Ranger Mike’s ex wife in Longbeach is a deputy sheriff. Gold star. Detective. She’s known in law enforcement circles as “The Kidnapper” because of the kind of specialty work she does for the sheriff’s department.
A few days ago, her father died. He died in the middle of the night. She wanted to break the news to Ranger Mike, who was close to the old man, and to arrange to come pick him up so he could help with the funeral, their kids and the mourning.
She called my homeless veterans’ shelter emergency number, the number to the Resident Assistant’s office, around five a.m. The Resident Assistant on third shift duty was another Mike, an ex-convict who treats the veterans in the V.I.P. program like concentration camp Jews in Nazi Germany. He treats them like that because U.S. Vets, his employer, our ersatz benefactor, lets him treat them like that.
She called the emergency number, identified herself as Ranger Mike’s wife, explained that there had been a death in the family and asked to speak to Ranger Mike.
“We don’t do that,” R.A. Mike snarled, probably angry that he had been woken on his job for something as trivial as a death in some numnutz’s family.
“We can’t leave this office,” he lied. Actually, the only time the R.A.s are allowed to leave the R.A.’s office is on U.S. Vets business . . . or personal business, or private business, or public business, or, most common of all, monkey business.
As I recall from my own time down there in the pits of the V.I.P. program, it’s actually pretty hard to find the R.A. in the R.A.’s office, unless he’s sleeping or looking at internet porn on the office computer. I spent lots and lots and lots more of frustrated time waiting in front of the locked R.A.’s office door for the R.A. to come back from God only knew where so that I could turn in my weekly self-snitch report or paperwork to get drug tested or whatever other humiliating crap they had thought up that week.
So Ranger Mike’s ex-wife asked if she could leave a message with R.A. Mike to give to Ranger Mike later.
“We don’t do that, either,” R.A. Mike snarled again, “We put phone messages on the wall and if the guy comes in the office, it’s his responsibility to check the wall for messages. We don’t tell them they have messages.”
One of the veterans died in his room from a heart attack and U.S. Vets administrators were freaked out for days worrying that some of his relatives might sue them for negligence, especially since his death wasn’t the first time he had been wheeled off the property in an ambulance cart, but the R.A.s left the dead man’s messages on the wall for weeks afterward because it was the dead vet’s responsibility to remove his own messages.
So Ranger Mike’s distraught ex-wife said okay, she’d like to just leave a message about the death in the family.
“WE DON’T DO THAT!” R.A. Mike snarled, angry that this dumb bitch wasn’t getting that he doesn’t now nor ever did give a shit about the veterans in his “care.”
“Third shift doesn’t take messages,” he explained, “Call back when first shift comes in,” he said and hung up the phone, not bothering to tell her when that would be.
That’s what you get when you outsource veteran “care”. But it’s better than what the average American taxpayer wants to do for its homeless veterans, which is nothing.
Resident Assistant (they should change that title to Resident Bully) Mike might have made a mistake with this bereaved V.I.P. relative, though. This one was a deputy sheriff, Gold Star, Detective, a law enforcement officer with no little amount of pull.
And, Ranger Mike says, a law enforcement officer with a vindictive streak a mile long. Ranger Mike says that his ex-wife is, actually, the most vindictive person he’s ever met. Vengeance is her middle name.
If I were R.A. Mike, I’d stop driving my car for a while, take the bus, wear a hooded jacket. You know, keep a low profile for the next six or seven years until Mrs. Ranger Mike retires.
She called my homeless veterans’ shelter emergency number, the number to the Resident Assistant’s office, around five a.m. The Resident Assistant on third shift duty was another Mike, an ex-convict who treats the veterans in the V.I.P. program like concentration camp Jews in Nazi Germany. He treats them like that because U.S. Vets, his employer, our ersatz benefactor, lets him treat them like that.
She called the emergency number, identified herself as Ranger Mike’s wife, explained that there had been a death in the family and asked to speak to Ranger Mike.
“We don’t do that,” R.A. Mike snarled, probably angry that he had been woken on his job for something as trivial as a death in some numnutz’s family.
“We can’t leave this office,” he lied. Actually, the only time the R.A.s are allowed to leave the R.A.’s office is on U.S. Vets business . . . or personal business, or private business, or public business, or, most common of all, monkey business.
As I recall from my own time down there in the pits of the V.I.P. program, it’s actually pretty hard to find the R.A. in the R.A.’s office, unless he’s sleeping or looking at internet porn on the office computer. I spent lots and lots and lots more of frustrated time waiting in front of the locked R.A.’s office door for the R.A. to come back from God only knew where so that I could turn in my weekly self-snitch report or paperwork to get drug tested or whatever other humiliating crap they had thought up that week.
So Ranger Mike’s ex-wife asked if she could leave a message with R.A. Mike to give to Ranger Mike later.
“We don’t do that, either,” R.A. Mike snarled again, “We put phone messages on the wall and if the guy comes in the office, it’s his responsibility to check the wall for messages. We don’t tell them they have messages.”
One of the veterans died in his room from a heart attack and U.S. Vets administrators were freaked out for days worrying that some of his relatives might sue them for negligence, especially since his death wasn’t the first time he had been wheeled off the property in an ambulance cart, but the R.A.s left the dead man’s messages on the wall for weeks afterward because it was the dead vet’s responsibility to remove his own messages.
So Ranger Mike’s distraught ex-wife said okay, she’d like to just leave a message about the death in the family.
“WE DON’T DO THAT!” R.A. Mike snarled, angry that this dumb bitch wasn’t getting that he doesn’t now nor ever did give a shit about the veterans in his “care.”
“Third shift doesn’t take messages,” he explained, “Call back when first shift comes in,” he said and hung up the phone, not bothering to tell her when that would be.
That’s what you get when you outsource veteran “care”. But it’s better than what the average American taxpayer wants to do for its homeless veterans, which is nothing.
Resident Assistant (they should change that title to Resident Bully) Mike might have made a mistake with this bereaved V.I.P. relative, though. This one was a deputy sheriff, Gold Star, Detective, a law enforcement officer with no little amount of pull.
And, Ranger Mike says, a law enforcement officer with a vindictive streak a mile long. Ranger Mike says that his ex-wife is, actually, the most vindictive person he’s ever met. Vengeance is her middle name.
If I were R.A. Mike, I’d stop driving my car for a while, take the bus, wear a hooded jacket. You know, keep a low profile for the next six or seven years until Mrs. Ranger Mike retires.
Tags: U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, outsourcing, veterans shelter, homeless veterans, homeless, U.S. Vets, Resident Assistant, R.A., concentration camp, V.I.P. program, substandard care, jarvis
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