically means."

"Yes, Doctor."

The weight of the sigh on the other end on the line could drown a mafioso. "I know you're just doing your job," she says though a clenched jaw, "but I am going to yell at you a lot."

I smile wanly. "That's what we're here for."

I pull the headset away from my ear as the sound of peaking input bursts from the little speaker. This will be most of my day, and she is likely the most polite caller I'll talk to.

But... I'm not upset. Not at the Doctor, at least. We're all dangling helpless and the only targets to lash out at are each other.

I look at the wall where a window ought to be and try to lose myself in the landscape painting that hangs there instead. It won't work, but trying passes the time. If it can't be better, at least it will be over.