How many times have you heard someone say “I have a bump on my arm. I think it might be a spider bite.”
Oh, I’ve heard it lots of times…bunches of times. And every time I heard someone claiming a spider bit them in their sleep, I laughed to myself a little. Why do I laugh, you ask? Because I have a hard time picturing a spider crawling through someone’s bed for a midnight snack, that’s why. You never hear about spiders biting people in the daytime, when we can see it happen. More questionable than anything else is that the creature being blamed for a blemish incurred in the night is always, unfailingly, a spider. Why not an ant? Or a bee? Or a mosquito? Or, hey, I know…bed bugs! I hear those things are making a comeback. Why doesn’t anyone blame a bug known for inflicting red bumps upon humans? Why are we blaming the spiders?
Spiders get a bad rap. They rid houses of pests and generally don’t mean us any harm. “Charlotte’s Web” and “Spider-man” didn’t give enough good P.R. to counter movies like “Arachnophobia” and “Eight Legged Freaks.” Even the Lullaby video depicts a nighttime spider assault. Despite all of the negativity, I didn’t buy the hype that spiders are bad—if I see one wandering aimlessly in the tub, I’ll move it to higher ground. If it looks like it’s lost, I’ll usher it outside. I am at peace with spiders in my midst because I didn’t believe they would turn on me while I slept.
Recently, while starring in the role of "houseguest" , I stayed in the guest bed. One morning, as I awoke, I felt the strangest thing on my face. Something little tickled my skin, almost the sensation of a stray hair that had fallen on my face. Well, I reached for the hair and found it escaping my grasp. Everywhere I grabbed, whatever it was remained two steps ahead.
Nooo, I thought, this can’t be happening, as I swiped and slapped at my skin. Then from the corner of my eye, I saw it: a wispy little spider dancing away from my hand. I could even hear the faintest sound of laughter come from its little tiny mouth-parts. The spider had come for me at last. All of those people weren’t crazy after all. When the crawly sensations disappeared, I settled back into bed, but I didn’t dare sleep. I might wake up with a bump on my arm, or worse, family of spiders tucked away in my ear.
What, you don't believe me?
It could happen.
6.27.2008
The Power Of Negative Thinking
It doesn’t take much to ruin my day. I worry about lots of things—too many things. If I knew how to stop, I would. I worry that all of this worrying is going to put me into an early grave and then I worry that I died of cancer or some other equally awful way to go.
Yesterday the indicator in my car started blinking. It was the one that tells you if you have a flat, and usually when it flickers on, it stays on. This time it blinked, just like a little round hazard light. Blinka-blinka, 5 seconds till your tires self destruct, it seemed to be saying. Blinka-blinka, too bad you were too cheap to replace those runflats with more runflats because you don’t even have a jack or a spare tire. Blinka-blinka, you’d better hope those two cans of fix-a-flat will be enough get you home.
I drove sensibly and took care whenever I went through one of those metal joints that connected two parts of the road. Stuck on the shoulder in 95 degree heat during rush hour is not one of the things I’m aiming to do before I die.
The car felt pretty normal—I wasn’t slowing down and feeling that bumping that comes with a flat tire. The car felt a little shaky, but maybe the alignment was off. I couldn’t hear the flapping of loose rubber or see the sparks of my rims against asphalt. I was okay, but in the corner of my eye, that blinking indicator was there, flashing on and off, reminding me that maybe I was wrong.
Of course this was a night when the traffic was moving like sludge. Damn it, I thought, I just want to get home and check the tires. Blinka-blinka, should have joined AAA, the light said.
I reached home, parked outside and pulled out the car's manual. From there I looked for information on the flat tire indicator. There was nothing about a blinking light. I followed the instructions and turned to the page for cars with conventional, non runflat tires. When I glanced at the diagrams showing the tire jack and the spare, I closed the book. Never mind.
I grabbed the tire pressure gauge from the glove compartment and checked the front tire—40 pounds of pressure—a little overinflated, but perhaps that was because I’d been driving and the temperature was warm. I checked the other three tires, deflated a couple until they were all at around the same pressure and replaced the valve caps. Then I got back in, turned the key and waited.
Blinka-blinka.
Four more turns of the key and it was still blinking.
I know, I thought, maybe if I start the car and roll it into the garage, the indicator will reset because once the tires start rotating, the car will figure out tire pressures have been evened out.
Start car, roll forward, put it in reverse, back in to park. Turn key.
Blinka-blinka.
I sighed, grabbed my stuff, closed the driver's side door and went inside.
The following morning, I returned to the car and just before I started the engine, I remembered. The light.
Blinka-blinka.
I pressed the reset button, just under the hand brake, and then the light stopped blinking and went solid. I pressed it again and the light went out. Thanks to Google, I was able to try out the solution I found online the night before. When it worked, I exhaled and turned up the stereo.
As I drove, I started thinking back to the day before, when I deflated the tires to even them out. You’re only supposed to check the tires when the car’s been still and the air inside the tires is still cold. I had done just the opposite the day before. All of it was hot—the rims, the rubber, the air—all hot!
Uh-oh. What if I overdeflated? What if the air in the tires cooled down and the tire pressure was now too low? The idea has been popping into my head regularly. Just like the little indicator light, major and minor worries flicker through my mind all day until I resolve the issues, get over them or fall asleep.
Blinka-blinka. Did you pay your credit card bill yet? Blinka-blinka, are we out of orange juice? Blinka-blinka, do you have clean underwear for tomorrow?
Maybe Google can help.
Yesterday the indicator in my car started blinking. It was the one that tells you if you have a flat, and usually when it flickers on, it stays on. This time it blinked, just like a little round hazard light. Blinka-blinka, 5 seconds till your tires self destruct, it seemed to be saying. Blinka-blinka, too bad you were too cheap to replace those runflats with more runflats because you don’t even have a jack or a spare tire. Blinka-blinka, you’d better hope those two cans of fix-a-flat will be enough get you home.
I drove sensibly and took care whenever I went through one of those metal joints that connected two parts of the road. Stuck on the shoulder in 95 degree heat during rush hour is not one of the things I’m aiming to do before I die.
The car felt pretty normal—I wasn’t slowing down and feeling that bumping that comes with a flat tire. The car felt a little shaky, but maybe the alignment was off. I couldn’t hear the flapping of loose rubber or see the sparks of my rims against asphalt. I was okay, but in the corner of my eye, that blinking indicator was there, flashing on and off, reminding me that maybe I was wrong.
Of course this was a night when the traffic was moving like sludge. Damn it, I thought, I just want to get home and check the tires. Blinka-blinka, should have joined AAA, the light said.
I reached home, parked outside and pulled out the car's manual. From there I looked for information on the flat tire indicator. There was nothing about a blinking light. I followed the instructions and turned to the page for cars with conventional, non runflat tires. When I glanced at the diagrams showing the tire jack and the spare, I closed the book. Never mind.
I grabbed the tire pressure gauge from the glove compartment and checked the front tire—40 pounds of pressure—a little overinflated, but perhaps that was because I’d been driving and the temperature was warm. I checked the other three tires, deflated a couple until they were all at around the same pressure and replaced the valve caps. Then I got back in, turned the key and waited.
Blinka-blinka.
Four more turns of the key and it was still blinking.
I know, I thought, maybe if I start the car and roll it into the garage, the indicator will reset because once the tires start rotating, the car will figure out tire pressures have been evened out.
Start car, roll forward, put it in reverse, back in to park. Turn key.
Blinka-blinka.
I sighed, grabbed my stuff, closed the driver's side door and went inside.
The following morning, I returned to the car and just before I started the engine, I remembered. The light.
Blinka-blinka.
I pressed the reset button, just under the hand brake, and then the light stopped blinking and went solid. I pressed it again and the light went out. Thanks to Google, I was able to try out the solution I found online the night before. When it worked, I exhaled and turned up the stereo.
As I drove, I started thinking back to the day before, when I deflated the tires to even them out. You’re only supposed to check the tires when the car’s been still and the air inside the tires is still cold. I had done just the opposite the day before. All of it was hot—the rims, the rubber, the air—all hot!
Uh-oh. What if I overdeflated? What if the air in the tires cooled down and the tire pressure was now too low? The idea has been popping into my head regularly. Just like the little indicator light, major and minor worries flicker through my mind all day until I resolve the issues, get over them or fall asleep.
Blinka-blinka. Did you pay your credit card bill yet? Blinka-blinka, are we out of orange juice? Blinka-blinka, do you have clean underwear for tomorrow?
Maybe Google can help.
Alternate Universe
Do this:
In the web address, type “the” before the word “Sunday.” Do it and let the page refresh and come back in here when you’re done. Go on...try it. I'll be here waiting when you get back.
Trippy, eh?
That is the blog I never started (mentioned in “Take 2”). That’s what happens when you start a blog and let enough time elapse for you to completely forget your username and password.
So now that I have reclaimed the abandoned blog, I have two things titled "The Sunday Night Poop." Remember, you saw it here first--two "Poops" in the same convenient location.
In the web address, type “the” before the word “Sunday.” Do it and let the page refresh and come back in here when you’re done. Go on...try it. I'll be here waiting when you get back.
Trippy, eh?
That is the blog I never started (mentioned in “Take 2”). That’s what happens when you start a blog and let enough time elapse for you to completely forget your username and password.
So now that I have reclaimed the abandoned blog, I have two things titled "The Sunday Night Poop." Remember, you saw it here first--two "Poops" in the same convenient location.
6.26.2008
Rich
In the past two weeks, I've received a windfall. Some would be skeptical of gaining so much through strangers via email, but I believe it's the universe's way of making things right. Thank you, universe.
Below are some of my responses to my random benefactors.
~~~
Dear Mr. Zunga,
Why wouldn’t your mail meet my personal ethics? According to you, this transaction is totally free of risk and troubles as the fund is legitimate and does not originate from drug, money laundry, terrorism or any other illegal act. You’re absolutely right, it’s perfectly legal to give me 35% of the Eighteen Million, Five Hundred Thousand US Dollars that belonged to the guy who died along with his wife and only daughter in the Alaska Airlines Flight 261 plane crash on January 31st 2000. That happened over 8 years ago and the money’s just sitting there, and we both know things aren’t getting any cheaper! You said it yourself, “Nobody’s coming for it” so we might as well split it. Besides, the late Mr. Morris Thompson an American and great industrialist and a resident of Alaska would want us to have it.
Yours also, Faithfully—
“Friend”
~~~
Dear Mr. Williams,
I am so sorry to hear that your father, a very wealthy Gold/Diamond dealer in Freetown, the economic capital of Sierra Leone, was poisoned to death by his close business associates. I am also terribly sorry that your mother died when you were 15 years old.
I am honored that you followed your father’s dying words and chose me to be the honest foreigner from the country of your choice to assist you in keeping his fortune of Twenty Six MILLION DOLLARS in safe hands. It’s too bad your uncle wants to kill you because of that certificate of deposits. It’s inconceivable that he’s not content with already having secured your father’s property.
It really was “Devine Mercy” that kept you from eating that delicious poisoned rice meal. I’ll bet you weren’t hungry anymore after you dumped it in the trash and later found those two dead rats soon afterwards. People around you are pretty big on that poisoning thing. Maybe you should invest in a professional food tester.
Anyway, I will gladly:
1. stand as your late father's foreign partner since you late father deposited it to be clem by his foreign partner and no name was mentioned,
and
2. help you come over to your country to further your education.
Come on over--you picked a great country—they don’t call it the land of opportunity for nothing.
Sincerely
Yours,
“Dearest One”
~~~
Dear Mrs Rita Charles from Scotland:
Sorry to hear that you are a deaf and suffering from a long time cancer of the breast which also affected your brain. I’m so glad to hear that your husband and you are “true Christians” but awfully sorry to hear that he quite unfortunately died in a fatal motor accident.
Maybe you should go against the courageous advising of your doctors and use your faith to help you believe that you will live beyond the next two months, even though “the cancer stage has reached a critical stage.” I realize you have lost your ability to talk, but since you have a laptop in a hospital where you have been undergoing treatment, you’re not completely cut off--I mean, you wrote to me, right?
If it is truly your wish for me, good humanitarian, to also use your inherited $31.5million dollars to fund churches, orphanages and widows around, then who am I to deny your wish? I fully understand that this was a very hard decision, and I know you had to take a bold step towards this issue. I certainly will help you see your last wishes come true.
Sincerely,
“Beloved”
~~~
Dear Mrs. Alexis Henziluo:
Thank you for your message titled: “CONGRATULTIONS - BEIJING OLYMPIC NOTIFICATION”, however I don’t remember entering my email address into the the NLF ONLINE International Lottery BEIJING WORLD CYBER OLYMPICS GAMES 2008 Lottery programs. Are you sure your computer ballot system that drew from 20,000 companies and 30,000,000 individuals e-mail addresses from all over the world as part your automobile business and telecommunication promotion programmed in hong kong and china is legal?
If it is, I will gladly take a lump sum pay out of USD$ 500,000.00 (Five hundred thousand United States Dollars) from a total sum of USD $2,500,000.00 shared amongst the first 5 lucky winners entered in their 1st category, BEIJING WORLD CYBER OLYMPICS GAMES 2008 FORTUNE LOTTO DRAW.
THANK YOU!!!
~~~
Dear Brian Smith:
I am delighted to learn that I am one of the THREE LUCKY
WINNERS whose e-mail address won the sum payout of £500,000
pounds.(Five Hundred Thousand Pounds Sterlings Only) in the DELL
ELECTRONICS SEASONAL AWARD 2008.
I can’t believe my luck; especially since I was chosen through a
computer ballot system drawn from over 30,000 company and 50,000,000
individual email addresses and names from all over the world. I also can’t believe I’ve won when I’ve never purchased anything from Dell in my entire life or that an American company would give out prize money in pounds.
~~~
Dear Mr Walter
You’re right; your message did come to me as a surprise. I will most certainly offer my assistance transferring the sum of ($39.5)million to from the African Development Bank, Ouagadougou Burkina faso to my account within 10 or 14 banking days. I understand that this money belonged to your deceased customer late Mr.George Small who died along with his supposed next of kin in an air crash since 31st October 1999. I guess there are a lot of rich people dying with all of their closest relatives in plane crashes these days.
Consider this my urgent response.
Best Regard,
“Friend”
~~~
Dear Mrs Elizabeth Johnson
Your letter did come to me as a surprise, and between all of the prize winning and the requests for help with transferring percentages of large inheritances to my bank account, let me tell you--I’ve been getting a lot of surprises these days. Even so, I can’t believe you, Mrs Elizabeth Johnson, from Liberia Monrovia 48years old and residing in Nigeria with your only son Prince Johnson Jr., contacted little ol’ me for help.
So you want to use the fund $ 7.5m (Seven Million Five Hundred Thousand USD) that your late husband who was until his death the former Army Chief during the regime of Charles Taylor deposited in the Security/finance house to move out of Nigeria to my country for investment? I realize you cry for Help, but I’m sorry, but I’ve already taken someone else up on a similar offer. Good luck and in the future be more careful who you share your personal information with; there are people running scams out there!
Below are some of my responses to my random benefactors.
~~~
Dear Mr. Zunga,
Why wouldn’t your mail meet my personal ethics? According to you, this transaction is totally free of risk and troubles as the fund is legitimate and does not originate from drug, money laundry, terrorism or any other illegal act. You’re absolutely right, it’s perfectly legal to give me 35% of the Eighteen Million, Five Hundred Thousand US Dollars that belonged to the guy who died along with his wife and only daughter in the Alaska Airlines Flight 261 plane crash on January 31st 2000. That happened over 8 years ago and the money’s just sitting there, and we both know things aren’t getting any cheaper! You said it yourself, “Nobody’s coming for it” so we might as well split it. Besides, the late Mr. Morris Thompson an American and great industrialist and a resident of Alaska would want us to have it.
Yours also, Faithfully—
“Friend”
~~~
Dear Mr. Williams,
I am so sorry to hear that your father, a very wealthy Gold/Diamond dealer in Freetown, the economic capital of Sierra Leone, was poisoned to death by his close business associates. I am also terribly sorry that your mother died when you were 15 years old.
I am honored that you followed your father’s dying words and chose me to be the honest foreigner from the country of your choice to assist you in keeping his fortune of Twenty Six MILLION DOLLARS in safe hands. It’s too bad your uncle wants to kill you because of that certificate of deposits. It’s inconceivable that he’s not content with already having secured your father’s property.
It really was “Devine Mercy” that kept you from eating that delicious poisoned rice meal. I’ll bet you weren’t hungry anymore after you dumped it in the trash and later found those two dead rats soon afterwards. People around you are pretty big on that poisoning thing. Maybe you should invest in a professional food tester.
Anyway, I will gladly:
1. stand as your late father's foreign partner since you late father deposited it to be clem by his foreign partner and no name was mentioned,
and
2. help you come over to your country to further your education.
Come on over--you picked a great country—they don’t call it the land of opportunity for nothing.
Sincerely
Yours,
“Dearest One”
~~~
Dear Mrs Rita Charles from Scotland:
Sorry to hear that you are a deaf and suffering from a long time cancer of the breast which also affected your brain. I’m so glad to hear that your husband and you are “true Christians” but awfully sorry to hear that he quite unfortunately died in a fatal motor accident.
Maybe you should go against the courageous advising of your doctors and use your faith to help you believe that you will live beyond the next two months, even though “the cancer stage has reached a critical stage.” I realize you have lost your ability to talk, but since you have a laptop in a hospital where you have been undergoing treatment, you’re not completely cut off--I mean, you wrote to me, right?
If it is truly your wish for me, good humanitarian, to also use your inherited $31.5million dollars to fund churches, orphanages and widows around, then who am I to deny your wish? I fully understand that this was a very hard decision, and I know you had to take a bold step towards this issue. I certainly will help you see your last wishes come true.
Sincerely,
“Beloved”
~~~
Dear Mrs. Alexis Henziluo:
Thank you for your message titled: “CONGRATULTIONS - BEIJING OLYMPIC NOTIFICATION”, however I don’t remember entering my email address into the the NLF ONLINE International Lottery BEIJING WORLD CYBER OLYMPICS GAMES 2008 Lottery programs. Are you sure your computer ballot system that drew from 20,000 companies and 30,000,000 individuals e-mail addresses from all over the world as part your automobile business and telecommunication promotion programmed in hong kong and china is legal?
If it is, I will gladly take a lump sum pay out of USD$ 500,000.00 (Five hundred thousand United States Dollars) from a total sum of USD $2,500,000.00 shared amongst the first 5 lucky winners entered in their 1st category, BEIJING WORLD CYBER OLYMPICS GAMES 2008 FORTUNE LOTTO DRAW.
THANK YOU!!!
~~~
Dear Brian Smith:
I am delighted to learn that I am one of the THREE LUCKY
WINNERS whose e-mail address won the sum payout of £500,000
pounds.(Five Hundred Thousand Pounds Sterlings Only) in the DELL
ELECTRONICS SEASONAL AWARD 2008.
I can’t believe my luck; especially since I was chosen through a
computer ballot system drawn from over 30,000 company and 50,000,000
individual email addresses and names from all over the world. I also can’t believe I’ve won when I’ve never purchased anything from Dell in my entire life or that an American company would give out prize money in pounds.
~~~
Dear Mr Walter
You’re right; your message did come to me as a surprise. I will most certainly offer my assistance transferring the sum of ($39.5)million to from the African Development Bank, Ouagadougou Burkina faso to my account within 10 or 14 banking days. I understand that this money belonged to your deceased customer late Mr.George Small who died along with his supposed next of kin in an air crash since 31st October 1999. I guess there are a lot of rich people dying with all of their closest relatives in plane crashes these days.
Consider this my urgent response.
Best Regard,
“Friend”
~~~
Dear Mrs Elizabeth Johnson
Your letter did come to me as a surprise, and between all of the prize winning and the requests for help with transferring percentages of large inheritances to my bank account, let me tell you--I’ve been getting a lot of surprises these days. Even so, I can’t believe you, Mrs Elizabeth Johnson, from Liberia Monrovia 48years old and residing in Nigeria with your only son Prince Johnson Jr., contacted little ol’ me for help.
So you want to use the fund $ 7.5m (Seven Million Five Hundred Thousand USD) that your late husband who was until his death the former Army Chief during the regime of Charles Taylor deposited in the Security/finance house to move out of Nigeria to my country for investment? I realize you cry for Help, but I’m sorry, but I’ve already taken someone else up on a similar offer. Good luck and in the future be more careful who you share your personal information with; there are people running scams out there!
6.25.2008
Blasted
The following is a letter I sent earlier this year regarding a dependent care flex spending account reimbursement. It took a lot of time, energy and aggravation to get me to the point of writing this complaint, but true to the old cliché, the squeaky wheel got the grease; I eventually got everything back. I really do believe “they” make this shit hard (when it shouldn’t be) so people don’t want to bother claiming their own money.
To whom it may concern:
I am writing regarding your claim process for the flexible spending accounts. In March 2008, I submitted a claim for the total in my 2007 Dependent care FSA ($1200.00). Later that month, I received a check for $598.36. Because I did not submit all of the receipts that covered the timeframe from July-December 2007, this was understandable, so I submitted another claim for $601.64, which was exactly what remained in my account.
When I checked online to follow up on my claim, I saw that the second claim had been entered into the system and the amount that I was going to be reimbursed was $301.64, which left exactly $300.00 in my account. I can assure you that at $265.00 a week for 16 weeks and an additional $218.00 a week for 10 weeks for child care, what I am requesting back from my account is a drop in the bucket when compared to the total amount that I spent for childcare from 2 July through 31 December 2007. If there is any question, check the second claim submitted for $601.64 and you will find the receipts for each week of this timeframe. The customer service representative (“Nate”), who I spoke to this morning confirmed that these receipts were there.
So far, I have called customer service twice with no confirmation that this claim will be settled. In fact, after I called earlier this week (8 April 2008), I see that there has been a third claim submitted for the amount of $301.64. In addition to this update, I saw that the new claim was denied because:
“$301.64 of the submitted expense is not reimbursable because it was considered for payment on a previous claim.”
Please check the record again. Nowhere in my paperwork did I ask for $301.64; I asked for $601.64, which was exactly what remained in my 2007 account. Aetna reimbursed $301.64 and I am guessing that this was an error from the person processing the claim mistyping on the number keypad (the 3 is directly below the 6). There is no logical reason for exactly $300.00 to be left in that account. Therefore the third and final claim for 2007 should be for $300.00 exactly and it should be reimbursed in full.
While the customer service representatives have been polite and cooperative, there is no acknowledgement that the second claim was submitted correctly and that the error lies with Aetna’s processing. Basically, I am using my time to correct a mistake that was not my fault so I can get back my own money. The general response is usually “Let me get this to a processor” (which is some nameless, faceless entity that customers apparently can not speak to directly). Nate promised he would return a call to me today, but the person I spoke to on Wednesday came back with “Call us on Friday.” Why am I being told to call back to follow up when someone should have been contacting me in a timely manner? Oh, right, because it’s not their money and they don’t really care what happens. Kind of a “Good luck with that” mentality. This pervades the Aetna website too, it’s hard to find a phone number anywhere; the only reason I have it is because I have a member card from my husband’s medical coverage. There, at the bottom, in the smallest legible print is the 1-800 number. Somewhere along the line between the maddening automated phone menu and the ominous claim processing system, the message seems to be that Aetna does not want its members to call for help. If you make something that should be fairly easy into a time consuming, more-difficult-than-it-should-be task, then people will give up trying to claim that last bit of their own money because it’s simply not worth the trouble. Good for Aetna, bad for any customers whose claims were not full reimbursed.
I have to admit that strategy is working because I already regret starting a Dependent care FSA for 2008 and I am seriously considering claiming a tax deduction instead of going through your arduous claim process. Next year I will likely to switch from my husband’s health care to a different company, even if it costs us a bit more. Treat your customers like they matter and they will be loyal, and on the flip side, treat them poorly and eventually you will not have them around to bother you any longer.
Given my complaints, I have to say, the customer service representative who worked with me (“Alice”) last year was a great deal more helpful and seemed to care about my reimbursement. Maybe the next time I call (given the history, there will be a next time) I will get lucky and find someone like that. Probably not.
I am the customer, this is my money and I fail to understand what is taking so long when the receipts are there and I have re-sent the claim with receipts to prove that I spent well over that amount in the 6 months that was covered as well as a short letter clearly stating that I was asking for $601.64 which was the remainder in my account. If this letter spares others from the trouble I have gone through in getting my own money returned to me, then maybe it was worth it. (Probably not)
Thank you.
To whom it may concern:
I am writing regarding your claim process for the flexible spending accounts. In March 2008, I submitted a claim for the total in my 2007 Dependent care FSA ($1200.00). Later that month, I received a check for $598.36. Because I did not submit all of the receipts that covered the timeframe from July-December 2007, this was understandable, so I submitted another claim for $601.64, which was exactly what remained in my account.
When I checked online to follow up on my claim, I saw that the second claim had been entered into the system and the amount that I was going to be reimbursed was $301.64, which left exactly $300.00 in my account. I can assure you that at $265.00 a week for 16 weeks and an additional $218.00 a week for 10 weeks for child care, what I am requesting back from my account is a drop in the bucket when compared to the total amount that I spent for childcare from 2 July through 31 December 2007. If there is any question, check the second claim submitted for $601.64 and you will find the receipts for each week of this timeframe. The customer service representative (“Nate”), who I spoke to this morning confirmed that these receipts were there.
So far, I have called customer service twice with no confirmation that this claim will be settled. In fact, after I called earlier this week (8 April 2008), I see that there has been a third claim submitted for the amount of $301.64. In addition to this update, I saw that the new claim was denied because:
“$301.64 of the submitted expense is not reimbursable because it was considered for payment on a previous claim.”
Please check the record again. Nowhere in my paperwork did I ask for $301.64; I asked for $601.64, which was exactly what remained in my 2007 account. Aetna reimbursed $301.64 and I am guessing that this was an error from the person processing the claim mistyping on the number keypad (the 3 is directly below the 6). There is no logical reason for exactly $300.00 to be left in that account. Therefore the third and final claim for 2007 should be for $300.00 exactly and it should be reimbursed in full.
While the customer service representatives have been polite and cooperative, there is no acknowledgement that the second claim was submitted correctly and that the error lies with Aetna’s processing. Basically, I am using my time to correct a mistake that was not my fault so I can get back my own money. The general response is usually “Let me get this to a processor” (which is some nameless, faceless entity that customers apparently can not speak to directly). Nate promised he would return a call to me today, but the person I spoke to on Wednesday came back with “Call us on Friday.” Why am I being told to call back to follow up when someone should have been contacting me in a timely manner? Oh, right, because it’s not their money and they don’t really care what happens. Kind of a “Good luck with that” mentality. This pervades the Aetna website too, it’s hard to find a phone number anywhere; the only reason I have it is because I have a member card from my husband’s medical coverage. There, at the bottom, in the smallest legible print is the 1-800 number. Somewhere along the line between the maddening automated phone menu and the ominous claim processing system, the message seems to be that Aetna does not want its members to call for help. If you make something that should be fairly easy into a time consuming, more-difficult-than-it-should-be task, then people will give up trying to claim that last bit of their own money because it’s simply not worth the trouble. Good for Aetna, bad for any customers whose claims were not full reimbursed.
I have to admit that strategy is working because I already regret starting a Dependent care FSA for 2008 and I am seriously considering claiming a tax deduction instead of going through your arduous claim process. Next year I will likely to switch from my husband’s health care to a different company, even if it costs us a bit more. Treat your customers like they matter and they will be loyal, and on the flip side, treat them poorly and eventually you will not have them around to bother you any longer.
Given my complaints, I have to say, the customer service representative who worked with me (“Alice”) last year was a great deal more helpful and seemed to care about my reimbursement. Maybe the next time I call (given the history, there will be a next time) I will get lucky and find someone like that. Probably not.
I am the customer, this is my money and I fail to understand what is taking so long when the receipts are there and I have re-sent the claim with receipts to prove that I spent well over that amount in the 6 months that was covered as well as a short letter clearly stating that I was asking for $601.64 which was the remainder in my account. If this letter spares others from the trouble I have gone through in getting my own money returned to me, then maybe it was worth it. (Probably not)
Thank you.
6.18.2008
In Search Of Seymour Butts
During my illustrious year serving as a platoon leader in the Republic of Korea, I had to deal with a myriad of situations. Like Las Vegas, Korea was one of those places where people arrived and thought “What happens here stays here.” It wasn’t like being stateside, when you went home and had someone to answer to at the end of the day. No, this was half a world away with the Pacific Ocean separating you from the Good ol’ U.S. of A. If you didn’t call home you could say you were out in the field or explain that you were trying to save money. If you did call, you could tell the person on the other end a number of lies. It wasn’t like they could ever check up on you. Many people viewed this level of freedom as a doorway of opportunity.
One of those people was a sergeant in my platoon. He was a section leader—an E-5 in his mid-twenties. Sergeant Seymour was a tall man, with a medium build and glasses that implied intelligence. I gathered that he had a wife and five year old son back in Fort Bliss, Texas, but he hardly mentioned them. There were three other section leaders, guys that were all E-5’s and E-6’s and of course, there was my right hand man, the platoon sergeant, an E-7.
Our platoon was on Osan airbase just south of Seoul. The main gate butted against Songtan, a town packed with shops catered to the whims of the American dollar. Songtan had nightclubs, travel agencies, bedding stores, custom tailors, restaurants, and a number of shops that pushed “authentic” leather Coach bags. Despite all of this civilization (to include the airbase), the platoon’s site was on the far side of the runway, closer to a sea of rice paddies than to the Burger King and the Commissary. We were so far out that we didn’t even have plumbing because there were no pipes that ran from the main section of the base beyond the runway. We had two trailers and three port-a-potties and an unpaved lot filled with rocks far too big to pass for gravel. This isolation plus a rotating schedule of 24 hour shifts made the group closer. Almost everyone had a nickname, most of which were coined by Sergeant Borges, one of the section leaders and the resident comedian. He could make fun of people far above his pay grade, do it right to their faces, and they wouldn’t get mad because his delivery always involved a smile or an impish glint in his eye, as if to say, if I find it funny, so should you. I also believe this same quality was the reason why he an E-5 at the age of 35, while his friend and peer, the 33 year old platoon sergeant, was two steps ahead and already looking forward to a promotion. While Sergeant Borges had moments that displayed his leadership potential, no one took him seriously.
“Seymour Butts!”
The platoon headquarters trailer had an announcement system that Sergeant Borges liked to play with. The thing had a siren and a number of other amplified blips and beeps.
(click)
*siren*
“Is Seymour Butts around? I want a Seymour Butts?” Sergeant Borges announced, resurrecting the old Bart Simpson phone prank to beckon Sergeant Seymour.
Everyone in the platoon was a legal adult, but no one was above grade school humor. Whenever Sergeant Borges made one of his announcements, anybody within hearing range would stop what they were doing and laugh, or at least crack a smile. Our isolated site and the constant roar of jet engines protected these announcements from being heard by anyone but us. This was our island.
(click)
*siren*
“Seymour Butts?”
Sergeant Seymour always went along with the joke. He seemed to be an easy going guy who didn’t readily socialize with the other sergeants, preferring to keep to himself. He did well on P.T. tests but otherwise wasn’t a golden boy or a problem child. He was just your average, run-of-the-mill junior NCO.
~~
“Does anyone know where he is?” demanded our commander.
She was a 28 year old captain juggling a battery consisting of three platoons. Her office was on Suwon airbase, ten miles from the battery’s location on Osan and this separation worked to our advantage, affording us ample goof off time. We knew she couldn’t be at the maintenance, fire control or launcher platoon sites AND in her office all at once. And if she left the office, someone usually had enough sense to call ahead and warn everyone that she was on her way. This gave us a 30-45 minute lead to get things straightened up for her arrival. The only times she had the entire battery in one place was in the mornings, during formation, and in the evenings, during formations. It was a morning formation when we discovered Sergeant Seymour was gone.
“He wasn’t in his room, ma’am.” Said my platoon sergeant. “We already checked.”
The commander wasn’t happy with this. A vertical line was etched into her forehead, right between her eyebrows. By the end of her year in command, I thought, that thing’s going to be as deep as the Mariana Trench.
She dismissed everyone else and kept me, the XO and my platoon sergeant around.
“Okay,” she said with a sigh, “maybe there was an accident. Let’s think of the possible places where he might be. XO, call around to the local hospitals.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Replied the XO.
“He wasn’t on duty over the weekend, but he could’ve stayed on site.” My platoon sergeant said. “He might’ve gone out last night and went to the site when it looked like he wasn’t going to make it back to his room on time.”
We tried to come up with plausible reasons to explain the mysterious disappearance of Sergeant Seymour. No matter what scenario we imagined, the conclusion was always this: Something happened that was beyond his control. We didn’t ever consider that his disappearance might have been intentional.
“He’s not in any of the hospitals.”
“He wasn’t on site.”
Those two findings meant this guy was still somewhere out there. Sergeant Borges kept the mood light.
“He fell down drunk and hit his head and he’s out there in Songtan wandering around with a case of amnesia.” He joked. “He can’t figure out why everyone’s calling him ‘Round Eye.’”
A week later, someone spotted him during lunchtime.
“He was standing on the sidewalk across the street!” A private said. Three people from the platoon had seen him just before getting lunch in the food court and they recounted the story to the rest of us as if it were a Bigfoot sighting.
“He was standing right there, but when I waved, he turned and walked away like he didn’t even know us.” This came from one of the soldiers in Sergeant Seymour’s section. She seemed hurt that he had failed to acknowledge her.
~~
“We have to report him as AWOL. It’s already been two weeks.” The commander broke the news to me and my platoon sergeant in her office. “Once we start proceedings, we can have him dropped from the payrolls.”
Among pregnancies, adultery, article 15s and multiple instances of soldiers being sent to the psychology ward (by order or request), having someone go AWOL was a new first for us.
How can someone just disappear?
His room was still completely intact. All of the clothes, civilian and uniform, were still in his closet. He didn’t even have his wallet with him, or his military I.D. How was he getting back through the gates without a military I.D.?
~~
“They got him.”
The phone call wasn’t long after the day of the Bigfoot sighting. The Air force security police captured Sergeant Seymour at the gates when they matched his face to the blown up photocopy of his I.D. card.
“You need to go to the station and pick him up.” My commander told me and my platoon sergeant.
My platoon sergeant used the power of delegation to escape the task. He sent Sergeant Borges with me that night to pick up our wayward soldier.
We rode in my car, a black 1987 Daewoo Prince. There was an unofficial rule that officers should have cars so they didn’t have to rely on a bus to get from the site on Osan back to the headquarters on Suwon. For $500, I had a set of wheels courtesy of the warrant officer who sold me his ride. One of my fellow lieutenants, a guy who spoke Hangul and was engaged to a Korean, explained to me that Koreans didn’t really believe in keeping old cars, after so many years, they wound up in the junk yard. “Tune up” was a foreign concept and my car was long past its expiration date. I wasn’t a religious person, but I said a little prayer every time I got into this car. At 12 years old, it was a miracle the thing was still running.
When we arrived at the station, which was just inside the main gate, one of the airmen greeted us and welcomed us into their waiting area. He wore his uniform with an accessory belt that held a billy club, handcuffs and a pistol.
“You know, he was trying to get back on base and we said, wait a minute—aren’t you that guy that went AWOL? Well, long story short, he’s in the back now.” The guy said. His puffed out chest indicated his obvious pride in catching the legendary Bigfoot.
Sergeant Borges and I waited for our prisoner. The waiting room had a sofa and two chairs, all upholstered in matching brown vinyl, a countertop with the sign in roster, and a hallway that looked like it led back to the holding cells. It reminded me a bit of the waiting room of a doctor’s office. Above the countertop was a banner with the police unit’s motto. “Defending the Force, Maintaining the Peace” it read.
“Well that’s catchy,” Sergeant Borges said after reading it out loud several times, in varying inflections.
“What’s taking so long?” I wondered aloud. We had been sitting there at least 10 minutes and no one was reappearing from the hallway that led to the jail cells.
“I’ll bet they let him go.” Sergeant Borges said.
Five minutes later, I heard two of the airmen talking. The one who welcomed us when we arrived emerged from the hallway. He looked embarrassed.
Sergeant Borges and I rose from our seats.
“So where’s Sergeant Seymour?” I said.
“He went outside on a smoke break and I guess he got back out through the gates.”
“You let him go out on a smoke break?” Sergeant Borges said. “No one went out with him?”
The second airman nodded. “Yes, but he was right outside the door.”
“Let me get this straight, you let the guy who you caught for being AWOL--you let him go?”
“No," the airman replied, "he ran away.”
Sergeant Borges stormed out of the station with a cigarette at the ready. He placed it between his lips and looked at me. “I’m hungry, L.T. You hungry?”
I nodded.
He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. “Let’s go outside the gates before we head back.”
In the short walk through the gates, Sergeant Borges shared his theory. “As soon as Seymour heard our voices he asked for a smoke break and those idiots gave it to them. ‘Defending the Force,’ my ass. If they spent less time coming up with catchy mottos, maybe they’d be able to contain someone who’s unarmed.”
In the middle of the street there was an older Korean woman with a cart of hot food. I knew from experience that some of these carts yielded the best food you’d ever tasted. Who needs filet mignon when you could have meat on a stick?
“You ever tried this, L.T.?” Sergeant Borges said. I shook my head. He greeted the cart’s owner, Miss Kim, and she asked him something.
“Oh no, no.” he said laughing. Sergeant Borges looked at me and smiled. “She asked if we were together.”
The idea was laughable. Sergeant Borges reminded me of the clever older brother that I never had. Ignoring the fact that I was charge of the guy, I was 23 and he was 35; he was old.
“You want one, L.T.? It’s on me.”
Miss Kim’s specialties were burgers topped with fried eggs and condiments. At night, most of the shops were closed, but the clubs were open and the streets and sidewalks were dotted with strategically placed food carts. This was a market catered towards the drunk American servicemembers who stumbled out of the clubs with a hankering.
The burger filled my stomach and took some of the sting out of Sergeant Seymour eluding us once again. By morning, the whole fiasco was just more material for Sergeant Borges to add to his repertoire.
~~
On a Friday evening, I worked with the first sergeant and one of my section leaders to pack up Seymour’s room. Rooms were a commodity and it made no sense to use one as a storage facility for someone who had chosen to leave.
“Twelve shirts.” The first sergeant said, as he piled a bunch of flannel button downs onto Seymour’s stripped mattress.
“No, first sergeant,” said my section leader, who was marking the inventory list, “you have to describe each one.”
The First sergeant rolled his eyes, as if to inform us that he didn’t have time for this shit. He was nearing retirement and Sergeant Seymour’s shenanigans were yet another reminder of why he was ready to leave the Army.
It took a few hours, but we managed to box up Seymour’s clothes, toiletries and computer. A few people came by to see if they could siphon off some of his stuff, but that wasn’t allowed. According to the regulations, everything he had in that room had to be inventoried and stored in cardboard boxes.
Another two weeks passed without any more sightings of Sergeant Seymour. The man who had been nearly invisible while he was around had become a legend in absentia.
After a morning formation, the commander pulled us into her office to tell us she had spoken to Sergeant Seymour’s wife.
“She can’t stay in post housing now that he’s officially AWOL,” she said. “His wife threatened to take this to the press.”
I could imagine the story about the big bad Army kicking out the poor defenseless Army family out of their home. It was a twist on the tale of David and Goliath.
“Let her go to the press,” said the First sergeant, who was clearly tired of the entire situation. “We’re just following the rules. Her issue isn’t with us; it’s with her no-good husband.”
~~
It was Sergeant Borges who trapped Seymour. He took great joy in telling the story multiple times, which was no surprise, given his outgoing personality. He was the hero and had no qualms with promoting himself.
“We were out in Songtan—at a club,” He said, “And we see him hanging out, so I go up to him and invite him over. Then I went to the bar and acted like I was ordering drinks. What I really did was tell the guy next to me:
‘Don’t look at me, don’t talk to me. The guy over there in the
glasses is AWOL. I need you to go to the cops on Osan and get
them down here ASAP.’
He would then lean back and let the suspense build. “So we’re in there smokin’ and jokin’ with him. He had no clue what was about to go down. Next thing you know, the S.P.’s get there and they’re dragging Seymour Butts outta there in cuffs.”
Sergeant Borges claimed that the hardest part was carrying on a normal conversation without checking the door to see if the police had arrived.
I imagined the scene—Sergeant Borges in the acting job of his life is ribbing Seymour the way he always did and Seymour is falling for the trap. What was he thinking, a few beers would mend fences? Didn’t he feel bad when he saw the soldiers he had abandoned, or the other sergeants that he had left to handle his work? The guys were short shifted now, which meant every four days one of the section leaders had to stay on site for a 24 hour rotation. Did he have any remorse?
This time around two people had to watch Seymour until he boarded the plane and left the country. He was stripped of his rank and the guys stuck supervising him hurried to get him outprocessed from the unit and chaptered out of the Army. Seymour didn’t carry himself the same way anymore. He stooped when he moved, the way prisoners do when their wrists are cuffed and their ankles are shackled. He didn’t make eye contact or try to explain or excuse what he did. He did offer me a mumbled apology, and to this day I regret not telling him that I wasn’t the one who needed the apology. All of the other sergeants and soldiers in the platoon were the ones who deserved that.
~~
“He called her from the airport.”
Sergeant Escobedo told us how the story ended. “He called her and told her he was coming back for her.”
It would have been romantic if he wasn’t already married. Sergeant Seymour, husband to an angry wife and father to a five year old son, had thrown away his career and family for a woman he had met during his tour—a woman so captivating that he intended to turn back around for her.
The escorting duties included walking Seymour to the gate of his departing plane and seeing him board. Once you made it that far, you probably had to make sure the gates were shut off and the plane backed away from the terminal before you could truly believe your job was done. Our unit heaved a sigh of relief once the drama had wrapped up. The story wasn’t over yet—Seymour still had to answer to the Army, and to his wife and explain why he thought his crime was justified. Our part, though, our part was over, thanks mostly to the wit of Sergeant Borges.
Epilogue: Several weeks after he was sent home, we received a letter from the Army telling us that Sergeant Seymour was going to be promoted. It was a testament to the slowness of the Army’s administrative process. The guy had been stripped of his rank, and ousted from the Army, yet this piece of paper told an entirely different story. Incredulous, we passed the letter around, had a good laugh, and threw the letter in the trash. To this day I have no idea if Seymour stayed true to his pledge to return to Korea.
One of those people was a sergeant in my platoon. He was a section leader—an E-5 in his mid-twenties. Sergeant Seymour was a tall man, with a medium build and glasses that implied intelligence. I gathered that he had a wife and five year old son back in Fort Bliss, Texas, but he hardly mentioned them. There were three other section leaders, guys that were all E-5’s and E-6’s and of course, there was my right hand man, the platoon sergeant, an E-7.
Our platoon was on Osan airbase just south of Seoul. The main gate butted against Songtan, a town packed with shops catered to the whims of the American dollar. Songtan had nightclubs, travel agencies, bedding stores, custom tailors, restaurants, and a number of shops that pushed “authentic” leather Coach bags. Despite all of this civilization (to include the airbase), the platoon’s site was on the far side of the runway, closer to a sea of rice paddies than to the Burger King and the Commissary. We were so far out that we didn’t even have plumbing because there were no pipes that ran from the main section of the base beyond the runway. We had two trailers and three port-a-potties and an unpaved lot filled with rocks far too big to pass for gravel. This isolation plus a rotating schedule of 24 hour shifts made the group closer. Almost everyone had a nickname, most of which were coined by Sergeant Borges, one of the section leaders and the resident comedian. He could make fun of people far above his pay grade, do it right to their faces, and they wouldn’t get mad because his delivery always involved a smile or an impish glint in his eye, as if to say, if I find it funny, so should you. I also believe this same quality was the reason why he an E-5 at the age of 35, while his friend and peer, the 33 year old platoon sergeant, was two steps ahead and already looking forward to a promotion. While Sergeant Borges had moments that displayed his leadership potential, no one took him seriously.
“Seymour Butts!”
The platoon headquarters trailer had an announcement system that Sergeant Borges liked to play with. The thing had a siren and a number of other amplified blips and beeps.
(click)
*siren*
“Is Seymour Butts around? I want a Seymour Butts?” Sergeant Borges announced, resurrecting the old Bart Simpson phone prank to beckon Sergeant Seymour.
Everyone in the platoon was a legal adult, but no one was above grade school humor. Whenever Sergeant Borges made one of his announcements, anybody within hearing range would stop what they were doing and laugh, or at least crack a smile. Our isolated site and the constant roar of jet engines protected these announcements from being heard by anyone but us. This was our island.
(click)
*siren*
“Seymour Butts?”
Sergeant Seymour always went along with the joke. He seemed to be an easy going guy who didn’t readily socialize with the other sergeants, preferring to keep to himself. He did well on P.T. tests but otherwise wasn’t a golden boy or a problem child. He was just your average, run-of-the-mill junior NCO.
~~
“Does anyone know where he is?” demanded our commander.
She was a 28 year old captain juggling a battery consisting of three platoons. Her office was on Suwon airbase, ten miles from the battery’s location on Osan and this separation worked to our advantage, affording us ample goof off time. We knew she couldn’t be at the maintenance, fire control or launcher platoon sites AND in her office all at once. And if she left the office, someone usually had enough sense to call ahead and warn everyone that she was on her way. This gave us a 30-45 minute lead to get things straightened up for her arrival. The only times she had the entire battery in one place was in the mornings, during formation, and in the evenings, during formations. It was a morning formation when we discovered Sergeant Seymour was gone.
“He wasn’t in his room, ma’am.” Said my platoon sergeant. “We already checked.”
The commander wasn’t happy with this. A vertical line was etched into her forehead, right between her eyebrows. By the end of her year in command, I thought, that thing’s going to be as deep as the Mariana Trench.
She dismissed everyone else and kept me, the XO and my platoon sergeant around.
“Okay,” she said with a sigh, “maybe there was an accident. Let’s think of the possible places where he might be. XO, call around to the local hospitals.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Replied the XO.
“He wasn’t on duty over the weekend, but he could’ve stayed on site.” My platoon sergeant said. “He might’ve gone out last night and went to the site when it looked like he wasn’t going to make it back to his room on time.”
We tried to come up with plausible reasons to explain the mysterious disappearance of Sergeant Seymour. No matter what scenario we imagined, the conclusion was always this: Something happened that was beyond his control. We didn’t ever consider that his disappearance might have been intentional.
“He’s not in any of the hospitals.”
“He wasn’t on site.”
Those two findings meant this guy was still somewhere out there. Sergeant Borges kept the mood light.
“He fell down drunk and hit his head and he’s out there in Songtan wandering around with a case of amnesia.” He joked. “He can’t figure out why everyone’s calling him ‘Round Eye.’”
A week later, someone spotted him during lunchtime.
“He was standing on the sidewalk across the street!” A private said. Three people from the platoon had seen him just before getting lunch in the food court and they recounted the story to the rest of us as if it were a Bigfoot sighting.
“He was standing right there, but when I waved, he turned and walked away like he didn’t even know us.” This came from one of the soldiers in Sergeant Seymour’s section. She seemed hurt that he had failed to acknowledge her.
~~
“We have to report him as AWOL. It’s already been two weeks.” The commander broke the news to me and my platoon sergeant in her office. “Once we start proceedings, we can have him dropped from the payrolls.”
Among pregnancies, adultery, article 15s and multiple instances of soldiers being sent to the psychology ward (by order or request), having someone go AWOL was a new first for us.
How can someone just disappear?
His room was still completely intact. All of the clothes, civilian and uniform, were still in his closet. He didn’t even have his wallet with him, or his military I.D. How was he getting back through the gates without a military I.D.?
~~
“They got him.”
The phone call wasn’t long after the day of the Bigfoot sighting. The Air force security police captured Sergeant Seymour at the gates when they matched his face to the blown up photocopy of his I.D. card.
“You need to go to the station and pick him up.” My commander told me and my platoon sergeant.
My platoon sergeant used the power of delegation to escape the task. He sent Sergeant Borges with me that night to pick up our wayward soldier.
We rode in my car, a black 1987 Daewoo Prince. There was an unofficial rule that officers should have cars so they didn’t have to rely on a bus to get from the site on Osan back to the headquarters on Suwon. For $500, I had a set of wheels courtesy of the warrant officer who sold me his ride. One of my fellow lieutenants, a guy who spoke Hangul and was engaged to a Korean, explained to me that Koreans didn’t really believe in keeping old cars, after so many years, they wound up in the junk yard. “Tune up” was a foreign concept and my car was long past its expiration date. I wasn’t a religious person, but I said a little prayer every time I got into this car. At 12 years old, it was a miracle the thing was still running.
When we arrived at the station, which was just inside the main gate, one of the airmen greeted us and welcomed us into their waiting area. He wore his uniform with an accessory belt that held a billy club, handcuffs and a pistol.
“You know, he was trying to get back on base and we said, wait a minute—aren’t you that guy that went AWOL? Well, long story short, he’s in the back now.” The guy said. His puffed out chest indicated his obvious pride in catching the legendary Bigfoot.
Sergeant Borges and I waited for our prisoner. The waiting room had a sofa and two chairs, all upholstered in matching brown vinyl, a countertop with the sign in roster, and a hallway that looked like it led back to the holding cells. It reminded me a bit of the waiting room of a doctor’s office. Above the countertop was a banner with the police unit’s motto. “Defending the Force, Maintaining the Peace” it read.
“Well that’s catchy,” Sergeant Borges said after reading it out loud several times, in varying inflections.
“What’s taking so long?” I wondered aloud. We had been sitting there at least 10 minutes and no one was reappearing from the hallway that led to the jail cells.
“I’ll bet they let him go.” Sergeant Borges said.
Five minutes later, I heard two of the airmen talking. The one who welcomed us when we arrived emerged from the hallway. He looked embarrassed.
Sergeant Borges and I rose from our seats.
“So where’s Sergeant Seymour?” I said.
“He went outside on a smoke break and I guess he got back out through the gates.”
“You let him go out on a smoke break?” Sergeant Borges said. “No one went out with him?”
The second airman nodded. “Yes, but he was right outside the door.”
“Let me get this straight, you let the guy who you caught for being AWOL--you let him go?”
“No," the airman replied, "he ran away.”
Sergeant Borges stormed out of the station with a cigarette at the ready. He placed it between his lips and looked at me. “I’m hungry, L.T. You hungry?”
I nodded.
He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. “Let’s go outside the gates before we head back.”
In the short walk through the gates, Sergeant Borges shared his theory. “As soon as Seymour heard our voices he asked for a smoke break and those idiots gave it to them. ‘Defending the Force,’ my ass. If they spent less time coming up with catchy mottos, maybe they’d be able to contain someone who’s unarmed.”
In the middle of the street there was an older Korean woman with a cart of hot food. I knew from experience that some of these carts yielded the best food you’d ever tasted. Who needs filet mignon when you could have meat on a stick?
“You ever tried this, L.T.?” Sergeant Borges said. I shook my head. He greeted the cart’s owner, Miss Kim, and she asked him something.
“Oh no, no.” he said laughing. Sergeant Borges looked at me and smiled. “She asked if we were together.”
The idea was laughable. Sergeant Borges reminded me of the clever older brother that I never had. Ignoring the fact that I was charge of the guy, I was 23 and he was 35; he was old.
“You want one, L.T.? It’s on me.”
Miss Kim’s specialties were burgers topped with fried eggs and condiments. At night, most of the shops were closed, but the clubs were open and the streets and sidewalks were dotted with strategically placed food carts. This was a market catered towards the drunk American servicemembers who stumbled out of the clubs with a hankering.
The burger filled my stomach and took some of the sting out of Sergeant Seymour eluding us once again. By morning, the whole fiasco was just more material for Sergeant Borges to add to his repertoire.
~~
On a Friday evening, I worked with the first sergeant and one of my section leaders to pack up Seymour’s room. Rooms were a commodity and it made no sense to use one as a storage facility for someone who had chosen to leave.
“Twelve shirts.” The first sergeant said, as he piled a bunch of flannel button downs onto Seymour’s stripped mattress.
“No, first sergeant,” said my section leader, who was marking the inventory list, “you have to describe each one.”
The First sergeant rolled his eyes, as if to inform us that he didn’t have time for this shit. He was nearing retirement and Sergeant Seymour’s shenanigans were yet another reminder of why he was ready to leave the Army.
It took a few hours, but we managed to box up Seymour’s clothes, toiletries and computer. A few people came by to see if they could siphon off some of his stuff, but that wasn’t allowed. According to the regulations, everything he had in that room had to be inventoried and stored in cardboard boxes.
Another two weeks passed without any more sightings of Sergeant Seymour. The man who had been nearly invisible while he was around had become a legend in absentia.
After a morning formation, the commander pulled us into her office to tell us she had spoken to Sergeant Seymour’s wife.
“She can’t stay in post housing now that he’s officially AWOL,” she said. “His wife threatened to take this to the press.”
I could imagine the story about the big bad Army kicking out the poor defenseless Army family out of their home. It was a twist on the tale of David and Goliath.
“Let her go to the press,” said the First sergeant, who was clearly tired of the entire situation. “We’re just following the rules. Her issue isn’t with us; it’s with her no-good husband.”
~~
It was Sergeant Borges who trapped Seymour. He took great joy in telling the story multiple times, which was no surprise, given his outgoing personality. He was the hero and had no qualms with promoting himself.
“We were out in Songtan—at a club,” He said, “And we see him hanging out, so I go up to him and invite him over. Then I went to the bar and acted like I was ordering drinks. What I really did was tell the guy next to me:
‘Don’t look at me, don’t talk to me. The guy over there in the
glasses is AWOL. I need you to go to the cops on Osan and get
them down here ASAP.’
He would then lean back and let the suspense build. “So we’re in there smokin’ and jokin’ with him. He had no clue what was about to go down. Next thing you know, the S.P.’s get there and they’re dragging Seymour Butts outta there in cuffs.”
Sergeant Borges claimed that the hardest part was carrying on a normal conversation without checking the door to see if the police had arrived.
I imagined the scene—Sergeant Borges in the acting job of his life is ribbing Seymour the way he always did and Seymour is falling for the trap. What was he thinking, a few beers would mend fences? Didn’t he feel bad when he saw the soldiers he had abandoned, or the other sergeants that he had left to handle his work? The guys were short shifted now, which meant every four days one of the section leaders had to stay on site for a 24 hour rotation. Did he have any remorse?
This time around two people had to watch Seymour until he boarded the plane and left the country. He was stripped of his rank and the guys stuck supervising him hurried to get him outprocessed from the unit and chaptered out of the Army. Seymour didn’t carry himself the same way anymore. He stooped when he moved, the way prisoners do when their wrists are cuffed and their ankles are shackled. He didn’t make eye contact or try to explain or excuse what he did. He did offer me a mumbled apology, and to this day I regret not telling him that I wasn’t the one who needed the apology. All of the other sergeants and soldiers in the platoon were the ones who deserved that.
~~
“He called her from the airport.”
Sergeant Escobedo told us how the story ended. “He called her and told her he was coming back for her.”
It would have been romantic if he wasn’t already married. Sergeant Seymour, husband to an angry wife and father to a five year old son, had thrown away his career and family for a woman he had met during his tour—a woman so captivating that he intended to turn back around for her.
The escorting duties included walking Seymour to the gate of his departing plane and seeing him board. Once you made it that far, you probably had to make sure the gates were shut off and the plane backed away from the terminal before you could truly believe your job was done. Our unit heaved a sigh of relief once the drama had wrapped up. The story wasn’t over yet—Seymour still had to answer to the Army, and to his wife and explain why he thought his crime was justified. Our part, though, our part was over, thanks mostly to the wit of Sergeant Borges.
Epilogue: Several weeks after he was sent home, we received a letter from the Army telling us that Sergeant Seymour was going to be promoted. It was a testament to the slowness of the Army’s administrative process. The guy had been stripped of his rank, and ousted from the Army, yet this piece of paper told an entirely different story. Incredulous, we passed the letter around, had a good laugh, and threw the letter in the trash. To this day I have no idea if Seymour stayed true to his pledge to return to Korea.
6.12.2008
Top Secret Mission
I’ve held a secret clearance since it was granted to me by the government in 1994. I’ve renewed that secret clearance once--every ten years you're required to update your information to keep your record current. The 2004 update involved an extensive questionnaire on the computer and a short follow up with an investigating agent, just to clarify some of the details.
When my boss put in an application for me to upgrade to Top Secret, I had no idea what I was in for.
The questionnaire was twice as long as the secret one, with much of the same material I had already submitted. “Don’t they already have this stuff?” I asked myself as I typed out the addresses of the places I’ve lived. Not a whole lot has changed since 2004. It should’ve been stored somewhere, because what was the point of entering all of that information if it wasn’t being saved somewhere?
I submitted my responses and printed out a confirmation—or so I thought.
“Your information didn’t go through, are you sure you submitted the application?” asked the security officer.
“Oh, yeah, yeah.”
“I didn’t get a response from the system yet; I don't think it went through.”
“Really? But I could have sworn--”
Upon further inspection, it appeared that I missed a few questions and I needed to go back and fill them in.
“Mother’s naturalization number?” The cursor blinked on the screen; I wasn’t allowed to sign out without first entering these numbers. If you’re applying for a top secret clearance, it doesn’t work to your favor to have a foreign born parent or spouse, even if they hail from non-threatening countries. You just never know what Italy and Jamaica are plotting. And you don’t truly know where your relatives' loyalties lie, do you?
I called my mom and got a busy signal. Called again, busy signal. She was tying up the line scheming with the Italian side of the family, I just knew it.
Finally I got through and she read off the numbers from her naturalization papers. “Write it down and keep it somewhere safe.” She said. We went through the same drill in 2004. “Okay, I will.” I said. It’s scribbled in pencil on a crumpled Post-It on my desk somewhere.
I had the dates and numbers from my in-laws’ certificate too, since apparently if you move to this country when you’re 6 years old, you don’t get your own papers.
I finished the questionnaire and submitted it at last. Now all I had to do was sit back and wait for my new and improved clearance to come through.
“Some girl called me to talk about you.” My best friend said. I put her name and contact info in the online questionnaire because she could vouch for me, and apparently there was a female investigator already handling the follow up.
“We talked for like 20 minutes.” Said my friend.
She had given all sorts of information beyond the basic facts. “I told her you were my moral compass.” She said.
I smiled, imagining the investigator writing down “moral compass” onto her little notepad.
Months later I got the call for my own interview. “When’s a good time?” He asked over the phone.
“Oh, how about tomorrow…morning-ish?”
“10 a.m.?”
“Sure, I’ll be around.” I said. How hard could this be—an interview outlining the stuff I already told them.
The intervestigator was dreamy, with icy blue eyes and deliberately styled short brown hair. The only flaw in his appearance were the puppet lines near his mouth. I had at least 4 years on the guy and I didn’t have puppet lines. How could he be so young and already have puppet lines?
“Oh, let’s get you signed in and then we can go back to the room near where I sit.” I said.
Once we were through with the formalities, the investigator went through my questionnaire responses line by line.
“How long were you at the Lee Street address?” he said.
“A year and a half.”
Even though I thought I had answered everything accurately, I messed up the timeframe from one of my jobs. The investigator regarded me with a raised eyebrow.
“So you worked full time at both of these locations?”
I looked at the printout he held and realized my flub.
“Oh, no, no,” I said, attempting a smile, “Ha-ha, no, I wasn't working two full time jobs from December 2004 through May 2005. I meant December 2003 through May 2004. My mistake.”
He got into my military service record. I took my time finding a new national guard unit after moving from Texas to Maryland. Ten months, to be specific. I served what I believed to be enough to ride out the rest of my obligation and “retired” from my military career within a year of joining my unit. For some reason, my mind had this as two years. I even told the interviewer the wrong date, fully believing I hadn’t bailed out earlier. Then, when he was going over his notes, he laid out the alibi option.
“Are you willing to agree that all of this information is true to the best of your knowledge?” Here was my chance to set things straight.
“Yes,” I said, “but—“
The investigator raised an eyebrow and waited for me to finish. He was young but he was a pro at this. He should have been doing something more challenging, like detective work, or cross examining witnesses on the stand, not checking on people’s addresses.
“I’m not completely sure I gave you the right dates for my time in the Maryland Guard. I need to check my records.” I said, knowing this guy was now going to check and triple check everything I told him because I was turning out to be either a big fat liar or a big fat flake.
An hour after he had arrived, we rose from our spots and I led him to a couple of my managers so they too could vouch for me. I still had to provide a list of contacts to him, which I promised to send over email. I was still talking to a few people from my last job, but anyone from the jobs before that were purged from the mental Rolodex.
“What about neighbors?” asked the investigator. “I need someone who’s not a friend or a relative.”
“Oh, um…the guy next door to me—“
The neighbor and I said hello to each other and sometimes we exchanged a few sentences, but he didn’t know me and I didn’t know him. The only reason I had his full name was because sometimes we received his mail by mistake.
“Anyone else?”
“Uh, there’s another guy a few houses in—“
“Right, because you’re on the end—“
I paused for a moment. How did he know I was on the end? He must’ve already looked up my address on Google maps and gotten a satellite image. Now I had a better understanding of how people must feel when they're being stalked. That was basically this guy's job—to stalk people with the purpose of finding out as much as he could.
“Tom.” I said. “I don’t know his last name, but his first name is Tom.”
“Tom,” wrote the investigator.
They really need to update their investigation methods, I thought. There is an online message board community of women I converse with daily that could tell this guy more truths about me than Tom ever could. Get with the program, I wanted to say, no one actually talks to their neighbors anymore. People probably assume that living close, in my case, in a townhouse and condo community is all the more reason to know your neighbors. They’re always there, blocking you when they park crooked, taking a shortcut across your lawn, putting out their cigarettes in your flowerpots. They live so close, they have to know each other, people think. I tend to believe the opposite. You spend so much time near these people that you don’t want to know them beyond what’s necessary to maintain the facade. You exchange greetings and wave when you’re in your car but it’s all done to make things appear civil. No one knows their neighbor.
I compiled my list for the investigator and emailed it at the end of the day. I warned a few people that I had given out their information, but at least half didn’t know. When my husband met an investigator (I have no idea if it was the same one) at a local Starbucks to discuss yours truly, he said the investigator was also coordinating with our neighbors.
“You told them, right?” My husband asked.
“Uh, well…no.”
My husband gave me the look--the one that said "Oh, come on. What are you scared of?" It's the same look he gives me when I pass the phone to him so he can order Chinese for dinner. Someone must be aware that initiating talk with others is an issue for a segment of the population or else Papa John's online food ordering system wouldn't exist.
I shrugged.
I knew it wouldn’t have taken me more than 5 minutes to go over and knock on their doors, or even mention it when I saw them in passing. I knew I should have said something so they’d know what was coming, but it just seemed so strange. How would I word it—I gave your name to the investigator because you’re the only neighbor I know, and by “know” I mean I've committed at least one part of your name to memory? I need you to do me a favor and talk to this guy so I can get a top secret clearance? Too late now.
After the fact, I continue avoid these people because what do I say? “Thanks for talking to that guy on my behalf when I didn’t even have the courtesy to warn you?” No, I’ll just duck my head and pretend not to see them, or if they happen to look, I’ll wave. I wouldn’t want to appear uncivil.
When my boss put in an application for me to upgrade to Top Secret, I had no idea what I was in for.
The questionnaire was twice as long as the secret one, with much of the same material I had already submitted. “Don’t they already have this stuff?” I asked myself as I typed out the addresses of the places I’ve lived. Not a whole lot has changed since 2004. It should’ve been stored somewhere, because what was the point of entering all of that information if it wasn’t being saved somewhere?
I submitted my responses and printed out a confirmation—or so I thought.
“Your information didn’t go through, are you sure you submitted the application?” asked the security officer.
“Oh, yeah, yeah.”
“I didn’t get a response from the system yet; I don't think it went through.”
“Really? But I could have sworn--”
Upon further inspection, it appeared that I missed a few questions and I needed to go back and fill them in.
“Mother’s naturalization number?” The cursor blinked on the screen; I wasn’t allowed to sign out without first entering these numbers. If you’re applying for a top secret clearance, it doesn’t work to your favor to have a foreign born parent or spouse, even if they hail from non-threatening countries. You just never know what Italy and Jamaica are plotting. And you don’t truly know where your relatives' loyalties lie, do you?
I called my mom and got a busy signal. Called again, busy signal. She was tying up the line scheming with the Italian side of the family, I just knew it.
Finally I got through and she read off the numbers from her naturalization papers. “Write it down and keep it somewhere safe.” She said. We went through the same drill in 2004. “Okay, I will.” I said. It’s scribbled in pencil on a crumpled Post-It on my desk somewhere.
I had the dates and numbers from my in-laws’ certificate too, since apparently if you move to this country when you’re 6 years old, you don’t get your own papers.
I finished the questionnaire and submitted it at last. Now all I had to do was sit back and wait for my new and improved clearance to come through.
“Some girl called me to talk about you.” My best friend said. I put her name and contact info in the online questionnaire because she could vouch for me, and apparently there was a female investigator already handling the follow up.
“We talked for like 20 minutes.” Said my friend.
She had given all sorts of information beyond the basic facts. “I told her you were my moral compass.” She said.
I smiled, imagining the investigator writing down “moral compass” onto her little notepad.
Months later I got the call for my own interview. “When’s a good time?” He asked over the phone.
“Oh, how about tomorrow…morning-ish?”
“10 a.m.?”
“Sure, I’ll be around.” I said. How hard could this be—an interview outlining the stuff I already told them.
The intervestigator was dreamy, with icy blue eyes and deliberately styled short brown hair. The only flaw in his appearance were the puppet lines near his mouth. I had at least 4 years on the guy and I didn’t have puppet lines. How could he be so young and already have puppet lines?
“Oh, let’s get you signed in and then we can go back to the room near where I sit.” I said.
Once we were through with the formalities, the investigator went through my questionnaire responses line by line.
“How long were you at the Lee Street address?” he said.
“A year and a half.”
Even though I thought I had answered everything accurately, I messed up the timeframe from one of my jobs. The investigator regarded me with a raised eyebrow.
“So you worked full time at both of these locations?”
I looked at the printout he held and realized my flub.
“Oh, no, no,” I said, attempting a smile, “Ha-ha, no, I wasn't working two full time jobs from December 2004 through May 2005. I meant December 2003 through May 2004. My mistake.”
He got into my military service record. I took my time finding a new national guard unit after moving from Texas to Maryland. Ten months, to be specific. I served what I believed to be enough to ride out the rest of my obligation and “retired” from my military career within a year of joining my unit. For some reason, my mind had this as two years. I even told the interviewer the wrong date, fully believing I hadn’t bailed out earlier. Then, when he was going over his notes, he laid out the alibi option.
“Are you willing to agree that all of this information is true to the best of your knowledge?” Here was my chance to set things straight.
“Yes,” I said, “but—“
The investigator raised an eyebrow and waited for me to finish. He was young but he was a pro at this. He should have been doing something more challenging, like detective work, or cross examining witnesses on the stand, not checking on people’s addresses.
“I’m not completely sure I gave you the right dates for my time in the Maryland Guard. I need to check my records.” I said, knowing this guy was now going to check and triple check everything I told him because I was turning out to be either a big fat liar or a big fat flake.
An hour after he had arrived, we rose from our spots and I led him to a couple of my managers so they too could vouch for me. I still had to provide a list of contacts to him, which I promised to send over email. I was still talking to a few people from my last job, but anyone from the jobs before that were purged from the mental Rolodex.
“What about neighbors?” asked the investigator. “I need someone who’s not a friend or a relative.”
“Oh, um…the guy next door to me—“
The neighbor and I said hello to each other and sometimes we exchanged a few sentences, but he didn’t know me and I didn’t know him. The only reason I had his full name was because sometimes we received his mail by mistake.
“Anyone else?”
“Uh, there’s another guy a few houses in—“
“Right, because you’re on the end—“
I paused for a moment. How did he know I was on the end? He must’ve already looked up my address on Google maps and gotten a satellite image. Now I had a better understanding of how people must feel when they're being stalked. That was basically this guy's job—to stalk people with the purpose of finding out as much as he could.
“Tom.” I said. “I don’t know his last name, but his first name is Tom.”
“Tom,” wrote the investigator.
They really need to update their investigation methods, I thought. There is an online message board community of women I converse with daily that could tell this guy more truths about me than Tom ever could. Get with the program, I wanted to say, no one actually talks to their neighbors anymore. People probably assume that living close, in my case, in a townhouse and condo community is all the more reason to know your neighbors. They’re always there, blocking you when they park crooked, taking a shortcut across your lawn, putting out their cigarettes in your flowerpots. They live so close, they have to know each other, people think. I tend to believe the opposite. You spend so much time near these people that you don’t want to know them beyond what’s necessary to maintain the facade. You exchange greetings and wave when you’re in your car but it’s all done to make things appear civil. No one knows their neighbor.
I compiled my list for the investigator and emailed it at the end of the day. I warned a few people that I had given out their information, but at least half didn’t know. When my husband met an investigator (I have no idea if it was the same one) at a local Starbucks to discuss yours truly, he said the investigator was also coordinating with our neighbors.
“You told them, right?” My husband asked.
“Uh, well…no.”
My husband gave me the look--the one that said "Oh, come on. What are you scared of?" It's the same look he gives me when I pass the phone to him so he can order Chinese for dinner. Someone must be aware that initiating talk with others is an issue for a segment of the population or else Papa John's online food ordering system wouldn't exist.
I shrugged.
I knew it wouldn’t have taken me more than 5 minutes to go over and knock on their doors, or even mention it when I saw them in passing. I knew I should have said something so they’d know what was coming, but it just seemed so strange. How would I word it—I gave your name to the investigator because you’re the only neighbor I know, and by “know” I mean I've committed at least one part of your name to memory? I need you to do me a favor and talk to this guy so I can get a top secret clearance? Too late now.
After the fact, I continue avoid these people because what do I say? “Thanks for talking to that guy on my behalf when I didn’t even have the courtesy to warn you?” No, I’ll just duck my head and pretend not to see them, or if they happen to look, I’ll wave. I wouldn’t want to appear uncivil.
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