Ever hear someone say he has a beak, or that such-and-such a thing gives him the beak? We said it all the time in the USAF; “I have a beak” means I’m pissed off; “you give me the beak” means you make me angry.
The beak must be secret military jargon, because when I Google it all I get is links to articles about bird beaks, and one lone link to the Urban Dictionary, where beak (noun) is defined as a blow job, a vagina, or cocaine; and beaking (verb) as making fun of something or someone.
So maybe I’ve told you something new. Try dropping “this gives me the beak” into a conversation and see if it wows the rubes.
But back to me (it’s all about me, me, I say!) . . . I had a righteous one this morning. A beak, that is.
As a military retiree, I get my prescriptions through the local USAF base pharmacy, which has an automated telephone refill service. I called for a refill Tuesday morning and the phone robot told me I could pick it up Wednesday morning after 0900. So around 1000 today I drove across town to the base and took my place in line at the pharmacy. Only to be told, when I finally got to the window, that my prescription wasn’t ready and to come back tomorrow.
“No,” I said, “you guys told me it would be ready this morning, and I made a special trip just to pick it up.” At which point the young lady called her supervisor, a big old burly civilian volunteer who launched into a hostile lecture, telling me that “everyone knows” or that at any rate I “should have known” that the pickup times on the refill line are wrong. He clearly thought he’d intimidate me into slinking away and returning in a day or two.
Now I’m a big burly guy myself, a reasonably high-ranking retired officer and a fighter pilot to boot, and I wasn’t going anywhere. Sorely tempted though I was to shout the asshole down, I bit my tongue and patiently explained that I knew no such thing; that in fact I was acting on the best available information, the pharmacy’s own automated telephone refill system, which had told me to pick my stuff up today, and that I would like to have my prescription now please.
I did my best, in a patient but determined way, to make it clear that I wasn’t leaving without my promised prescription, and after arguing with me some more . . . doubtlessly hoping I’d lose my shit and go postal so that he could call for the military police and be the pharmacy’s hero of the day . . . the asshole finally backed down and found someone to fill my prescription.
But an hour later I was still tripping over my beak, so I decided to call the base commander’s hotline to suggest someone acquaint the pharmacy’s left hand with its right hand. Guess what? The base commander’s hotline is a thing of the past!
Used to be every base had a hotline to the boss; the idea was that anyone could call in with a problem or complaint and the commander would get personally involved in fixing whatever was wrong or at least resolving the complaint. Apparently the wars have given the military the excuse it wanted to get rid of all that touchy-feely stuff. Now, if you have a gripe, you have to resolve it yourself through the chain of command. What does that mean? In this case, it means that the person I’m supposed to complain to is the very asshole who gave me trouble in the first place. In other words, “don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”
I am nothing if not resourceful, so I tracked down the number of the base clinic’s patient advocate. It was an answering machine (of course), but I left my name and number and before long an NCO called and listened to my story. He said the volunteer was full of it and promised to talk to the guy. He also said the refill hotline pickup times are supposed to be firm, and that he’d make sure everyone at the pharmacy complied with them. For now, short of writing a letter to the base commander, that’s about all I can do. And I hesitate to write the letter, because the base commander is already working on . . . or soon will be working on . . . another letter of mine. But I certainly will write, should it happen again. Squeaky wheel, aye.
Some post-beak thoughts:
As a military retiree I have health care for life, very good health care at that . . . a Cadillac plan, as they say, one they can’t cancel or kick me out of for pre-existing conditions. Compared to many most Americans, I’ve got it made.
My experience made me think of the millions of working Americans who don’t have it made, who have to choose between rent and medical insurance or between prescription medications and new tires. Working Americans who have no one to complain to when they get screwed over. It would be very easy to say “I’ve got mine, Jack” and ignore them. Maybe that’s what the voters of Massachusetts, who already benefit from a state health care system, just said. I don’t know.
I do know that I don’t believe our representatives and senators are capable of passing a health care plan. Almost to a man and woman, regardless of party affiliation, they’re in the pockets of the corporations, and it’s just never gonna happen. Never. And I think corporate ownership of congress is going to get worse, not better.
Yeah, a smart person would hunker down and say “I’ve got mine, Jack.” You want a pension and health care? Join the military and make a career of it. Get a civil service job. Already too old for that? Too bad, Jack. Shoulda thought of that back when you were in high school.
Tell you what, though, even though I’ve got mine . . . if President Obama gives up on health care, he’s giving up on the people who elected him, and I’ll be done with him. Because that would give me a massive beak.