Admonition

Orville had known Ben since high school. They’d gone into business together twice. The second time was the charm. On the surface, the concept was not very exciting: medical supplies of the durable variety. Ben’s uncle was friends with a supplier, and the two young men had started out offering walkers for the elderly or infirm, simple metal contraptions that made getting around easier.

Over the decade since they'd started S&C, these contraptions became less simple and more expensive. Also over the decade, he and Ben had added other products frequently recommended or prescribed by doctors: wheelchairs, crutches, C-PAP machines, shower chairs, adjustable beds, even breast pumps. They had a small storefront in the hospital district. They were beginning to experience competition from online suppliers, but were not yet concerned about it.

One aspect of their services that put them slightly ahead was the aspect Orville found most depressing: he and Ben knew, personally, most of their customers. More than several times, Orville found himself discussing with a former high-school classmate the state of their parents’ health, or even visiting a parent in their home. Some of these parents had been commanding presences in his youth. Thus he saw before him, graphically revealed as if in a comic book, scenes of decline and degradation, a vivid parade of dysfunction, the unavoidable process of birth, life, heights of achievement, decline, death. He knew he was supposed to be at the beginning of his “heights of achievement” stage, but sometimes it did not feel that way.

The number of those deemed elderly or infirm was increasing. Business was good. Ben took it in stride; Ben felt that he and Orville were contributing to society, helping, easing burdens, spreading sympathy, staying aware. They were both in their mid-thirties. Life was interesting.

“A medical equipment supplier should have someone on staff who handles submitting claims to the insurance company and who makes sure the appropriate authorizations are in place,” Ben had read out loud to Orville from a website one morning a few years ago, and shortly after that he’d hired Mrs. Johnson. A graduate of Morehouse University, Mrs. Johnson had dropped her pursuit of CPA certification to have four children, and had then returned to the workforce. She spent 25 hours a week at Stillman & Campion Medical Equipment offices behind the storefront, and would be there constantly if Orville hadn’t put his foot down, using “unpredictable finances” as an excuse. The woman, in her late fifties, was energetic, maybe even domineering. She had opinions, and she had adopted an involved, ownership-style attitude toward their business.

“So, when are you getting your actual CPA?” Orville had asked her at the interview. “When the dogwood blooms, Mr. Campion,” she replied. “Any day now.” Months later, she’d explain, “Well, I had to miss a few classes because my daughter needed me, and so I’m starting over, Mr. Campion. But I’ll get there.” Her work was flawless, however.

Recently, during a pause in the discussion of a solvable insurance problem, she'd offered him a serious, almost tragic, stare and pronouncement: “Do not have children, Mr. Campion. Squash that idea, that’s my good word to you. It will pull the stuffing out of you and you might not get it back. There are children enough in this world, and some of them are all grown up.” Orville was not sure if she meant him. Was he just a grown-up child? He still felt he had a foot in both worlds; how did Mrs. Johnson know?

— Macoff