Stick That in Your TRW and Smoke It, Bitch!
If dealing with collection agencies was worth college credits, every member of my family would be a doctor by now. I am a third-generation deadbeat. Every day letters from utility companies, hospitals and credit cards come to our houses, and every day we ignore them. At least once a week some huffy minimum wage goon will call up and harass whomever answers for money he is never going to see.
My sister and mother were the queen and princess of unpaid debt, respectively. When my mother died, she left nearly ten thousand dollars in unpaid credit cards in her wake. When my sister died, the number was well over one hundred thousand. None of her bills were ever for something good like new furniture, jewelry or a Carnival cruise. It was for surgeries, hospitals, doctors visits, psychiatrists and a rehab stint in the 80’s. Although they all received a portion of the money they were owed from her insurance, there was no way she was paying the thousands of dollars insurance didn’t cover. She barely even worked.
So I was laying in wait until the first jackass called our house looking for her. I knew it was just a matter of time. My sister had moved out of New York over a year earlier, but that is a mere technicality in the collection biz. Even if you don't know the person, or pretend you don't speak English, or whatever, the tenacious little fuckers will keep calling you, hoping that by some off chance they'll get the deadbeat they are seeking on the phone.
Sure enough, last week we got a snippy message from "Mrs. Carter" regarding an "urgent matter". They never tell you what company they are from or what the urgent matter might be, but by the local 516 callback number, I figured out this was a $900 anesthesiologist bill that they'd been calling about for the past two years. Smugly, I called Mrs. Carter back and prayed she was in a fighting mood. She didn't disappoint.
"Hello, I am calling on behalf of Laura Reynen, account number 65632?" I began, in my most pleasant phone manner. "Well!" Mrs. Cunter started, "Why isn't she calling about this matter herself?!" Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Lord, for this bounty of self-righteous snarky thou hast laid out before me... "Because” I replied, “She is dead." I drew the words out, and gave them a subtle accusatory tone that implied that somehow, Mrs. Carter herself was directly responsible for my sister’s unexpected demise. "Oh...uh, oh, I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. Okay, we'll need some proof. A copy of the death certificate or some other proof." Yeah, right, bitch. You don't believe me? So sue her. Go the fuck right ahead. "Um, no. She died in October. You have her Social Security number. Run it and it will come up she's dead." Click.
My sister would have so wanted it this way.