My deluxe and low-cal so-called microwave “Philly Pannini” was getting unsettlingly cold to the touch. Meanwhile, the receiver between my ear and shoulder was getting warmer. My temper was mysteriously in-check.

All I could do was smile and think of this as an inevitable conclusion — one last legendary University of Florida phone loop of logic. There she was…waving a meaty index finger at my aching frontal lobes: the Alpha and the Omega: Nance.

Yes, my mind floated in and out of this conference call. My financial adviser had arranged the meeting to discuss a lump sum rollover of my retirement investment plan. I’d deliberately and — as it would seem, wisely — chosen this plan in order to bolt from the state of Florida without losing my pension. Yet, here they were on the other end of the line transferring me from representative to representative, shrugging their shoulders and waiting for me to say, “fuck it; it’s only money.”

“Mr. Ritchells, you do realize that the benefits of your plan are still in tact, Florida resident or not — if you should ever decide to return…”

“He’s not returning.”

“And you are…?”

“I’m his financial adviser — merely a translator.”

She was a pro — shrewd and cancerously sweet like Splenda. Images of Nance danced out of my subconscious to join the party.

“Well…it’s my duty to explain…”

“Darlin’ could you please transfer us to someone who can help? Thanks so much.”

Either she was gobbling speed or she had trained in a previous decade as a telemarketer. The speed of her wit was music to my swollen ears.

The hold jazz cut in and out abruptly as the Florida Retirement System reps tried to listen to our conversation. She was unphased. And then I knew, these people…they are everywhere.

And they were. We went from rep to rep without getting anywhere.

“I’m sorry, sir. It says here that you are still employed by the university.”

“That’s impossible. It was over 8 months ago.”

“Well…nobody told us.”

“Fuck.”

“Again, sir. You’ll need to have someone from the university. You must be terminated.”

A shiver went down my spine. I saw Nance’s soprano laugh leaving her lips — heaving her giant sweating back into that ergonomic, orthopedic adjusto-chair.

“It’s ok, Andy. We’ll get this all sorted out. Just stay on the line with me and my assistant will patch us through to the university’s benefits office.”

“Aaaah, thanks.”

Three representatives later and we had an expert on the phone.

“Yes, that’s correct. You’ll need to fill-out the Florida Retirement System’s form, which verifies that you’ve been terminated.”

“That’s insane,” I said flatly.

“I’m sorry…”

“You mean to tell me that THEY have a form that I need to fill out and THEY couldn’t even tell me that on the phone. Not one of ten reps could?”

“Again, very sorry. I can mail you the form.”

“And I am responsible for terminating MYSELF?”

I needed a drink, but just settled for more coffee. Eventually, I knew I’d get that money. Nance is a bear of an adversary with that six foot six lumberjack frame and iceberg stare, but I am no sheep. I walked to the office lounge with more swagger in my step than usual. My pulse left its dormant cubicle range and I felt the muscles in my shoulders tightening. It was then that I realized the only thing that can rescue the castrated modern American male: revenge…even imagined.