Bob Petersen set down his coffee cup with more force than necessary and glared at his phone. The automated voice on the other end was asking him, for the third time, to enter his member ID number.
“I just gave you my member ID number, you mechanical moron,” he muttered, jabbing at the keypad. He’d been on hold with his prescription insurance company for twenty-seven minutes—he was counting—trying to figure out why his blood pressure medication hadn’t been delivered yesterday as scheduled.
Please hold while we transfer you to a specialist.
More hold music. Bob drummed his fingers on his kitchen table and watched his neighbor Mrs. Chen walk her little terrier past his window. She waved, and Bob managed a smile and a wave back. See? He wasn’t a monster. He was perfectly capable of human decency.
The music stopped. “Thank you for calling PharmaBenefit Solutions. This is Cheryl. Can I get your name and member ID number?”
Bob closed his eyes and counted to three. “Bob Petersen. Member ID 47892-GHT-991. I just gave this information to your system twice.”
“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Petersen. For security purposes, I need to verify some additional information. Can you confirm your date of birth and mailing address?”
Twenty minutes later, after being transferred twice more and having to repeat his entire story to each new representative, Bob finally learned that his prescription had been delayed due to “inventory management issues” and would arrive Thursday.
“Thursday?” Bob’s voice rose. “I needed this medication yesterday. That’s why it’s called a delivery schedule.”
“I understand your frustration, sir,” said the third representative, whose name was Kevin and who sounded about twelve years old. “But there’s really nothing I can do about our warehouse inventory. I can see if there’s a local pharmacy in your network that might—”
“Kevin, let me ask you something,” Bob interrupted. “Do you take any medications?”
There was a pause. When Kevin spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Yes, sir. I do understand. Let me see what else I can do.”
Bob spent another fifteen minutes working with Kevin, who actually turned out to be helpful once Bob stopped yelling at him. They found a local pharmacy, arranged for a temporary prescription, and Kevin even waived the expedite fee. By the time Bob hung up, he felt the familiar wave of self-loathing that always followed these episodes.
He wasn’t proud of how he acted during these calls. He knew the customer service representatives were just doing their jobs, following scripts written by people far above their pay grade. But something about the whole system—the endless phone trees, the repeated questions, the bureaucratic run-around—brought out the worst in him.
Bob had been a service manager for thirty-three years. He knew what it was like to deal with frustrated customers. The difference was, he’d been good at his job. He’d known his customers by name, remembered their cars’ service histories, and generally got things done without making people jump through hoops.
These insurance and medical companies seemed to specialize in making simple things complicated. Bob was convinced that half the people calling him daily were just trying to separate him from his money with fancy marketing schemes.
His brother Tony called that afternoon. “Bobby, I need a favor. I’m short-staffed Tuesday night. Can you fill in as a server?”
Bob nearly choked on his coffee. Tony owned Benedetto’s, a three-star Italian restaurant. “Tony, I haven’t waited tables since… well, never.”
How hard could it be to carry some plates and pour some wine?
Tuesday evening, Bob stood adjusting his black tie in Benedetto’s bathroom mirror. The white apron felt strange, and he looked dressed for a funeral.
At 6:15, Bob thought Tony was right. His section filled gradually—a young couple, an older woman with a book, two business associates. Everyone seemed patient when he admitted he was filling in.
At 7:30, Bob looked up to see a hostess leading a large group toward his section. His heart stopped.
Walking toward him was Richard Steinberg. Bob’s former boss. The man who owned four BMW dealerships. The man worth fifty times what Bob would ever be worth.
Following Richard were seven others—his family celebrating his grandson making varsity soccer. Bob did quick math: eight people, $75 per entrée, plus drinks and dessert. A $1,500 dinner.
“Bob Petersen! What are you doing here?” Richard’s face broke into a surprised smile.
There was no hiding. “Evening, Mr. Steinberg. I’m filling in for my brother tonight. Looks like I’ll be taking care of your table.”
Bob felt sweat forming as he took drink orders. Eight people, five cocktails he’d never heard of. When he got to the bar, his handwriting was barely legible.
He made it back without dropping anything, but realized he’d forgotten who ordered what. The table waited patiently while he played a guessing game with eight beverages.
Taking food orders was worse. When he forgot to ask about salad dressing and had to return a third time, he could see patient tolerance in Richard’s expression—somehow worse than anger would have been.
In the kitchen, Bob leaned against the counter. “I’m falling apart out there.”
“No, you’re not,” said Maria, a line cook. “That table’s been here forty-five minutes and nobody’s complained.”
These weren’t demanding customers. They were a family enjoying dinner, willing to overlook his inexperience.
As the evening progressed, Bob found his rhythm. When Richard’s wine got low, Bob refilled it without being asked. When the eight-year-old spilled her drink, Bob appeared with a towel before anyone had to flag him down.
During dessert, Richard pulled Bob aside. “You know, Bob, I’ve seen servers with years of experience who weren’t half as attentive. You’re trying hard, and that counts for a lot.”
“We all make mistakes. The question is how you handle them. Sometimes people are upset about things that aren’t really your fault, but they need to vent to someone. The best service people understand it’s not personal.”
When Richard’s family left—after leaving a 25% tip on a $1,400 bill—Bob stared at the money. But it wasn’t the tip that stayed with him. It was Richard’s patience, his family’s understanding, their willingness to treat him like a person.
The next morning, Bob’s insurance company called to follow up. Instead of letting it go to voicemail, he picked up.
“Mr. Petersen? This is Kevin. I wanted to make sure your prescription arrived.”
“Kevin, yes, everything arrived perfectly. And I owe you an apology for being so rude. You were just trying to do your job, and I made it harder than it needed to be.”
There was silence. Then: “Thank you for saying that, Mr. Petersen. That really means a lot. Most people don’t call back to apologize.”
Bob sat at his kitchen table thinking about service—giving it and receiving it. He’d forgotten about the actual human beings trying to navigate the same systems from the other side.
His phone rang. “Medicare Solutions Network.”
For the first time in months, he answered on the second ring. “Hello, this is Bob Petersen.”
“Sure, Amanda, I’ve got time.”