Milton and I had a falling out a few weeks back. She decided I turned 15 instead of 35 so in her opinion, I needed to learn a few lessons. Doesn’t matter what the argument was about, what matters is that she was wrong and I was right. Shocking, I know.
Today I took a payment from a patient. I almost never do that because I avoid all patients like I avoid babies covered in poo. I had no choice this time around since I was watching the front desk while CL emptied her bladder.
The patient gave me his $20 co-pay, I slipped it into the designated plastic envelope they keep in the desk, wrote his receipt, wrote it on the visit slip, made a copy of it in triplicate and smudged my thumbprint on the form after I'd dipped it in blood to prove I had taken someone’s cash. In other words, I followed all protocol and SHOULD have been on easy street.
Ah, how the innocent must live such a simple life when not afflicted with Mad Bat Disease.
Why?, you ask, well friend (can I call you friend? or would you prefer Goomba?), when Milton took the envelope to transfer the whopping $20, she misplaced the envelope.
I was then called upon to describe this infamous $20 bill. Did it have any distinguishing birth marks? Tattoos? Any missing fingers? How about the hair color?
This led me to ponder which would be worse, death by cotton ball suffocation, overdose by nasal spray or being talked to death by a one dimensional accountant.
I CAN’T FIND THE DOOR TO MY HAPPY PLACE PEOPLE!!
She found it near the office bathroom. The $20 was exactly as I’d described it. Green with a picture of some dude on the front.