The Wizard of Kaiser

My daughter woke up with a monstrous eye stye that had slammed her eyelid shut like a faulty garage door. I called Kaiser and was immediately greeted by the robot lady—a voice engineered to sound calm while raising your blood pressure. She asked for my daughter’s birthdate and medical number, which I dutifully recited. Then, in her synthetic cheer, she said, “What else can I help you with?”

I said, “You didn’t help me with anything, so don’t say ‘what else.’”

We argued, man versus machine, until she promised to connect me to a human—but not before warning that the wait time could “exceed one hour.” One second later, a live representative picked up. Bureaucratic time, apparently, obeys no earthly laws.

The human rep began a ritual of verification so thorough I expected her to ask for my high school GPA and the name of my childhood pet. She wanted my address, my medical number, my cell number, and—why not?—the phone numbers of everyone in my family.

Dealing with bureaucracies always feels like Dorothy trying to get an audience with the Wizard. You ring the bell, and a cranky Gatekeeper appears, demanding proof that you even exist. He wants your bona fides, your credentials, your metaphorical ruby slippers—and unless you flash something that glitters, you’re condemned to wander in the waiting-room purgatory, forever on hold, listening to smooth jazz that mocks your mortality.

Service, it turns out, isn’t granted. It’s earned—by endurance, patience, and whatever modern magic passes for ruby slippers these days: a good Wi-Fi connection and an unholy amount of persistence.