3. my last resort

When I headed into an interview at that beach-side resort in May of ’99 I was in a whole different situation.

In my world, there wasn’t yet any disability, or need to weigh decisions with such a thing in my mind.  I was in my mid-twenties and I could get around with just my motorcycle, though I was keen on being able to have a four-wheeled option soon, and wanted to be able to afford one.  I had come to California to make music, and was focused on being able to do so; my ‘day job’ was really just about enabling that plan.

I knew that I’d be impressed by the facility, and I was for sure.  It was large, clean, and modern, and it clearly put out big volume with a larger number of workers than I’d ever shared a workspace with.  Surely, this was not a small business that might be on the brink of shutting its doors.  My goal at that time had been simply to find the most ‘solid’ (and best-paying) job that I could find near the house where my bro and I lived, and I was hoping this would be it.

Admittedly, I wasn’t worrying much about benefits like insurance and retirement plans back then, and such aspects of compensation just seemed like ‘frosting on the cake’.  The position I was applying for offered medical insurance beginning six months after starting the job, but this was before Obamacare had begun, so back then I wasn’t being fined for not having insurance.  Although this would be my first job with any benefits, these trimmings didn’t apply directly to the making of rock n’ roll, so I didn’t yet of think of them as being essential.

I had plenty to learn, and indeed I did end up learning a great deal during the time I spent there.  Much of what I learned was naturally directly about food and related service, but unfortunately, I also got to learn plenty about matters that would never fit on any plate.

I interviewed with the Chef.  He was serious and professional, and clearly this was a career for him.  I had applied for the position of Banquet Cook, and though I had worked in food service for about ten years by that point, doing this job would clearly require me to learn a lot.

The Chef had asked me directly why I thought I was qualified, and had told me that most who would seek it had some amount of formal training.  I told him that I’d had enough experience to realize the difference between the role of a Chef, who makes the menu and then leads the crew to carry it out, and the cooks, who directly prepare large amounts of food and do much less ‘glorious’ (and much more repetitive) work.  I told him that I planned to learn what he would want made, and then to repeat it over and over, consistently, safely, and efficiently, making the product of my work adhere exactly to what he had designed–without questioning or adding my own ‘two cents’ about what could have been served instead.

I had been around kitchens long enough by then to know full well that food is something that everyone has their own opinions about—and I knew that in a professional kitchen, the opinion of the Chef was really the only one that mattered.  My job would be to help turn the designs and ideas I was given into money, plain and simple.  I was hired.

Most of the time, my shifts began at 6am.  I worked with a crew that usually prepared foods for buffet service to crowds that often numbered over a hundred persons.  Very often, the groups we fed were directly or indirectly related to the nearby and then-booming Silicon Valley companies, who were staying at the resort for whatever combos of conference, trainings and/or pampered recreational employee bonding-times.

There were boundaries of etiquette that had to be understood and adhered to.

First off, I was told immediately that we didn’t serve customers, we served Guests, and we were never to say “no” to a guest’s request.  If we couldn’t carry out a request ourselves, we were to find someone who could, and quickly.

Also, we had to look good.  Being unshaven and grubbed up by food in the presence of our Guests was not acceptable—whenever we would potentially be seen directly by Guests, we would change into a fresh white double-breasted shirt, buttoned to the top.  I remember that I’d had a habit of leaving my top button open at other kitchens to stay cool, but when Chef saw that he had frowned and barked “button your top button!” at me, and from then on, I did.

Often, we would make the meals in the kitchen but would post a cook in a ‘presentation’ position near where the food would be served–for example, an outdoor bar-b-que lunch would feature a fresh-looking cook at a shiny-clean grill cooking a few pieces of chicken for the Guests to see and smell, though most of the chicken had actually been prepared indoors.

Many of these protocols were essential to the ‘rating’ of the facility; I learned that this was a ‘four-diamond’ rated resort, which was one level down from the top rating in this system (which applied ‘diamonds’ rather than ‘stars’).  All new to me.

Although I hadn’t lived in this part of the country for most of my life, as I began working, I felt like I fit in fairly quickly with all of the staff that I worked with.  In this environment I was part of a minority, as most of the workers were Spanish speaking.  I learned later that at first the rumor had gone around through the Spanish speaking crew that I was probably some kind of racist-Nazi—I was bald then, and I soon learned the word pelones (Spanish for ‘hairless’).  People realized fairly quickly that this wasn’t the case, and when I was told this had been the first impression, I was like… “What?!  Me?!  Racist?!  Are you kidding me?!”.

What can I say?  We all make judgements based on a person’s appearance.

Soon though, the crew all realized I was just there to bust ass like everyone else and there was no supremacy-thing going on.  I started making friends and improving my kitchen-Spanish as I went.

I knew as I began that I’d be serving a community that was ‘above my pay grade’ and that I’d be seeing some patterns that would be new for me, and sure enough, I did.

For one thing, we were always to prepare a bit more food than would likely be needed for any banquet, and to never allow any pan on a buffet to sit empty.  Naturally, this caused a constant stream of waste, and I often watched as un-touched product was shoveled into the trash can as meals were cleaned up after.  This is referred to as ‘overage’, and is simply figured into the cost that was being charged for meals.  At first, seeing this was often a shock to me, but soon it just meant I’d done as I was ordered.

A few times, I helped out in the in-house restaurant that also was served by the kitchen.  Sometimes an English-speaking person would be needed who could communicate directly with Guests, so I’d get a change of scenery.

One time, I had to work the omelet bar for a Sunday brunch.

I remember that I was warned by servers that I’d be able to tell if anyone I’d serve would be one of the ‘investors’ in the operation.  They were notorious for making obnoxious requests that would test our manners to ‘quality-check’ us and make sure that our training was up-to-par.  They liked to ask for extras, and make us “sit, beg, roll over and fetch” to prove to themselves that their investment dollars were being well-spent—and remember, we were never to say “no” to a Guest.

So, in the middle of the rush, I had like five or six omelets going at a time.  A line would form, and Guests would look over the salad-bar type setup to choose what ingredients they’d like in their omelets.  The goal was to serve them what they had asked for, accurately and politely, of course.

One chubby beady-eyed bastard stood out clearly, never smiling.  He scrutinized all the items on the bar, and made sure to order an omelet unlike any that I’d ever made, before or since.  He wanted only items that were not offered on the bar, and I had to get a server to run back to the kitchen for all of them.

It was to be a “smoked salmon and cream-cheese omelet with capers, served on a single egg white, folded in quarters”.

Of course, I couldn’t be sure that he was one of the investor-types I was warned about, but he sure fit the description.

The entire line had to wait as I daintily prepared his bite-sized hors d oeuvre as quickly as I possibly could.  When I completed the task, he grabbed the plate from my hand without a comment and then rudely shoved his way past the line of ‘legit’ omelet orderers, who by then were beginning to make comments and focus their negative waves on him.  Everyone I served that was waiting in line seemed to smile and shrug, and a couple of them even apologized to me, though it was certainly not their fault.

As the brunch ended, I started cleaning up.  A waitress came by, and frustratedly told me that a family that was eating at one of the umbrella-topped tables outside had just ordered and extra lobster so that their kid could play with it in the sand.  I just smiled and shrugged.  I knew I’d see stuff when I got the job, what could I say.  I was glad though that I usually worked in the kitchen, out of view.  I don’t know how long I could have lasted if I had been directly serving some of those Guests that were paying my wages–including benefits.  Supposedly, anyways.

And again, I hadn’t been thinking too much about the benefits thing, that is, until I had that round of seizures at the end of September, just before (hypothetically) my insurance was supposed to start up.  This was when I’d learn all about ‘pre-existing conditions’, when I’d actually have to care about having insurance at all—and I mean really care.

Soon, I’d be needing those big, expensive tests like EEGs and MRIs and all that crap I’d never cared about before.  Naturally, I’d have blown them off, but somehow, I’d now have to get them in order to keep driving.  There was no other way to get to my job to start my shift, and although I asked if it was possible, my shift could not be adjusted, even temporarily.

Fair enough.  I wanted to do what I’d signed up for anyways.

Not fair enough was the round of refusals I got when I tried to get the tests without having an insurance ID number.  It didn’t matter that I was willing to put the tests on a credit card, or find some other way to borrow to pay for them.  Apparently, for whatever reasons, the hospital had had so many problems with not being paid for services that even if I was willing to pay for the–from my own pocket–they wouldn’t provide me with the tests unless I could quote them this ‘magic number’.

So, then I started caring about my insurance benefits, which (thankfully) would be starting up soon, supposedly on the first day of the next month after I’d been at that job for six months.

Except that on December 1, my insurance did not start.

And why?  No good reason.

I had started the job back in May, and this should have meant I’d have insurance by December at the latest.  I started hitting up the Human Resources department.  I was told that my insurance hadn’t started because I didn’t have enough hours accrued, so I asked for a printed report.  The report I was given showed that I had crossed that threshold back in October.

Naturally, I asked again.  I was assured that I’d be enrolled by the first of the next month, Jan. 1, 2000.

Except that on January 1, (apparently) once again my insurance did not start.

HR had given me an ID number, which allowed me to schedule an MRI on January 31, but in February I got a full-sized bill which claimed my insurance was not ‘effective’ until February 1 (you know, a whole day later).

By then I was freaking.

I went back to HR about it, and was given a letter on company letterhead on February 4^th, telling “Whom It May Concern” that I was covered under Blue Shield Policy #N-00-0070-000 as of January 1^st, and if there were any questions to please call them.

The insurance company, however, denied the claim, stating that my coverage had not started until February 1^st.

So back to HR I went.

Next, I was assured that this would get ‘worked out’, and eventually was presented with a copy of a letter from the Director of Human Resources to an individual at the insurance company.  The letter explained that I “would have been eligible for enrollment on November 23, 1999” making me “eligible to enroll Dec. 1, 1999”, but it stated that I did not have enough hours accrued until December—which of course was in direct conflict with the printout I’d already been given which made clear I’d crossed that line way back in October.

The letter went on to state that I had been enrolled in January 2000, and stated that the individual at the insurance company could “feel free to contact” the HR Director about the matter.

Naturally, if I was enrolled in January it meant I wasn’t already enrolled on January 1^st.

So, I reached out directly to the insurance company.  That’s when shit got really weird.

Now, insurance companies are big, and I can’t be sure that whomever I’d talked to knew what was what, but I was assured that the person that the letter was addressed to DID NOT EXIST at the insurance company, and that this letter had NEVER BEEN RECEIVED by the insurance company.

So, it appeared that this letter was a cover-your-ass maneuver.

Now, one thing to understand is that by then, I already expected to pay out-of-pocket for the emergency room, the ambulance ride, the neurologist I had to see, the lab tests, yada-yada-yada etc., but I also cared VERY MUCH about the start date of the insurance, because the insurance company had made clear that EVERYTHING seizure-related would be considered ‘pre-existing’ for a waiting period of six months from the time I was enrolled—which to me clearly should have been back in December of ’99.

Now that I had this suspicious letter in-hand, it was time for me to ask for a meeting with someone ‘higher up the food chain’ at that job.

Before that meeting I got a little ‘wise advice’.  It’s advice I’d still pass on to anyone else dealing with any potentially legally-crazy shit, even now. 

I made two sets of copies of all of my original paperwork.  I labelled all pages in one set “copy B” and all pages in the other set “copy C”, and these sets of copies were what I brought to the meeting.  This would make implicitly clear that “copy A” was too important to carry, because it might be needed for future legal proceedings.  It meant that I was serious, and that I may have already sought legal help.

When I met with the administrator, who’s name I shall not include, we sat at one of the umbrella tables outside as we flipped page-by-page through these stacks of copies.  It was all there, and we both knew that everything I’d need to fight (and win) whatever legal proceedings that I might soon start up was right in front of us.

I was assured that this would be dealt with immediately, and it was… boy, was it.

Now keep in mind, throughout this whole madness I had only thought I was dealing with my own problem, my own mess.  I wasn’t crusading or fighting for anyone other than myself.  I didn’t suspect that anyone else I worked with had been dealing with anything similar in regard to their insurance, and it’s very possible that what happened next was just a pure stroke of coincidence that had nothing to do with me or my issues.

But for whatever reason it was though, the next time I entered that kitchen I saw many of my coworkers holding those shiny-brand-new booklets that the insurance company provides when medical benefits are first started.

And, again perhaps by pure coincidence, most (if not all) of the individuals who were just given these benefits booklets just happened to be Spanish-speaking.  Many had families.  All were smiling.

I was told soon after by one of them that he’d been trying to get his insurance started for over two years.

More than even before, I was now pretty damn cool with most of those that I worked with.  Even the people who spoke English and did already have their benefits knew that what had been going on was fucked up.

And whatever number of administrators and HR folks knew that I knew that they knew, and at least one knew I still had ‘copy A’ somewhere.  None of them wanted the kind of press that would have come from this little scandal (had I gone that route).  When they’d breeze through the kitchen, they’d make polite small-talk with me through gritted teeth, like “hello Nate, how are you doing lately…”.

Deep down, they knew I wasn’t out to take anyone down, I just wanted to get what I’d been told I would get when I started the job.  I worked hard and was a good employee, so we all just kept-it-cool.

I bet some of those investors didn’t feel so cool though, when they saw whatever jump in expenses were caused once a majority of their kitchen crew finally got their medical insurance.  I hope it freaked out that salmon-and-cream-cheese-omelet jerk real good when he took a look at how his investment had performed during that particular little stretch of time.

What I’d have to say to those investors, and to all the bungling-bobbling-ball-droppers and shady-dealers that all knew damn well what was going on back then is this… YOU’RE WELCOME.  This shit could have blown up real good, but it didn’t, because I didn’t blow it up.

My insurance start-date somehow eventually got ‘retroactively’ changed to January 1^st 2000, but the last document from the resort’s HR showing I was still having problems with the insurance company denying my claims is a hand-written letter from the HR Director dated April 12^th 2000, just under 11 months after my start date. 

The insurance company was still calling my condition ‘pre-exiting’ into mid-June of that year.  From the time of this ‘educational experience’ on, I knew I’d damn well better not ever allow my medical coverage to ‘lapse’, or my condition would get this horrible label all over again.

I’ve been able to quote all these exact dates and particulars because all of these documents are still in that epic stack of ‘copy A’s’ that I’ve kept for all these years.  And now that I’m sharing this story, I’ve decided to keep these documents locked up somewhere safe, away from where I live.  I know that might sound paranoid, because it is. 

I’ve had plenty of experiences since that time, over two decades ago now, to justify a little paranoia.3.