The First Monday After Armageddon

“There should, in principle, be no Monday after Armageddon. By logic, there should be no calendar after Armageddon. But , were there to be a calendar, conspicuously absent from that calendar should be all references to Monday. Monday is the reason, after all, that people crave Armageddon.” Cusper Lynn

The Occidental Ape

by Cusper Lynn

SARASOTA Florida—(Weekly Hubris)—6/4/2012—There should, in principle, be no Monday after Armageddon.

By logic there should be no calendar after Armageddon. But, were there to be a calendar, conspicuously absent from that calendar should be all references to Monday. Monday is the reason, after all, that people crave Armageddon.

Monday represents, for many of us, the persistence of existence, the continued dulling of our senses and the extinction of the heroic. So is it any surprise that whether as a secret wish in some remote part of our souls or as some fully articulated tenet of our religious cults, we should hold out for this to be the day when we all, personally, get to watch the big flash that extinguishes life (and any grey matter capable of conceiving of . . . Monday)?

Isn’t this exactly why people buy tickets to the movies? To see the dress rehearsal? Viruses, zombies, cataclysmic weather, aliens, war, men with axes (and/or rubber masks), meteors, God, Satan, politicians? Wrap it all up in one nice package and you have almost all of what every End of Times cult craves: complete and total chaos (and, did I mention, an end to Monday).

Still there it was. It was Monday and Armageddon had happened. Not the full-production, Dolby-surround-sound, big-screen-3D-Hollywood-blockbuster version . . . but Armageddon none the less.

With Friday’s legislative session concluded and the earth thoroughly scorched and salted, the politicians had left town to trumpet their accomplishments to Greater Florida.

I, however, returned to my office and began to limn for my clients the precise body count resulting from the legislative session. Clinics, physicians, nurses and patients were now stacked up like cord-wood and the Governor was set to light the pyre sometime in the next two weeks.

“How long do we have?” Dr. Patricia Bellinger, Director of the Women’s Health Regional Network, asked me that Monday morning (following Armageddon).

I do not hesitate when giving clients bad news, but I did that morning. Dr. Bellinger is a gifted and dedicated physician—a rarity in the modern age—and her life’s work was to be decimated by a series of changes in Florida’s laws and budgeting.

“As I read it,” I finally started, “the statutory language goes into effect in July; the budgeting and provision changes hit on January 1^st.”

“Eight months,” she said calmly.

“Yes, I expect it will be about three months into the next year before the full impact occurs. But, for practical purposes, eight months,” I agreed.

“That was what I thought,” she said softly.

“Can I help?” I asked.

“Hmm,” she said distractedly, “Oh, no that’s all right Cusper. We’ve been over this before.”

Which was true. Dr. Bellinger had asked for a work-up of all scenarios that could come out of the legislative session and the one we were dealing with we’d named The Armageddon Scenario. Still, the urge to do or say something persisted, and I gave in.

“How are the partners taking this?” I asked.

“I think Dr. Joyner is considering suing,” Dr. Bellinger said peacefully.

“Who? Whom?” I asked, surprised at this.

“Me, the Governor, the legislature,” Dr. Bellinger said, absently.

“You?” I was shocked. “I know that there are several suits being . . . .”

“Dr. Joyner believes we should have sold out to Triream Health Corp. last year when they approached us. Who knows, maybe she’s right,” Dr. Bellinger sighed.

“Surely the officer’s notes . . .” I began.

“She wouldn’t win. She’s just very tired. Her daughter was accepted to Harvard and her ex is suing her for more alimony. I think she will sue just to see what it feels like to file a suit,” Dr. Bellinger said, sounding very tired, herself.

“What about Dr. Thomas?” I asked.

“Marci?” Dr. Bellinger replied, her voice rising. “She gave me notice this morning that she is exercising her buy-out option.”

“I am so sorry,” I said.

“It’s OK. I have six months to get the money together,” Dr. Bellinger said, rallying.

“Have you spoken with your lawyer,” I asked, hoping to find some good news in all of this.

“We’re meeting for lunch. I gave her your Armageddon Scenario two weeks ago. She doubted it would happen, but promised me she’d work up a strategy just in case. I’ll see what she has this afternoon,” Dr. Bellinger said.

“Give me a call if you need anything.” I found myself fighting to keep the entreating tone out of my voice.

“I appreciate that, Cusper, I really do,” Dr. Bellinger said, making no further commitment. “I have to go.”

“I understand,” I said, and then the phone went dead.

I stared off into the middle distance of my office and considered the world.

Doctors Bellinger, Joyner and Thomas were all good people and they were all dedicated to the care of their patients.

The Women’s Health Regional Network was something they’d conceived of when they first met during their residencies. It was Dr. Bellinger who’d raised the money for the first clinic and it was Dr. Joyner who’d organized the acquisition of the other clinics. Dr. Thomas joined them a few years later, after working in a large medical group practice.

With the budget cuts, insurance reform laws and revisions of state health reimbursement programs, the writing was on the wall for them now: sell, close or die. I shook my head.

Then the phone rang.

“Cusper . . .” I began to answer.

“Hey, what do you hear?” a harsh voice cut me off.

I smiled, “Not much, just the end of the world. How’s it with you?” I asked.

“Toasted, stick a fork in me: I’m done,” he laughed. “I hear you were ringside for this little kaka voodoo session.”

“Yes, I watched it,” I answered Dr. Silas Martz. “I was there for the final vote.”

“So, the fat lady sang, and this two-bit criminal of a governor is going to sign the bill and it’s all over,” Silas summarized.

“Yep, you have it in one,” I agreed. It was really good to hear from Silas.

“What did I tell you, Cusper? What did I say before any of this started?” Silas asked, laughing.

“ . . . that the suits from Chicago were going to come down and put on a dog-and-pony show,” I recited.

“Yes, and then I said it would be on the last day that they would get their agenda through: an 11^th-hour, mad push and the public wouldn’t know, wouldn’t understand, and wouldn’t care until it was too late,” he retorted.

“And did I ever doubt you?” I asked.

“No. But that’s not the point. Do you know what some of these coconut heads are doing today,” he asked.

“Negotiating and reorganizing?” I ventured.

“Yes! Can you believe it? They’ve gotta be off in Lalaland,” Silas said derisively. “Dr. Famuko’s army of attorneys have been working on this all weekend.”

I smiled to myself. Dr. Famuko was who the other doctors would follow. If he could manage to get through this, they would try to do whatever it was that he, his attorneys, and lobbyist were planning on doing. He is one of the most hated and emulated doctors in practice in my state.

“So, what have you heard from Clay and Silverman?” I was asking about the two partners for whom he did contract work.

“Clay climbed into a bottle of rum this weekend and has refused to leave his pool in West Palm. Silverman believes Famuko’s lobbyist put a loophole in the law and is on the phone with that piece of crap health care lawyer he uses,” Silas gloated.

“Let me guess: Hospital,” I said.

Silas was silent for a moment. “Really?” he finally said, breaking the silence.

“Famuko owns the old Pierce North Regional building,” I informed him.

“No crap?” Silas said.

“No crap. I pulled up the title on it two weeks ago,” I said slyly.

“So you knew??” Silas said, sounding hurt.

“Suspected,” I corrected.

“Damn, so the loophole?” Silas asked.

“No loophole. Dr. Famuko’s going to open a hospital. He’s partnering up with a few of the Governor’s old associates,” I said.

“Jesus,” Silas said, stunned. “But how . . .”

“He’ll sell off part of the clinic chain, roll part into area health campuses, and affiliate everything that’s left with the new for-profit hospital,” I explained.

“But, but . . . damn . . . why would he take on all that overhead? Why would he get locked up with . . .” Silas trailed off.

“What does the law say?” I asked him.

“Hospital-affiliated facilities . . .” he quoted the subparagraph. “But to go through all that to chase after lower . . .”

“No, you don’t understand. This isn’t his new model,” I said, picking up a paper from my desk.

“Then what is it?” Silas snapped.

“Dr. Famuko’s pay day. He’s cashing out.” I went down to the next paragraph that moved all reimbursement to a single regional facility. “He has the revenue but no hospital to sell to. The Governor’s former associates have the hospital experience but no revenue stream to set up with. So . . . problem solved: they form the hospital; Famuko takes payment in cash and shares,” I wrapped up.

“ What?!? How much?” Silas barked.

“Best guess?” I asked.

“Any damn number you can give me,” Silas cracked.

“Three quarters of a billion,” I said softly.

“WHAT!?! You’re telling me that piece of . . . friggin’, clueless, low-life, mother &^%$, barely-passed-his-damn-boards, killed more people than the plague . . .” Silas ranted in apoplectic rage. “That HE is getting nearly a billion dollars and the rest of us are supposed to grab our damn ankles?!?”

“Yes, that pretty much sums it up,” I said, trying not to laugh.

“It makes perfect sense,” Silas said, regaining his composure. “Famuko had to know before this started. He had to know two or three years ago.”

“I expect he knew when he was lending his jet to the last governor,” I added.

“Yeah, that’s right. He worked on the campaign and he donated to this two-bit crook, too,” Silas observed.

“So,” I said.

“No loop hole,” he concluded.

“Just the one to be found in a noose,” I opined.

Silas laughed and then subsided. “You know Silverman won’t give up. He’ll try to find a loophole.”

“Him and about 400 other doctors,” I agreed.

“So, it’s over?” Silas said, sounding suddenly tired.

“All except the law suits and the orange jumpsuits,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. Silverman won’t give up until he’s dead or in jail.”

“Clay won’t let go, either. Once he climbs out of the bottle, he’ll go back at it. Looking for a way to keep it going,” I agreed.

“What’re they going to do?” Silas asked.

“The smart ones will join a health campus, join a hospital network, or move out of state. A few lucky ones or screwed ones will leave practice all together,” I observed. “My question is, what are you going to do?”

“Cusper, I took a 40 percent cut when the hospital cut my department four years ago and I went to work for these two chimps! What am I supposed to do?” Silas asked.

“The same thing the rest of the world is doing, adapt and improvise,” I suggested.

Then, Dr. Silas Martz, one of the high priests of The Cult of Armageddon (Branch Floridian) said, “You know, I bet in that last second, before a man’s face evaporates when a nuclear bomb goes off, something in his mind says ‘I will get through this.’”

“I expect so.”

“Cusper, you do know they shoot doctors,” Silas said.

“Yes, Silas, I know they do. Daily,” I answered.

“Give me a call later if you get a chance or hear anything,” Silas said.

“I will.” Then the phone went dead.

So I returned to my phone calls, talking to the dead and the dying . . . on the first Monday after Armageddon.