The long pig quandary
Chapter 19
The long pig quandary
For the next few weeks Nom got his daily orders from Mrs. Cobb in writing. His life became easer. But as with the tide, the desires of a psychopath to feed on their favorite prey return.
In late January, Nom received an application for the works. Normally, when a person filled out an application for assistance, they would ask for one or two things. Perhaps their electricity was about to be cut off, or they were being evicted, or they needed medical coverage. This perspective client wanted the whole enchilada. Medical coverage, emergency food assistance, emergency housing assistance, cash assistance, why the only thing she hadn't asked for was child daycare, and that was probably only because she didn't list any children.
Nom read through the file, there was no way he could get her qualified for even half of what she was requesting, most for technicality reasons such as she had not been served with eviction papers. Still, he had to follow procedure. Dialing her number, Nom pulled out his legal pad and grabbed a pen.
When he had first started working for DHS, Nom had played every interview by the book. He had taken his clients page by page through the Bridges computer interface to ensure that everything was good to go. After a few months of mishigas, he had found a great short cut. Ask the client a short list of questions that covered everything then fill in the form later.
The Bridges interface was not a portal to completed work, rather it was a gateway to the realm of the Cenobites. Every five seconds it crashed, refused to go to the next screen, or simply refused to follow Departmental policy. It authorized or refused cases willy-nilly. When he was in training, one of the instructors regaled him with the story as to the origin of this wonder software. Turns out he was on the team that picked it.
Five years before Nom had gotten to DHS the state had decided it needed a new software package to be Obama Care compliant. Rather than paying to have one made for it, or simply using one of the platforms made available by the feds, MI DHS sent five high level executives on a US tour to see the other packages that were in use.
The secretary of the department even held a press conference to announce the fact finding tour. He failed to mention that only one state at that time had a software package that was currently certified as Obama Care compliant. All the other forty-eight states were doing exactly what Michigan was, trying to get one.
So one fine, balmy Michigan January morning, when the state was rolling out its beach towels for the seventh consecutive subzero day, the fact finding mission left. Behind them, Michigan sat in a blissful polar vortex clocking in at minus twenty-seven Fahrenheit.
Their destination: Texas and the Gulf Coast. Texas was a bit chilly by its normal January standards, but facing a day in the lower seventies on the coast seemed like a tropical heat wave to the intrepid crew from DHS. Their mission to boldly investigate the most aptly named software package in human history, "TEARS."
Texas had followed its bureaucratic procedures to the letter and created a masterful program for only a few tens of millions of dollars. The workers for the State of Texas loved it so much that they held a strike in its honor.
Ignoring all this extraneous information, the Michigan team pushed through and succeeded in their goal. They survived the afternoon presentation about TEARS and proceeded to drive three hours to the beach. Their recommendation report to the Governor's office could not have been more glowing. Their week long tax payer funded mission was a success. Michigan bought TEARS from Texas. Texas cashed the check, scrapped their TEARS interface after shipping, and hired a Silicon Valley team to write them a new one that actually worked.
A few extra million dollars' later for new graphics, and Michigan had a fresh steaming pile of shit with a new label: "Bridges."
Needless to say, walking a client through every page of Bridges, as policy required, usually resulted in post psychotic rage episodes from prospective clients. Simply asking them the thirty-five questions that provided the necessary information for you to fill it out later was far easier.
When Nom got his new works applicant, Christine Matthews on the phone, it was rather obvious that she was going to be a special needs case. She was easily distracted, had to be asked the same questions repeatedly, and frequently was unable to provide the most basic information.
When she told Nom that she had recently been diagnosed with schizophrenia, he knew that he had an easy out to end the phone interview. Policy was very clear; all eligibility specialists have a legal duty to recommend clients for every possible aid program, even if they hadn't applied for those programs. The client could fail to qualify, but Nom would have to push the paperwork through anyway.
Ms. Matthews had not applied for state disability, since the application made her choose between it and cash. Her application for the works had requested cash assistance. On first glance Nom had assumed that he would be rejecting her pro forma. The State of Michigan only provided cash assistance to guardians of minor children in the form of a measly few hundred dollars. Disability offered a forty dollar a month pittance. The only real reason for getting state disability was for the unrestricted food assistance and Medicare. Get approved and poof! The work requirement was lifted, and the time limit was removed.
The application she had summited was for cash not for disability benefits. Schizophrenia was one of the few conditions for which a person could easily get disability. Chronic pain, physical disability, retardation, etcetera all took six months to a year of overview. But if they told the review board they heard voices, and had a shrink confirm it? It would only take a month or two.
If Nom put in an application for disability, then he could cut off the phone interview. To be official, by law, disability interviews had to be done in person. The eligibility specialist had to fill out a detailed report on the appearance, behavior, and apparent ailments of the client, as a part of the interview.
Doing interviews over the phone was always an exhausting trial for Nom. The clients were scared, angry, confused, and exhausted. Rarely were they even remotely prepared to answer all the questions. On the other hand, in person interviews were a snap, especially if they were with a special needs person.
Dealing with a special needs persons had been a part of Nom's life from the earliest of ages. In elementary school his third and fourth grade years were spent in an experimental class. It was designed to test the first main streaming efforts for severely developmentally challenged students. A Down's syndrome boy by the name of Ed was introduced. He enjoyed defecating in his pants and throwing the product at his class mates. Swearing and licking people's faces were choice entertainment. After the second year, Nom's parents moved to another town. They were pleased to see that the integrated class they had been forced to put their son in had the lowest test scores in the entire school district.
Nom had also spent a significant portion of his adult life caring for his geriatric grandfather and Eriena. No longer a child, Nom rapidly learned how to coach and guide special needs people to the desired action. Coaching, negative and positive reinforcement, emotional manipulation, obfuscation; all were valuable tools. In the real game of Life, the ends truly did justify the means.
Above all a steel cold face with melting eyes was his go-to weapon. The matching pair both scared the snot out of the subject and warmed them to his influence. They were intimidated and yet they felt drawn into him with a boundless trust. Whether dealing with his aunt, clients, or the occasional special needs family or friend; face to face action with the look was the sure fire means to ensuring cooperation.
Nom scheduled Ms. Matthews for an in-person interview and sent her a detailed documentation request letter. A week and a half later, she was in the waiting room when he came back from lunch.
Walking her back to his cube, Nom took pains to take the longest and most circuitous route possible. The cubical farm had only one hundred forty units in it, but, to the uninitiated, it was a deafening wall of government bureaucracy. Ms. Matthews quite clearly was not yet adjusted to her meds, and Nom wanted her just a bit on the overwhelmed side.
Blinding florescent lights strobing away overhead. Scores of phones being used crescendoed. Countless meetings burbled. Work station radios crackled. All this summed up to a sensory overload that did the trick. By the time they reached Nom's cube, Ms. Matthews was bordering on a catatonic state.
With a measuring glance, Nom nodded to himself. She was ready. The sensory overload had caused much of her conscious mind to shut itself off from the waking world. The bit that remained would be a pliable, slow, but easy, source of information. The day would be traumatic on her, but, with luck, once she adjusted to her medication, her memories of this time period would be foggy at best.
With a carefully selected barrage of questions, loquacious speeches about procedure, and dozens of forms to process Nom achieved his goal. Ms. Matthews never recovered enough of her mental nerve to be able to melt down. When she seemed about ready to mentally collapse, he would prop her up with commiseration and an air of understanding. When she fussed, the look of steel would flash to his face, and she would quiet.
After an hour he had everything he needed from a complete medical history, to electronically accessing her bank records. The later had been a surprising breeze. She pulled them up on her phone and emailed him the screen shots.
Nom had secured all the necessary information to process her case off of his desk. He felt like he had run a marathon, but it was a good weariness. He had guided a difficult client into applying for the help that she needed. With her signature on countless forms, he walked Ms. Matthews up to the waiting room and sent her on her way. He was shocked but pleased when she spontaneously hugged him. Apparently, he was the best, and most kind, listener she had ever met.
Normally, Nom would have found himself ready to have a borderline panic attack at uninvited personal contact. He was ever ready for a bath in hand sanitizer at any uninvited person to person contact. On this occasion, though, he was shocked when he returned to his cube and found that he didn't even reach for the bottle. Ms. Matthews was by no means attractive, and her disorder was frightening to say the least. But, for a single moment, Nom had managed to achieve his ultimate liberal ideal: providing a person in need with what they needed, not what they wanted, and receive nothing but pure gratitude in return. His emotional high lasted for days. The odor of the Lysol he saturated his cube in, despite that feeling, left his coworkers bitching for hours.
The few times Nom had discussed the way he dealt with the emotions of other people, he had been met with fear and derision. One psychologist had even suggested that he might be a low-grade psychopath. Nom was of the opinion that his ability to turn empathy on and off was a gift not a curse.
There were times when he found it impossible to emote for other people even when he wanted to. Somehow, he always knew what emotion he should be feeling though, even if he didn't feel it. Simply acting it out like a role in a play, became his go-to move. In general, Nom felt for only one person, Nom.
Deep down he was convinced that he was the single most intelligent person who ever had or ever would live. He knew that there were people who were more intelligent than him. He knew that there were people who knew more than he did. But he knew that the inner processing algorithms of his brain were flawless. Somehow he always reached the correct answer while others floundered.
Unfortunately for him, while he possessed an ego massive enough to have reached this conclusion, he lacked the general charisma to convince most of the people around him. He could deliver speeches and rally crowds, but once people began to know him they would no longer follow his lead. The thin vale of charisma he could muster worked its magic best on first time encounters. He had used every ounce of it with Ms. Matthews.
Despite not feeling for her directly, Nom was ruled by a strong liberal code. One that demanded that all people in need have those needs met. Damned be the conservative devil who got in his way. If they could spend trillions building some unnecessary aircraft carrier, all just to give a retarded cowboy in Dixie a hard-on the next time he porked his sister, they could cut an equal check to feed starving people.
Given the amount of time and effort he had put into Ms. Matthews case, Nom was crushed when the case read sheet came back from his supervisor. Initially, he suspected that she had found some error.
Despite Mrs. Cobb undoubtedly being a psychopath, she was incredibly skilled at her job. There simply was no other person in the department who knew the policy manual as well. If she said that he had made an error, he had. Albeit, in the past, she had used the most obscure sections of the titanic manual codex to deny cases he submitted, grounds that no other supervisor would have used even if they had known about them.
When Nom scanned through the case, there wasn't a single remark. Not one request for a correction. Just Mrs. Cobb's signature under her denied stamp. To say that he was confused was an understatement. Denials were supposed to be issued by the Bridges interface, not management. When Nom did an in-depth search of policy, he found a clause that had last been updated in the nineteen eighties. It gave management the authority to deny cases. Back then all cases were paper and had to be processed by hand. Now that portion of the job was automated. For some reason the rule had never been rescinded.
The next three weeks saw Nom filing union grievances, HR incident reports, and chain of command appeal letters. Finally, after three weeks, Nom managed to get Ms. Matthews' case approved by no less than the District Director. All that, just to submit Ms. Matthews' file to the medical disability panel in Lansing.
In return for his efforts, the day after the file received notice popped into his inbox, Nom was summoned to Mrs. Cobb's office. Once again she attempted to force him to close the door. This time he did not even waste his time arguing. He simply took her guest chair without being invited, pulled out a note pad, and proceed to take short hand dictation notes.
"Mr. Deplume, I asked you to close my door." Mrs. Cobb said in a tight voice.
"Yes. I heard your instruction. Under a previous letter of agreement from District Director Camp, based on my union grievance filed last month, I do not have to do that."
"What are you writing?" She asked.
"I am taking shorthand dictation notes. BAM 906 forbids using audio and or visual recording devices in the office, unless previously authorized by the district manager. Since you directed me to come to your office immediately, I did not have time to get that permission. I am therefore exercising my rights to take notes on the conversation."
"Well, I want you to stop, you don't have my permission to record me." She said.
"Technically, ma'am, I am not recording you. There is nothing in policy preventing note taking. You could order me to stop. But then I would be forced to demand that order in writing or find a witness." He carefully noted his own words into his running transcript.
"Stop!" She said.
"In that case ma'am, I must insist that this meeting be postponed, until I can have my union representative present." Nom said pausing his writing.
"You can't demand that, unless I am disciplining you!" She shouted in exasperation.
"Well ma'am, under the grievance I noted before, you are required to give me all orders in writing. I am looking around your office, and I do not see any gifts or refreshments. We are on the clock, so clearly this is not a social occasion. Neither of us likes the other, so we would not spend free time together at the office. The only two remaining options are that you either wish to simply waste my time, or you wish to discipline me. I'm leaning towards the latter." Nom said.
"Mr. Deplume! That is quite enough!" Mrs. Cobb's eyes bulged, and her face grew scarlet enough to match her hair.
"Here." She said holding out an envelope.
"What is this?" Nom asked, not reaching for the letter.
"It's a formal counselling letter." She replied.
"That is the first step in the disciplinary process, ma'am. You lied a moment ago when you said you are not disciplining me. Now if you will excuse me." He stood and walked out the door.
"Mr. Deplume!" Cobb's voice thundered after him. "You will take this letter!" When Nom did not return, the letter was hurled out the door behind him.
Panting with the effort to suppress his rage, Nom walked to the cube attached to the back of his. He knocked on the door frame.
"Bosa, I'm going to need you." He said.
Bosa White was a short stocky African American woman. To her friends she was the sweetest woman alive. Need a friendly word of advice, and she was the woman to see. Need a ride to get a car from the shop after work, Bosa was only too happy to help. If a manager messed with a friend of her's who was in good standing with the UAW? Well that manager might just end up on a morgue slab before the day was done. The office called her "Pit Bull" behind her back not only because she lived and died for the music by the artist of the same name, but because she was one—loyal to her own and lethal to their foes.
Bosa paused her music with her iWatch and popped out her earbuds. "What did that crazy bitch do to you now?" She asked.
"Well, Mrs. Cobb seems to think that I need to sit in her office, door closed. You know how she likes to get cozy with the help." Nom said.
"Despite that grievance resolution I gave her last month." Bosa said slapping the desk with her palms.
"Oh it gets better." Nom said rubbing his beard with a needed chuckle. "I asked her if it was a disciplinary matter, so I could go get you. She said no."
"Ok." Bosa said. "So, was it about…"
"Discipline? She tried to give me a formal counseling letter."
"She did what?" Bosa hissed.
Nom shrugged. "The frosting on top was when she threw the damned thing at me. I refused to take it."
"Let me see if I get this straight…" Bosa drew in a deep breath. "You were told that this was not a disciplinary meeting, and then she tried to give you a disciplinary letter?"
"Yup." Nom said with a pop.
Bosa nodded and stood. "Thank you, Nom. I needed to vent some steam." She said leaving.
Nom returned to his cubicle. The shouting from Mrs. Cobb's office could be heard from across the building. Something about getting a restraining order if she ever pulled such a "cock and bull stunt" again.
It only took Mrs. Cobb another week to try again. This time it was denying an eighty-six-year-old widow her food stamps. The grounds: she had gotten money to have her deceased husband cremated. It was a payment totaling six-hundred dollars and change from the Social Security Administration. Technically management could have chosen to wave the income. Mrs. Cobb felt it needed to be claimed and would not take no for an answer.
Nom found himself on the brink of mentally snapping. He had always found driving relaxing, so he decided to take a vacation. Since the unit calendar was clear for the next week, he put in the time request. It was one of the few things Mrs. Cobb could not deny him. Provided he had the vacation time in his bank, was not requesting more than two consecutive weeks, and no more than three persons from the management group requested the same slot, he was golden. Sure an employee with more seniority could bump him but only with two-week's notice on the request. That was impossible now.
That night, Nom hopped on Orbits and planned out his route.
Late Friday night after work, Nom loaded his car with his supplies. Nine days' worth of food and cloths filled his trunk. To aid in organizing the mess, each day had a plastic grocery bag filled with the cloths and food he would need. That way he would not need to drag a giant suitcase into each hotel room, he simply grabbed the next bag and tossed the used one in the back.
For most people, the thought of spending that much time in a car driving would be a nightmare. To Nom it was a paradise. Pure unadulterated open nature, constantly changing scenery, The Wheel of Time audio book on his phone, and a constantly refreshed ocean of pop to fuel him.
From Detroit he drove to Fargo, North Dakota. It was a bit of a stretch at over nine hundred miles, but he loved every moment of it. Spring had only just come to Detroit, but North Dakota was still in the grips of winter. This being his favorite season, Nom found himself constantly stopping to take in the chill clean fresh air.
From Fargo, Nom drove to Billings, Montana. He had formerly lived there, and had scheduled the shorter drive so that he would have the afternoon to take in some of his favorite sites. Rim Rock Park had once been the site of a near miss with death. He was fond of walking there, and had fallen from an unmarked cliff edge. Months of recovery from broken bones, had forced him to return to Michigan. It was a moment of pure triumph when he again stood on the cliff that had almost taken his life. He even carved his personal emblem into the rock to mark the occasion.
From Billings he drove to Seattle, Washington. He had never been farther west in Montana than Bozeman. The mountains still crowned with their snowy glory shining in the rising blood red sun took his breath away. The mountains of Idaho, the plains of Washington and the final mountains leading to Seattle were a vision. Nom was in his element. Alone in a fantasy world surrounded by the glory of raw nature.
From Seattle he drove to Fort Bragg, California. The costal run was awash in flowers smells and color combinations that he had never experienced before. Oregon proved to be a bit of an overdose for his liberal nature though, when he discovered that he could not so much as pump his own gas, or buy Sudafed to ease his sinuses through the constant altitude changes.
From Fort Brag he drove to Pasadena California. Most of his day was spent in awe at the majesty of the Redwood Highway. The trees towering like the columns of nature's cathedral, and the beauty of a calm pacific ocean were the single most potent memory he took from that trip.
Nom took a short break in Sothern Arizona to visit his sister, he then made a speed run back through the heartland to Michigan. In all the trip took only nine days. It seemed like nine lifetimes.
It was over in a flash. Nine days had passed. Nom was back in Detroit, feeling like a million bucks, fully recharged, and ready to work. His first hour back at the office was an uneventful processing of all his missed emails. He had just started clearing his voice mail when he was summoned to Mrs. Cobb's office again.
She held out an envelope to him. "I don't care if you take this to Mrs. White or not. It's a new formal counseling letter. Now get out of my office.".
Nom browsed the letter on his way to Bosa's cube. His vision began to whiten. It was as if every light in the world was in the room blinding him. He managed to make out the first few sentences.
Mr. Deplume,
This letter is to inform you of the following disciplinary actions:
1. Over the last week you failed to meet the case work quota requirement established in the work plan sent to you on last Monday…
Nom's head felt like it might explode. What work plan? He had been on vacation. How could she have served him with a formal work plan if he was officially off duty? How could he have met a quota if he was off duty?
Nom found himself suddenly sitting in his car. He was at a red light about a block from his apartment. An hour had passed, and he had no idea how he had gotten there. The light changed, and he moved forward, making his way home. When he arrived the first thing he did was call Bosa.
"Nom where are you? What happened?" Bosa asked.
"I'm not sure, I just suddenly found myself a few blocks from my apartment. I drove the rest of the way, and then I called you." He answered.
"Are you ok? Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"I might." Nom looked at the dash clock. "I can't account for almost an hour; did I do anything at work?"
"Well, you came into my cube. Didn't say a word, just put that new wannabe harassment suit from Cobb on my desk, and walked out. You had a funny look on your face, like someone had run over your dog or something." Bosa said.
"Bosa, can you arrange for me to have a sick day today?"
"Sure, I'll send an email to Cobb right now. I'll say I told you to go. Only one thing…" Bosa said.
"What's that?" Nom asked.
"Promise me you'll go get yourself checked out."
"I will." Nom said. "Thanks Bosa."
Six hours later Nom walked out of the emergency room. It had been a waste of time. CAT scan, blood tests, emergency psych evaluation, nothing. The PA had given him a referral for a formal psych evaluation. The MD offered to admit him to the psych ward for the evaluation as she was an old family friend, but the last thing Nom wanted was an unnecessary institutionalization on his record. He promised to make the appointment with a shrink first thing in the morning, and to stay away from work until they gave him a green light to return.
Nom called the therapist he had been seeing on and off again for the last five years. Getting her voice mail, he requested the first available appointment, before he got into his car. He had only just arrived home, when she called him back. She had him go to the pharmacy and get an emergency Xanax prescription she called in. She would see him when she got back into town in three days. No work until then.
Before that appointment even happened, Nom had quit his job. The epiphany came to him at the hand of an old friend. Based on how happy Nom had been on his recent vacation, he took it as a sign. He left for truck driving school two weeks later.
Weekly Power Status
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