If Franz Kafka Were An Optometrist

If Franz Kafka Were An Optometrist

By

Leo de Natale

Illustrations by Vince Giovannucci

Kafkaesque: Czech-born German language writer Franz Kafka whose surreal fiction vividly expressed anxiety, alienation and powerlessness of the individual in the 20^th century. The word Kafkaesque is often applied to bizarre and impersonal administrative situations where the individual feels powerless to understand or control what is happening. Source:Mirriam-Webster

          In Massachusetts, there is a bureaucratic haven called the Department of Licensure.  It is an office that controls, monitors and issues professional licenses.   Many occupations require a license.  Hairdressers, plumbers, physicians and numerous and varied occupations can’t escape the long arm of Those Who Control Our Lives.  In the eyes of state hacks, a neurosurgeon is no different from a barber.  Many occupations affecting the functioning of society require monitoring.  For a fee, of course.  Over the years more and more people are affected by the dictates of organized government.  And why would you say this exists?  Very simple.  Professional licensure has become a cash cow.  It’s all about the money.

Anyone in an occupation requiring a license pays an annual registration fee.  Statistically, the cost has increased.  Most license fees have doubled or tripled.  The following is such an example.

Dr. Stuart Paul is a semi-retired optometrist who in the year 2021 would be sucked into the vortex of a Kafkaesque bureaucracy. It all began early the previous year. When the public health crisis was at its zenith in 2020, he pondered hanging up his ophthalmoscope and permanently retiring. He wouldn’t renew his professional licenses and would call it a career. Like all Americans, the short and long term effects of Covid 19 affected him. He worked at an optical chain located inside a Boston mall. The office was busy with a steady patient flow. By early March, 2020 the mall pulled the plug and the entire facility was indefinitely closed.

After 40 years examining patients’ eyes, he could not work.  In his early 60’s, Paul was unemployed. He consulted with his primary care physician, Miriam St. Claire.

“Stuart, you’re 65  now,” she stated.  “The CDC is advising persons in your age group are at greater risk for Covid infection.  I would prefer you suspend work.   You optometrists are in close contact with patients.  I know you regularly exercise. I’d also suspend any gym activities, too.”

And so arrived the routine: mandatory masks, social distancing and isolation became the watch words. After he’d closed his private practice nearly ten years ago, he’d settled nicely into a series of part time positions. He was free lancer, a “hired gun”, and never wanted for work. Like most Americans, Dr. Paul and his wife Katrina plummeted into forced isolation. Their children were grown and lived out-of-state. It was just them and their two Cairn Terriers, Hoot and Lassie.

They lived during the “Curse of the Mask” where everyone was obliged to wear the dreaded blue disposable masks. Life became claustrophobic. Everyone yearned for the “good old days” which weren’t that old. My, how everyone took normalcy for granted. The country endured a period where citizens were forced into a national psychological depression. Inability to interact socially or travel to work and sheer boredom consumed the nation. Hello, Herr Kafka.

Fortunately government leadership in record-breaking time developed vaccines in late 2020. The cure was near. After the usual Food and Drug Administration (FDA) hurdles vaccines became increasingly available. On a hunch he’d be working again, Stuart Paul had wisely renewed his professional license (for a $150 fee – it once was $25) for 2021-22. As a licensed health care worker, he was eligible for vaccination. He was vaccinated by March, 2021.

April arrived.  Stuart still felt nudgy.  He reversed his retirement decision and began looking for work.  He contacted various colleagues but there weren’t any available part time positions.  His main physical activity had been two hour walks, sometimes with Katrina, sometimes with his neighbor Joe.  At various times during the day, he’d ride a stationary recumbent bicycle he’d purchased the previous December.  He was reading books and telephoning friends.  It was a time when old friendships were re-ignited – that was a positive aspect of living through a pandemic.

Out of the blue, the phone rang.  It was an optometrist who had hired him part time after he’d closed his office.  She’d moved out of state five years ago but returned to Boston and reassumed her shopping mall practice.

“Hi Stuart, this is Suzy calling,” Suzy Wadsworth said. “I’m back and have signed a new contract with the mall.  I’m looking for some part time coverage.  I know you’ve retired, but are you interested in coming back?”

“It’s so good to hear your voice, Suzy,” he replied. “Yes, I’ve been dying to resume working and ditch retirement. Let’s have lunch.”

They arranged to meet later that week. It initially was awkward because of the mask requirement but they talked. Stuart had always enjoyed his interaction with Suzy. He liked her. She was an extremely competent optometrist and there was good chemistry between them. She wanted coverage two times per week and increased Stuart’s per diem salary. He was giddy. But then he had to explain the glitch.

The licensure for writing prescriptions drugs had lapsed. He was required to renew the drug license. He could not work in an office with the inability to treat eye infections.

“Suzy, I’ve renewed my general license but the drug license has lapsed,” he confessed. “I can examine eyes and write eyeglass prescriptions but obviously not prescribe medications.”

“Well, I tell you what, Stuart,” she said. “You can start working but exclude any patients needing medication.  I can call in  prescriptions.  That’ll cover us.  But you have to apply for license reinstatement.”

“I’ll do that first thing tomorrow,” he eagerly replied. “I’m so happy you contacted me.”

This is where he would experience Kafka’s labyrinth. Stuart Paul’s descent into this parallel universe began when he telephoned the Department of Licensure’s main number. As with most companies, governmental agencies or utility companies, he heard the predictable computerized voice.

“You have reached the Massachusetts Department of Licensure.” an android voice said. “ For new applications, press 1, for inquiries on pending applications press 2. All other inquiries press 3 or remain on the line.”

Stuart pressed 1 and, you guessed it, the recorded message said “Due to the high volume of calls and the Covid 19 restrictions, we are unable to answer this call. Please leave your name and telephone number. Your call will be answered within the next 24 hours.”

The message added the option of using the  department’s website.   So many businesses are basically forcing the public to use online services.  This reduces the number and cost of humanoids manning  telephones.  With state government what difference did it make?

Stuart left a message and waited. And waited. And waited. Three days later, it was obvious no one would be returning his inquiry. Dammit, he said to himself, you can’t get anyone to respond. All these government workers who are receiving a full salary and working from home. My taxpayer dollars are paying these salaries and the service gets worse! He gave up and went online and navigated through the bureaucratic maze of options. He decided to utilized the optometry license website and, amazingly, found the dropdown option for renewal forms. He downloaded the printed application form. Now we’re getting somewhere.

He filled the necessary checkoff information including whether he not he’d been convicted of malpractice, insurance fraud, selling a cheap pair of eyeglasses, used contact lenses, or other inane categories. He signed the document, included the $165 fee and mailed the application. Hopefully, he’d receive the license within two weeks. Or so he thought.

After three weeks, the envelope was returned with the message, “Letter undeliverable to this address.” What the fuck is going on? he said to himself. He double-checked the address. Yup, it was correctly addressed.

Once again, he telephoned the department, followed the voice prompts, left a message and obtained the same failed response.

Stuart was fuming.  He decided to see if another branch of state government could help and contacted his state representative.  The same telephone call protocol – push one for Rep. X, two for Y, and three for Z. Number 3 was his guy.  Left a message with his aide who, surprisingly returned the call about three hours later.

Stuart explained his situation and the exasperation with the address glitch. He discovered he’d made the right move. An aide named Mark responded.

“Dr. Paul, this is Mark,” he said. “I’m giving you the name and telephone number in the Department of Public Health.  They oversee the Licensure Board.  Please contact Molly Graves.  She’ll put you in contact with the right person.  Call me if there are any problems.  Sorry for your inconvenience.”

He quickly called Ms. Graves and was placed on hold.  After three minutes, she answered.

“Ms. Graves, this should be a simple straightforward activity,” he said. “I mailed the envelope to the address provided and it was returned.  What is going on?”

“I’m sorry for this delay, Doctor,” she said apologetically. “There was an “administrative” error. Here’s the new address.”

She supplied the information but he wouldn’t let go of his frustration.

“I simply don’t understand how application addresses are switched and not updated on the document,” he replied. “I’ll resubmit this but I’m sending it by certified mail.  I don’t want to wait another three weeks.”

That was Round 1. He did in fact wait another three weeks. A letter finally arrived. He opened it and, to his dismay, the application was returned with a note saying “You failed to renew your license for 2019-2020. The check received covers last year’s license. You must resubmit an additional $165 fee.” Due to Covid, the license had allegedly provide a fee forgiveness for 2020. Wrong. Whether or not an optometrist was working, the fee was still required.

Stuart, with steam pouring from his ears, resubmitted the application and again mailed it registered mail. I don’t trust these incompetents, he mused.

Two weeks later, an envelope arrived. He opened the letter and he fell deeper into the bureaucratic chasm. Inside the envelope was an application and it wasn’t Stuart’s. The document belonged to a female optometrist from central Massachusetts who had failed to complete her application. Right church, wrong pew.

He Googled the doctor’s office and telephoned. She answered the call and Stuart explained the ongoing fiasco. She said she’d been had been awaiting the license for five of weeks.

“Look, I’m in the same boat,” he said briefly describing his travails. “I’ll mail you the application and you can correct the missing items. Good luck.”

Furious, Stuart telephoned his new best friend Molly Graves.

“I can’t believe this incompetence, Ms. Graves,” he said. “Where is my license and when will it be delivered? I’ve been waiting nearly four months for something that should not take that long to process.”

“Dr. Paul, I apologize for these delays,” she calmly replied.  “I’m giving you the direct telephone number for Mildred Ryan.  She’s the employee who is now handling all optometric licensing.  I’ll also text her regarding this situation.”

He immediately telephoned Mildred – god, what an awful name—and, predictably was transferred to a voice mail recording. “This is Mildred Ryan,” a high-pitched voice with a strong Boston accent said. “Please leave yaw telephone numba and I’ll return yaw call.” Hearing that message, he pictured an obese, middle-aged woman wearing a house coat and drinking coffee while smoking cigarettes at her dining room table.

          No Mildred that day.  Or the next.  Finally, on day three, Mildred responded with a phlegmatic tone.

          “I’m working remotely, Docta, and it’s hahd retrieving all my messages,” she said.  “I promise I’ll get this to ya within four days.”

          He politely thanked her but for Stuart, Mildred epitomized the inefficiency and inertia observed in so many state employees.  The taxpayers’s money hard at work.  Not.

Three days later, sunofabitch, the license finally arrived. While taking several deep breaths, he thought I can finally escape from Franz Kafka’s maelstrom.

As an epilogue, Stuart, four days later, received another Dept. of Licensure envelope. With trepidation, he opened the letter and viewed its contents. His pupils dilated from incredulity as he stared at the contents: two additional licenses had been sent. Well, what do you know? Three licenses for the price of one. Government at your service, ladies and gentlemen.