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mostlysignssomeportents · 11 months ago

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Red Lobster was killed by private equity, not Endless Shrimp

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

A decade ago, a hedge fund had an improbable viral comedy hit: a 294-page slide deck explaining why Olive Garden was going out of business, blaming the failure on too many breadsticks and insufficiently salted pasta-water:

https://www.sec.gov/Archives/edgar/data/940944/000092189514002031/ex991dfan14a06297125_091114.pdf

Everyone loved this story. As David Dayen wrote for Salon, it let readers "mock that silly chain restaurant they remember from their childhoods in the suburbs" and laugh at "the silly hedge fund that took the time to write the world’s worst review":

https://www.salon.com/2014/09/17/the_real_olive_garden_scandal_why_greedy_hedge_funders_suddenly_care_so_much_about_breadsticks/

But – as Dayen wrote at the time, the hedge fund that produced that slide deck, Starboard Value, was not motivated by dissatisfaction with bread-sticks. They were "activist investors" (finspeak for "rapacious assholes") with a giant stake in Darden Restaurants, Olive Garden's parent company. They wanted Darden to liquidate all of Olive Garden's real-estate holdings and declare a one-off dividend that would net investors a billion dollars, while literally yanking the floor out from beneath Olive Garden, converting it from owner to tenant, subject to rent-shocks and other nasty surprises.

They wanted to asset-strip the company, in other words ("asset strip" is what they call it in hedge-fund land; the mafia calls it a "bust-out," famous to anyone who watched the twenty-third episode of The Sopranos):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bust_Out

Starboard didn't have enough money to force the sale, but they had recently engineered the CEO's ouster. The giant slide-deck making fun of Olive Garden's food was just a PR campaign to help it sell the bust-out by creating a narrative that they were being activists* to save this badly managed disaster of a restaurant chain.

*assholes

Starboard was bent on eviscerating Darden like a couple of entrail-maddened dogs in an elk carcass:

https://web.archive.org/web/20051220005944/http://alumni.media.mit.edu/~solan/dogsinelk/

They had forced Darden to sell off another of its holdings, Red Lobster, to a hedge-fund called Golden Gate Capital. Golden Gate flogged all of Red Lobster's real estate holdings for $2.1 billion the same day, then pissed it all away on dividends to its shareholders, including Starboard. The new landlords, a Real Estate Investment Trust, proceeded to charge so much for rent on those buildings Red Lobster just flogged that the company's net earnings immediately dropped by half.

Dayen ends his piece with these prophetic words:

Olive Garden and Red Lobster may not be destinations for hipster Internet journalists, and they have seen revenue declines amid stagnant middle-class wages and increased competition. But they are still profitable businesses. Thousands of Americans work there. Why should they be bled dry by predatory investors in the name of “shareholder value”? What of the value of worker productivity instead of the financial engineers?

Flash forward a decade. Today, Dayen is editor-in-chief of The American Prospect, one of the best sources of news about private equity looting in the world. Writing for the Prospect, Luke Goldstein picks up Dayen's story, ten years on:

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-05-22-raiding-red-lobster/

It's not pretty. Ten years of being bled out on rents and flipped from one hedge fund to another has killed Red Lobster. It just shuttered 50 restaurants and declared Chapter 11 bankruptcy. Ten years hasn't changed much; the same kind of snark that was deployed at the news of Olive Garden's imminent demise is now being hurled at Red Lobster.

Instead of dunking on free bread-sticks, Red Lobster's grave-dancers are jeering at "Endless Shrimp," a promotional deal that works exactly how it sounds like it would work. Endless Shrimp cost the chain $11m.

Which raises a question: why did Red Lobster make this money-losing offer? Are they just good-hearted slobs? Can't they do math?

Or, you know, was it another hedge-fund, bust-out scam?

Here's a hint. The supplier who provided Red Lobster with all that shrimp is Thai Union. Thai Union also owns Red Lobster. They bought the chain from Golden Gate Capital, last seen in 2014, holding a flash-sale on all of Red Lobster's buildings, pocketing billions, and cutting Red Lobster's earnings in half.

Red Lobster rose to success – 700 restaurants nationwide at its peak – by combining no-frills dining with powerful buying power, which it used to force discounts from seafood suppliers. In response, the seafood industry consolidated through a wave of mergers, turning into a cozy cartel that could resist the buyer power of Red Lobster and other major customers.

This was facilitated by conservation efforts that limited the total volume of biomass that fishers were allowed to extract, and allocated quotas to existing companies and individual fishermen. The costs of complying with this "catch management" system were high, punishingly so for small independents, bearably so for large conglomerates.

Competition from overseas fisheries drove consolidation further, as countries in the global south were blocked from implementing their own conservation efforts. US fisheries merged further, seeking economies of scale that would let them compete, largely by shafting fishermen and other suppliers. Today's Alaskan crab fishery is dominated by a four-company cartel; in the Pacific Northwest, most fish goes through a single intermediary, Pacific Seafood.

These dominant actors entered into illegal collusive arrangements with one another to rig their markets and further immiserate their suppliers, who filed antitrust suits accusing the companies of operating a monopsony (a market with a powerful buyer, akin to a monopoly, which is a market with a powerful seller):

https://www.classaction.org/news/pacific-seafood-under-fire-for-allegedly-fixing-prices-paid-to-dungeness-crabbers-in-pacific-northwest

Golden Gate bought Red Lobster in the midst of these fish wars, promising to right its ship. As Goldstein points out, that's the same promise they made when they bought Payless shoes, just before they destroyed the company and flogged it off to Alden Capital, the hedge fund that bought and destroyed dozens of America's most beloved newspapers:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/16/sociopathic-monsters/#all-the-news-thats-fit-to-print

Under Golden Gate's management, Red Lobster saw its staffing levels slashed, so diners endured longer wait times to be seated and served. Then, in 2020, they sold the company to Thai Union, the company's largest supplier (a transaction Goldstein likens to a Walmart buyout of Procter and Gamble).

Thai Union continued to bleed Red Lobster, imposing more cuts and loading it up with more debts financed by yet another private equity giant, Fortress Investment Group. That brings us to today, with Thai Union having moved a gigantic amount of its own product through a failing, debt-loaded subsidiary, even as it lobbies for deregulation of American fisheries, which would let it and its lobbying partners drain American waters of the last of its depleted fish stocks.

Dayen's 2020 must-read book Monopolized describes the way that monopolies proliferate, using the US health care industry as a case-study:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/29/fractal-bullshit/#dayenu

After deregulation allowed the pharma sector to consolidate, it acquired pricing power of hospitals, who found themselves gouged to the edge of bankruptcy on drug prices. Hospitals then merged into regional monopolies, which allowed them to resist pharma pricing power – and gouge health insurance companies, who saw the price of routine care explode. So the insurance companies gobbled each other up, too, leaving most of us with two or fewer choices for health insurance – even as insurance prices skyrocketed, and our benefits shrank.

Today, Americans pay more for worse healthcare, which is delivered by health workers who get paid less and work under worse conditions. That's because, lacking a regulator to consolidate patients' interests, and strong unions to consolidate workers' interests, patients and workers are easy pickings for those consolidated links in the health supply-chain.

That's a pretty good model for understanding what's happened to Red Lobster: monopoly power and monopsony power begat more monopolies and monoposonies in the supply chain. Everything that hasn't consolidated is defenseless: diners, restaurant workers, fishermen, and the environment. We're all fucked.

Decent, no-frills family restaurant are good. Great, even. I'm not the world's greatest fan of chain restaurants, but I'm also comfortably middle-class and not struggling to afford to give my family a nice night out at a place with good food, friendly staff and reasonable prices. These places are easy pickings for looters because the people who patronize them have little power in our society – and because those of us with more power are easily tricked into sneering at these places' failures as a kind of comeuppance that's all that's due to tacky joints that serve the working class.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/23/spineless/#invertebrates

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ur-mag · 2 years ago

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alenkorra · 2 years ago

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oh to live in the mass effect universe and be kaidan alenko's controversially young boyfriend

#he could be like richard madden snatching twinks left and right #though i wonder if 22 & 32 would be considered a big age gap in ME #considering humans have a longer life-span

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jscrawls · 13 days ago

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Widows rest

My take on a Black widow! Reader x Batman and Batfam but with a slight twist, reader doesn't know the Bats but they seem to know them...

Warning: contains avengers infinity war spoilers, black widow spoilers, graphic violence, injuries, physical torture, Guns, ❗ some graphic harm happens to reader so read with caution❗ dreykov needs his own warning, possible ooc,

Part 22: bandaids don’t fix

🔹🔹🔹

it’s been seven hours according to your guestimate since you were taken.

you’d been sleeping not so peacefully in the bunks with the others when they’d come, one moment the bunker was relatively quiet. only the sound of mountain wind howling outside and the occasional shuffling of sheets. the next, shots were being fired into the dark room.

you don’t have time to fight back, you don’t even have time to kick the sheets off your body or pull on the shackles keeping you locked to the bed when something slams into the side of your head and something sharp jams painfully into your under arm pulse point.

now after gradually coming to and realizing you’re somewhere unknown, grey concrete everything, floor, walls, ceiling. The only things in the room are a metal table against one wall covered in a sheet, the bolted down rusty steel chair you're occupying, and yourself. No sound at all except your haggard breathing and the occasional groan of aged steel walls shifting in the wind. you’ve tried to take stock of yourself. blurred vision, trailing spots as your head turns, so a concussion. blood trickles and sticks in your shirt uncomfortably from the needle piercing your skin too roughly, your wrists and ankles are tied to the chair so tightly that you know you’ll suffer nerve damage if you live through this much longer, you could lose something If you make it through the day.

A dim light sways ever so slightly overhead, the yellow circle of light around you swirling in a maddening dance that's just distracting enough to keep you aware of the passing time. The light flickers ever so slightly before the rusted steel door swings open with a loud grinding creak. The bottom of it scraping against the floor as four masked people walk in, all of them armed and focused on you.

”How's your head feeling? You took a solid blow.” one speaks- his Russian thick and over pronounced- you can hear the satisfied curl in his upper lip as he mocks you.

You say nothing, only stare at them as they circle you like wolves.

The one behind you leans over your back, chest pressing against the back of your neck uncomfortably as he slowly grabs one of your fingers, your ring finger, and then jerks his hand back. The hand you thought you'd lost feeling in buzzes with heat and sparks of sharp pain crawl up your wrist like fire ants as he breaks your finger.

”You were asked a question, red devil.”

You bite your own tongue hard enough to draw blood but still, no sound escapes you as the man steps back, they all watch, expectant, pissed.

The programs been compromised, and now they want what you have, information. They're going to attempt to wring it out of you until you die like the weak trainees or you crack, both will end in your death at someone's hand.

At your continued silence the first one who spoke crosses the room, his boots clicking against the concrete before pausing, he slowly pulls the white sheet off the steel table and you get a look at what exactly is on it. Even in the dim light you can see the handles, blades probably, but your stomach doesn't drop until he picks up a vial of liquid and shakes it at you tauntingly, his other hand finds a needle and your pulse soars in your ears as he slowly draws out half a syringe of a pinkish tinted liquid.

You don't know how long it's been now, they come and go. Sometimes leaving you in complete darkness, sometimes setting a water drip over your head from the small water pipe you hadn't noticed before. Everything feels right now, the the bruises, burns, shocks, it feels worse after whatever they'd injected you with. Your nerves alight like fire was injected under your skin, like mercury was in your blood veins.

Whatever it was made every little slap feel like you were covered in tarantula wasps, you've probably sweat so much you're at risk of dying to dehydration by now.

And Still you've remained quiet.

Even as they pressed the barrel of a gun against your head, the cold metal reminding you of a childhood spent in the mountains. What an odd thing to find comfort in as they pull the trigger.

The empty click confuses you, you shouldn't have heard anything at all…you slowly glance up at their makes faces while they all seem to blur in your vision under the yellowed light.

Your bleary eyes squint as the door swings open, you don't even have it in you to react when he walks in.

Dreykov.

All you can manage to rasp out is a quiet “A test?”

He smiles thinly, looking over your brutalized form as if you were made of something precious. Looking at each bruise like it's an award being presented to him personally. He's never looked at you like that before, it's unsettling as much as you pathetically find comfort in it.

“A success. You did as expected. Prep them for the ceremony.”

he gestures over his shoulder and the very same men that'd just tortured you near-to-death stroll over and start removing your bindings like nothing happened, one of them even whistles as he begins to wipe blood off the instruments.

The normalcy hurts near as much as your limbs do when the blood slowly returns, your broken fingers ache so much worse as it does, like glass crawling through your fingertips. You can hardly breathe, animalistic panic at just their presence nearly topples you. But you don't move at all until they start to lift you out of that chair by your biceps.

You wanted to beg him for time, time to heal and process and maybe even to tell the soldier…something, to hear a voice that wasn't demanding secrets and blood of you. But you bite your tongue. They'll see you used for organs before they let you question their orders.

The surgery awaits you.

🔹🔹🔹

you wake up panting like a dog and covered in sweat, your vision blurred as your body aches weirdly, you’re both numb and feeling like you’re laying on a live wire. dull sparks of pain shoot up your body sporadically, dulled by something not quite strong enough.

For a terrible, terrible moment you're still there. They're about to put the knife to you and you're about to get your first suit, barely able to even try it on due to the pain of something being removed from you.

But you're not.

Looking around you recognize the plain walls of the guest room you've claimed as your own at Wayne manor, moonlight streams in the window between the gaps in the curtain and illuminates the sparse furniture and decor, the tray full of medical tools on the bedside table is new.

You slide the covers off and try to sit up when you realize how stiff you are, looking down you notice bandages across your chest, your hands, your legs, what?

Oh, Gotham City. The car, the fires, Batman, the near-explosion, your….Your head falls into your hands as another wave of nausea hits you for a moment, you could throw up if you moved too fast right now…

The bedroom room door creaks open.

You whirl around so fast you almost gag, your hand covers your mouth as your eyes squeeze shut at the uncomfortable feeling. When you eventually peel them back open you can make out an outline in the dark, is that Bruce?

“….I thought you might still be asleep.” His voice is careful, forcedly soft as he fills out the doorway with one hand resting on the door handle, you can't see him well enough to read him.

“…. Weird dreams, what happened?….” You murmur quietly, throat raw as if you've drank everclear. Was it the gas fumes? Or were you out for that long? You don't have it in you to ask just yet.

Bruce slowly steps into the room, sliding the door shut with a quiet little click before crossing the room to stand at the foot of the bed. The dim light streaming in only illuminates half his face, one blue eye visibly locked on you.

“You wanna tell me?” he grunts out, tense, oh…he's angry.

You lean back against the headboard slowly, body still protesting your every action. You've had worse though. “I'm assuming you know I went into the city with Tim and Alfred….”

“Oh, do I?” He doesn't move at all, but you have the feeling you'd see a clenched jaw if the light was flicked on.

What's he playing at here? Is he trying to scold a confession out of you like you were a runaway teen who snuck back in? Your hand balls up under the sheet as you reign yourself back in.

“Bruce.” You huff tiredly, he picked a horrible moment to catch you for whatever this is. Couldn't he have waited until tomorrow morning?

“(Name). Don't start this, not like last week again.” He crosses his arms over his chest and you get a peek at bandages poking out from under his sleeve, what?

You mirror his body language, your arms settle across your chest and dig into the soft fabric covering your body, bandages press into cuts you'd forgotten you'd received on your chest but you don't move an inch after that. “I'm not, you're acting very odd considering the circumstance of things.”

“And what's your circumstance? A victim of your own success, your own reckless actions?”

He pauses, taking a deep breath and holding it before exhaling. You pick up on the slightest tremor in him before he meets your eye with his one visible one.

Anger bleeds into you at his words, a scowl tugging at your lips. And here he was the one saying not to pick back up that argument you'd never finished.

“Sorry I wound up in the middle of a pyromaniac attack while trying to pick two children up from school, Bruce. Next time I'll just sit on my ass at home, would that make you feel better about yourself?”

“No, but at least I wouldn't have to wonder if you're beating someone to death in front of one of those said kids. Or is garroting your new favorite one?”

Any chance of this remaining civil is out the window, clearly since you're both getting worked up. Your nails dig into the fabric of your shirt hard enough that you can feel them scraping skin, and he's clearly tense even in the tiny bit of him visible to you. “Is that what this is about? That man tried to burn me to death, and then tried to make a car bomb next to those vigilantes.”

He nearly snarls as he replies quickly to that.

“So you think killing is the best way to stop a killer? If you'd have failed you'd have been blown up right after killing a man, could you really die with that in your conscience (name)? After everything your children have watched you go through, is being a murderer the memory you want to leave behind?”

Something in you aches as he says that, Natalia's horrified green eyes flashing through your mind, the last thing you focused on before you died. You don't know what compels you to stand, but you find yourself face to face with Bruce.

“yes. I'd rather die knowing I tried and failed than sat back and just watched others die like I did. At least I know I can fucking handle it unlike some people in this shithole of a city.”

His response is like a splash of cold water to the face. “Like you did?”

His question nearly knocks the anger right out of you, but you roll your eyes and roll with it. “The gala, I feel like I died there and woke up something different. I'm not afraid of this anymore.”

He stares, stares hard enough you wonder if he even heard you at all. “Maybe you should be.”

Again he's thrown you for a loop, what the hell does that mean?

“What, afraid? Of Gotham? Myself? What the fuck are you on about now!?”

You hate that he sees you angry, it feels too much like he's seeing you. The version of yourself that feels, that revels and savors, the ugliest side of the real you.

“I think you know, I think you're playing dumb with me right now just like you have been all this time.” The snarls gone from his face, but the tensions still there, the tense jaw, the tightly crossed arms, the wide stance…. Does Bruce think you're a threat?

“I'm…What?” this isn't right, none of this is right. It's like he's on the verge of busting down a door you thought you'd locked and bolted. He's navigating too close to dangerous waters.

He continues on in that same, gruff accusing tone. The eye contact is quickly becoming unsettling as he presses on. “Have we ever had an honest conversation, just you and I as people?”

You roll your eyes in a bluff, feigning annoyance when all you feel is panic twisting behind your ribs, forcing your blood through your veins uncomfortably fast.

“I think the fact you married me says yes.” You force snark and vitriol into your voice that you're not currently feeling at the moment, the bubbling piss and vinegar from just moments ago has all burned off in the face of his line of questions and snarled statements. Being so close to him, you get a close up of the distrust in the furrow of his brow and the pulled thin lips.

“I'm talking about you and I.”

The silence that falls over the bedroom is sudden and heavy, You could just about suffocate under his stare as you blank out. That one statement knocked the wind right out of your sails, your heart pounds so hard you can feel it behind your eyes, can he hear it?

“…. Bruce, you sound crazy right now. You know that right? How did an argument about me doing something idiotic turn into this?”

You uncross your arms and set your hands on your hips, trying to look mildly annoyed when right now you're thinking of ways to escape this room quickly if things turn for the worse. How'd you get to this point!?

He tilts his head as he studies you, for a split second you catch sight of something on his lip before he speaks again- “the (name) I know doesn't act this erratically. doesn't shoot people. Or make case files to hide in their room. Or know how to remove spyware from phones. So how do you.”

the dark room feels too small, too stuffy, is this your icarus moment? you’ve flown too close to the sun in your comfort, you’d grown into the body you woke up in and now you feel too seen. Like he'd sliced your skin open to see the rot between your ribs and now there's nothing you can do to make him unsee it.

“You say that like I'm somebody else, am i a body double, switched at the hospital with another person with amnesia? Did you forget that I remember the gala? I remember the ballet shoes in my pocket that I carried for Cassandra! I remember watching Damian get grabbed by two men! I remember the gun slamming into my head and the gas canister spraying under my face! I'm them Bruce!”

Your voice rises in pitch just a touch as you step back away from him, escaping his accusation. You just need a moment, a second to think rationally before this completely escapes your crumbling control.

He doesn't allow you the space, stepping after you just as quickly as you stumble away on unsteady legs and cornering you, you're boxed in in-between the bed and the wall and his knowing stare. “Don't you mean you're you.”

He sounds so accusatory, so certain of himself every time he wrings something from your words, it's almost sickening how astute he actually is. He's the calm one here while you're…. You know there's no twisting this in your favor now, but you'll be damned twice over before you give in willingly.

“…I am, even if you don't trust the new me I'm the one who's here now.” Your voice goes completely flat, going from near hysterical anger to lacking any bite at all. you're past anger and panic now, slipping into the embrace of numbness just like when that gun was against your head all those years ago.

For a moment he goes silent as the dead, his head tilting just slightly as he assesses the shift in you. Stepping close enough that you can see the lines of his face in the moonlight.“…that sounds like a confession, (name)…. Do I call you that?”

That gets a genuine eye roll out of you, the vitriol in his voice does nothing but squash what little hope you had of salvaging your cover. You're surprised he's not calling someone.

“there's no convincing you when you're fucking insane. My name is (name), and it has always been, I….” something catches your eye on his face, his lip specifically…

Bruce has a split lip, it looks just like…

“….I hit Batman in that same spot with a gun.”

You hear Bruce's breath audibly hitch, the room falls dead silent again as that little nugget sinks into your conscience. Neither of you move, neither of you even blink, silently daring the other to make a move first. He doesn't deny a thing, instead he just slowly steps back, eyes still locked on your form like you might jump him at any moment and…. Well you know what he thinks of your more violent tendencies.

Eventually he speaks, voice thick with unknown emotion. “…. This conversation isn't over, don't go out.”

There's a lot of unspoken words in that sentence alone, the ‘if you run you're admitting guilt.’ isn't said but is heard loud and clear. An order you're expected to obey.

You nod slowly, finally feeling like you can breathe as you sag your weight back against the wall. “Understood.”

It's not a lie, after all…. You didn't say you agreed to stay.

🔹🔹🔹

M.list | prev | next

A/n: *dodges rocks* don't hate me! I know y'all wanted a good action scene or a group reveal, (I did too I promise) but I honestly think this moment needed to happen just between these two. A crowd would make this look very different. 😿💔

Taglist: @cxcilla @mercuryathens @dind1n @redsakura101 @ninihrtss @let-me-dance @ladykamos @one-piecelover @cuntiesweet @omnivirgo @shirp-collector-of-fixations @spidermanluvr444 @br33zy-blizzardz @lunarapple @findingjaxx @4rachn3 @buckturd @tsxukikami @paastaboi @duskeras @ibelyss @1abi @that-creepy-girl-000 @kaylaphantomhive @viilan @karmaxq

#dc x y/n #dc x reader #batfamily x reader #batman fanfiction #batman x reader #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x gn!reader #bruce wayne x y/n #black widow reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months ago

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Summer Breeze 8

Warnings: age gap (reader is 22, Andrew is mid 40s), dad’s friend, Andy being Andrew, other dark elements. As usual, be mindful of your content consumption.

I also beg of you to leave me some tuppence in the form of a comment and/or reblog. You are cherished!

Enjoy, my loverlies.

You leave your dad as the doctor goes through some tests with him. You sit out in the hall and stare at the panted brick. It’s so bad. He looks so vacant. He recognises you but he didn’t even remember the cottage. It took him a while to pick out Andy and he just called him the new neighbour.

Your chest feels constricted and your head pounds each time you catch yourself holding your breath. A gentle weight on your leg startles you. You didn’t even realise Andy was sitting right there with you.

“You okay?” He asks. You’re getting tired of that question. You’re not.

“Yeah, uh,” you shake your head and swallow, “I... should call the insurance. The nurse mentioned something about it.”

“Sure, sure, well, we can go grab your phone and I already gave all your dad’s info at the desk. His wallet’s in the room.”

“Okay, yeah, I... need all that.”

You’re just moving through the motions. Those walls are maddening. It’s all you’ve seen for the last day, almost two. You’re going to go crazy from the noise of alarms and call bells and beeping and whirring and everything.

When you have your dad’s wallet and your phone, you leave Andy. It’s as good an excuse to have some space as it is to actually do something useful. You sit outside on the curb and breathe in the open air. It doesn’t taste like sanitizer and latex. It’s refreshing but chilling.

You dial out to the number on the back of your father’s insurance card and smooth out the first night’s invoice. You wait on hold, the droning music itchy in your ears. When at last an agent picks up, you answer their questions.

“Mm, yes, I see here the hospital submitted the claim. The admitting paper work is here on file,” the agent says, “it says the patient had a blood alcohol content above the legal limit. Some sort of motorized vehicle accident?”

“A jet-ski, yeah,” you answer, blinking as acid brews in your stomach.

“Right, right, so reviewing everything, the details we got from the healthcare provider and yourself, the cost of the room will be covered up to sixty percent and any diagnostics and testing do not qualify for coverage.”

“What?” You puff out, “that doesn’t make sense. He has insurance.”

“His insurance doesn’t cover injuries sustained under the influence of intoxicating substances. It’s typical insurance policy. You can access the terms under his account number through our app. If you have an email, I would be happy to forward a copy--”

“No, no, this can’t--” You press your palm to your forehead as panic swirls in your chest and chokes you, “how... how are we going to pay for all this?”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, I wish I had an answer for that, but I can only speak on eligibility--”

“I know,” you cut off sharply, “I know. I’m not—I'm sorry, I’m upset. Thank you. Thanks. I... have a good day.”

You hang up and have to keep from throwing the phone. God, you always knew your dad’s drinking would get him hurt and now it’s going to bankrupt him. You nearly keel over at the thought of your tuition washing down the drain. It’s a selfish concern but you have three years behind you, you’re so close to the finish line.

Who cares about a degree. You can’t lose your dad. You rub your eyes until they stop tingling and get up. You tamp down your distress and head inside.

You approach your father’s room and find Andy waiting outside. He sits up as you near. He gives a tight-lipped expression, somewhere between a frown and a smile. You fold up the bill and and your dad’s wallet and clutch it against your phone.

“Everything okay?” He asks.

You’re so tired. You blow out between your lips. He’s done enough. He doesn’t need to worry about this.

“Yeah, uh, yeah, just sitting on hold forever,” you grumble. “How’s dad?”

“I think he’s doing alright. They said they need to do a bit more. Do some scans. X-rays, MRI, stuff like that. He’s going to be here for a while.”

“Oh, I... makes sense,” your lips trembles and you make it stop. Each night is more money. You tuck the wallet and phone into your pocket. “I’m going to check on him.”

“Okay, want me to come?”

“No,” you say abruptly. “No, I just... want a moment.”

“Sure, sweetheart, whatever you need.”

You go inside the room and find your dad with his eyes closed. You stop beside his bead and stare. The large bandage around his head reminds you of the damage done. Damage that likely can’t be undone.

“What’re you staring at?” He opens his eyes.

You give a start and cough, “sorry, dad, I... I was checking on you.”

“You look like crap,” he says in his blunt way. That makes you laugh. “Andy says you been chasing your tail all around.”

“I... I’m worried.”

“I hit my noggin, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I’ll have you back in time for prom.”

You shy away as if you’ve been slapped. You search his face. He’s not kidding.

“Dad, I... I finished high school three years ago.”

His face slackens and fear ripples over him, “three years?”

You touch his arm, “it’s okay. The doctor said it will take you some time to get back to normal.”

“Mmm,” he hums, “yeah, I don’t feel very normal.”

You’re quiet. What can you say? You’re as scared as he looks.

“You gotta go,” he says suddenly, “get some sleep.”

“What? No, I’ll stay and sleep here.”

“On the floor? Nah, don’t be dumb,” he looks towards the door. You follow his gaze and find Andy watching, “Andy, you take her and make her get some sleep. You can come back tomorrow, kiddo.”

“But--”

“Now don’t be stubborn. You get that from me,” he points at you but his hand is weak and shaky. “’sides, I’m tired.”

“No problem, Doug,” Andy says as he breaks the threshold, “we all need to rest up, huh?”

You look between them and hide your chagrin. You don’t appreciate Andy listening in like that. You’re sure he’s just concerned but his help is starting to turn suffocating.

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #drabble #series #summer breeze #defending jacob

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