The Call

Our first day back in the mountains of North Carolina is rainy, cool and foggy. Most places, you don’t like to see weather like this, but it suits the mountains which turn a mellow blue grey in the mist. It is not, however good driving weather to Asheville where Nick and I need to return our rental car to the airport. Nick’s dad, Jim says he’d like to come along but wants Marie, Nick’s mom to come too. I ride with Marie in her Cadillac and Jim rides along with Nick in the rental. With the careful way Marie drives in the rain and the circuitous route we take to avoid construction on I-26, the trip takes twice as long as it should.

“Anybody up for Cracker Barrel?” I say when Nick and Jim join us in the car. I look over my shoulder to Marie, sitting behind Nick, “I need biscuits and gravy. We were in Nashville for a week and I still haven’t had them.”

“You haven’t had biscuits and gravy yet?” Marie asks, surprised.

“No, can you believe that?” I say.

“Well, I’ll swear…” she says and shakes her head.

“This place is gloomy,” Marie says, looking around the sparsely-populated Cracker Barrel while we wait for our lunch. The waitresses are haggard and over-worked. The diners stare morosely at their plates, shoveling food in silently.

“It’s pretty depressing,” I say. “And we might never get our food. Covid.”

“They’ve ruined everything,” Marie says.

We finish our lunch and Jim and Marie have a long conversation about how the restrooms are turned around in this Cracker Barrel. Every other Cracker Barrel has the Men’s on the left and the Women’s on the right. Jim got halfway through the door to the Women’s before he realized it. Marie and I look at gauzy, color-splashed clothes in the country store and say, “Cute!” and “Do you like this?” then head back into the rain for the 45-minute trip home. Nick drives like he’s navigating the 101 in Los Angeles, darting in and out of cars, tailgating people until they pull to the right. Marie sits behind him, hanging on to the handle above her and lecturing him about how driving the curvy roads of the mountains is different and to watch out for those danged trucks that spray so much water you can’t see out of your windshield plus the fog is so thick that if someone in front of you stopped, we’d end up in a 20-car pileup. 

I look over at Nick from the passenger seat and tell him to slow down and quit slinging his Mom around. Nick says for everybody to calm down, he knows how to drive.

Jim, who sits in the back behind me, decides it’s a good time to call his pharmacy to find out if his prescription is ready so that we can pick it up as we come into Sylva. We all hear the little girl who answers the phone tell him his medication isn’t ready because his insurance company won’t pay for it. He has to yell into his speaker to be understood with his heavy mountain drawl which is slurred slightly from a recent stroke. He asks her why and tells her that he’s been taking that medication for ten years, so why won’t they pay for it now. The girl, who sounds like she’s about twelve, she says she doesn’t know, he’s going to have to call the insurance company to find out. Marie is talking over him, telling him to ask how much it is. He says again that he doesn’t understand what the problem is and the girl says she doesn’t either. Marie says to ask how much it costs and the girl says it’s $1500 for the bottle.

“Well, God…” Jim says to her. The girl doesn’t answer.

“Well, I’ll swear…” Marie says.

Jim thanks her, hangs up, fumbles around in his pants pocket, pulls out a business card and dials his insurance company. 

“Hello, you have reached Humana,” a friendly, efficient recorded male voice says over Jim’s speaker. “How may we assist you today?”

“I want to know how come you won’t pay my bill for my diabetes pills no more,” Jim says, as if talking to an employee who has answered the phone.

After a long pause, the recorded voice says, “How may we assist you today?”

Jim says a little louder, “How come you won’t pay the bill for my diabetes pills no more when you been paying it for years?”

“I’m sorry I could not understand your request. Please repeat your request.”

I whisper to Nick, “He should just say, ‘prescription.’”

“Good God! Can’t you understand nothing?” Jim says into his speaker. 

“Does he know he’s talking to a recording?” I laugh-whisper to Nick.

“I’m sorry, I can’t understand your request. Please speak more slowly.”

“How… come…you…won’t…pay…the bill for…my…diabetes pills…when you done paid for them for ten years?” I stifle laughter in the crook of my elbow and lean against the door.

After a long pause, the recording asks, “Did you say billing?”

“Yeah,” Jim says, satisfied.

“Please state your name and date of birth.”

Jim makes it through this hurdle without too much trouble, needing to repeat himself only a couple of times.

“Please give me your account number.”

(Of course, this account number is made up, but Jim says something like,) “Eight, eight, zero, two, three, zero, zero, two.”

Pause. “Please give me your account number. Your account number is a nine to eleven digit number starting with the letter H.”

Now Jim is starting to get annoyed, “Okay, then, it’s H, eight, eight, zero, two, three, zero, zero, two.”

Pause. “Your account number is a nine to eleven digit number.”

“I done told you it’s H, eight, eight, zero, two, three, zero, zero, two!” I can hear in Jim’s voice that he’s just about to call somebody a Running Dumbass. I’ve been called it and know the signs.

“Did you say H, seven, four, zero, two, three, three, zero eight?”

“No! I didn’t say nothin’ nowhere close to that!”

Marie pipes up, “Jim you’re talking to a robot.”

Finally, the recording gives up trying to understand him and connects Jim with a human being. The guy tells him his insurance will not pay for the 90-tablet bottle his doctor has recenly prescribed, but that they would continue to cover the 30-tablet bottle he has used for years. He thanks the guy, places a call to his Doctor’s office and explains the whole thing to the secretary, then calls the little girl at the pharmacy and explains the whole mix-up to her.

When he hangs up, he asks Marie, “Where’s that mail?”

“It’s in my purse. Nick, do you see the exit?” Marie asks from the back seat. “Exit 27.”

“I see it, Mom. I’ve been taking this exit ever since I started driving.”

“Well… it’s easy to miss. Here, Jim.” We ride in silence for a few miles, the windsheild wipers flapping on high all the way past the Waynesville Wal-mart, and into Sylva. 

“They law…” Jim says. “Look at this, Marie. This notice says they’re ‘bout to cut off our water. But I done paid that bill. I think I got that check back from my bank. When’s it say they’re cutting it off?” I hear ringing over Jim’s speaker phone as he finishes talking.

“Hello, you have reached Tuckaseegee Water and Sewer Authority. How can we help you today? Say Open Account, Pay Bill or Report Outage.”

Then Jim says loudly into his phone, “How come you say you’re gonna shut off my water when my bank says I done paid my bill?”