A Consigliere on Every Desk and in Every Home
Prelude to Upstream of Everything
“The knowledge of the circumstances of which we must make use never exists in concentrated or integrated form, but solely as the dispersed bits of incomplete and frequently contradictory knowledge which all the separate individuals possess.”
— F.A. Hayek, The Use of Knowledge in Society (1945)
The clang of hammer on anvil steel echoed across the square and over the cool English morning. John Broadmead smiled at the familiar sound. He and his wife learned last month that another child was on the way. John leaned against the market cross, turned towards the sun just cresting the horizon, and waited for the Steward to get to town.
It was Thursday, Market Day, and John the town of Bridgwater rose to meet it. He greeted his friends, neighbors, and a few unfamiliar faces as they ambled down High Street to set up their stalls and stands. John noticed the Widow Pyne making her way slowly, wicker basket in hand, and fell into step beside her.
“Good morrow, Mistress Pyne,” John rumbled pleasantly and the woman smiled.
“Good morrow, John. How’s Mary doing with John Junior climbing all over her? He’s full of vigor that one.” Widow Pyne asked.
“Wonderful. We’re happy with his spirit. He helps her carry the washing while she’s preparing for our next,” John responded.
“Ahhh that’s wonderful news. I suspect you’re in town about the Crosse lease?” she inquired.
“Yes, Mistress Pyne,” John affirmed.
“And you’ll be borrowing then?” Widow Pyne appraised his slightly sweaty, but well-kempt appearance.
“Yes, if you’ll support us,” John smiled with what he hoped was charm.
The Widow Pyne paused for a moment and then returned his smile.
“You’re a good man with an honest woman, John. Find me when you’ve got the terms.”
John thanked the Widow Pyne and returned to his vigil at the market cross. He pondered his decision as he waited. More land meant more grain and more grain meant more coin, but more land also meant more work. He’d have to endure a few long years before his son could help lighten his load.
He’d heard from his neighbor, Richard, that the Crosse boy had found a wife on a recent trip to London. Her family owned a tailor business in the city and would take him on after the marriage as they had no male children to pass ownership down to.
The Crosse boy was the last life on his father’s lease with the local manor. It had good soil and John knew, from a conversation with old Haywood the carpenter, that the Crosse boy’s father added real improvements to it before he and the boy’s mother passed. John was pretty confident that old Crosse had kept the past 10 years of improvements hidden from the Steward’s survey.
The holding was on the far side of John’s current field lease, but still adjoining and would double his workable land if he could secure it.
A few hours later, John spotted the Steward eyeing some pastries on a cart. He was a stout man, comfortable in his work, and firm, but fair, with the folk of Bridgwater. The Steward always looked mildly concerned.
“Morning, Master Hallet,” John said, popping into the Steward’s line of sight behind the pastry, “I wondered if I might have a word about the Crosse holding.”
The Steward further furrowed his already furrowed brow. “You and half the parish, Broadmead, but Young Crosse hasn’t surrendered yet.”
“But he means to, I’m told.”
“Aye,” Hallet’s gaze flicked back to the pastry, “Lord Whitcombe will need a proper fine for a fresh grant. Three new lives.”
“I understand, sir. What’s the field valued at in the survey?” John inquired nonchalantly.
Hallet studied the farmer.
The current survey, last conducted 15 years ago under the previous lord, had it valued at two pounds per annum. He knew it was probably worth more now, but he was not sure how much more and, frankly, the Steward had no interest in making the half day trip out to the Crosse lease. He carefully relayed the survey amount.
“Two pounds per annum… for now.”
“Then at fourteen years’ purchase, that’s twenty-eight pounds for the fine,” John kept his voice as neutral as he could.
“Aye, but I’ll need an additional two pounds for my trouble. That way we can keep the rent and the survey the same,” Hallet countered.
“Payable at Michaelmas and Lady Day?”
“Aye”
John paused, as though calculating, but he’d already checked his arithmetic six times the week prior. “I can manage the fine in three payments, sir. 13 and 2 at admission, 5 at Michaelmas, and the remaining 10 at Lady Day following.”
Hallet considered the offer. John Broadmead was a good tenant, respected in the community, and a vacant holding earned his lord nothing. Plus, the Steward had heard from the alehouse chatter that Broadmead was expecting another child soon and could use the income.
"I’ll put it to his lordship. Bring your three lives to the next court and we’ll see the Crosse boy surrender. You’ll want the names ready. Yourself, Mary, and…?”
“My eldest, John Junior.”
“How old?”
“Three years.”
Hallet nodded in approval. Three young lives meant the lease would run long. Ideal for the Steward.
“Good. I’ll write to the lord this week.”
“Thank you, sir!” John beamed at the Steward and set off to find the Widow Pyne.
“He is surrounded by a mysterious halo of family confidences; of which he is known to be the silent depository. There are noble Mausoleums rooted for centuries in retired glades of parks, among the growing timber and the fern, which perhaps hold fewer noble secrets than walk abroad among men, shut up in the breast of [the solicitor].”
— Charles Dickens, Bleak House (1853), Chapter 2.
Edmund Ashworth closed the thick, oak door behind him and sank into the fine horsehair chair opposite the shrewd man deftly organizing papers. Laid out on the dark, mahogany desk was Edmund’s entire financial life. The neat rows of arcane documents sat in pleasant contrast to the delicate wisps of cigar cloud that adorned the air inside the office.
Edmund savored the spiced smoke and slowly exhaled.
The solicitor moved to the decanter set in the corner of his office and poured two small glasses of sherry. He handed one to Edmund and lightly raised the other.
“Congratulations, Mr. Ashworth. Arthur Kinross will make a fine husband for young Eleanor.”
Edmund returned the gesture, “Thank you kindly, Mr. Haughton. Why am I not surprised you’ve already heard the good news?”
Mr. Haughton’s eyes, framed by deep crow’s feet, twinkled almost imperceptibly as he replied, “Why, of course, it’s my business to know. Although, it was clear to the town that Arthur was smitten the moment he met Eleanor. It was only a matter of when. Have you an idea of what you plan to settle for her?”
Edmund adjusted himself in the chair and quietly shared, “I was hoping we could manage £2,500. I want her to feel secure.”
Mr. Haughton said nothing for a moment and then walked back behind the desk and documents.
“With your £1,500 in Consol bonds, your 1/3 partnership in the wool brokerage, and the projected rents and property value from the two cottages, less the £320 mortgage debt from that unfortunate railway business, I am not sure that is quite wise, sir. And we have Robert and Alice to think of as well. We may be having this conversation again sooner than we expect.”
Edmund sighed, “I thought you might say that.”
Mr. Haughton nodded and continued, “I will speak with the Kinross solicitor next week and offer £1,500. I know Mr. Dunlop from some business I conducted in Glasgow a few years back. I suspect that the Kinross family will be more than amenable to a smaller settlement given their relief at a second son finding such a suitable match in an established family in the West Midlands.”
Convinced, Edmund asked, “Is there anything else I should be thinking about?”
“As for what young Kinross settles on Eleanor in return, I’d press for no less than £2,500. I have reason to doubt that Arthur’s salary at the family branch is contractual.”
Edmund frowned. “You think his father could revoke it?”
“I think we’d be mistaken to assume he won’t.”
“I see.”
“We would also be well served by placing Eleanor’s portion of the Ashworth family property into a trust so all that she inherits remains hers,”
“I understand. Anything else?”
“Separately, I recommend that we increase your life insurance policy from £500 to £850 to better service the mortgage debt just in case,” Mr. Haughton finished.
Edmund slowly nodded.
“I trust you, Mr. Haughton. Thank you for your thoroughness.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Ashworth. I’ll send a courier when the details are finalized with Mr. Dunlop.”
Edmund Ashworth stood, firmly shook Mr. Haughton’s outstretched hand, and stepped confidently out into the fresh midmorning air.
“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”
— Simone Weil, letter to Joë Bousquet, April 13, 1942
I.
A tired woman sits in her car at the back of a Walmart parking lot on the outskirts of Houston. Her two kids are buckled in the backseat. That morning, her landlord sent a text saying that he was breaking her lease early. She has thirty days to move out. She’s lived there four years, she’s never missed rent, and the text didn’t say why any of this was happening. She calls 211. She’s on hold for forty minutes while her three-year-old son squirms restlessly in the backseat. A woman with a kind voice reads her a list of local legal aid organizations. She calls three. The first has a six-week waitlist. The next two don’t pick up. She sits in the parking lot for another ten minutes, engine running, trying to figure out what to text back. She still has no idea if this is legal.
II.
A man drives his beige Honda Civic to his mother’s bank in Akron two days after her funeral. She didn’t make a will. She’d told him last year that since he was the only family she had left it wasn’t worth the trouble. He brought his ID, her death certificate, the deed to her house, three bank statements, and a life insurance policy he found in a shoebox in her closet to try and get access to her accounts. The bank teller looks at the death certificate, looks at him, and says she’s sorry but they’ll need letters testamentary before they can transfer over anything to him. He’s never heard those words before. He drives home and googles “probate without a will.” The first page of results is just law firms in Columbus. Every site he finds basically says “every situation is different” and “call us for a free consultation.” He calls the first one, the consultation lasts twelve minutes, and he’s left with a quote for $4,500. He’s pretty sure his mother’s checking account only had $6K in it before she passed so he could, in theory, pay the law firm, but he’d hoped to use that money for the funeral.
III.
A college senior sits cross-legged on her bed in a dorm room in Raleigh, North Carolina, a few days before graduation. Her laptop is open to the federal student loan repayment portal. She’s trying to understand the six plan options on the screen when the cap and gown on the closet door, still wrapped in plastic, catches her eye. She’s the first in her family to go to college. Each plan has a different monthly payment, a different timeline, a different forgiveness horizon, and a warning about different tax consequences. She just completed the mandatory online exit counseling, but still does not understand her options. She walks to financial aid and they tell her they only handle enrollment and disbursement, not repayment. She heads back to her room and eventually picks the plan with the lowest monthly payment. Three years later she somehow owes more than when she graduated.
“A computer on every desk and in every home.”
— Bill Gates, The Road Ahead (1996)
I sat and stared at the hospital bill I held with both hands. I had to read it twice to confirm the charge. A simple blood draw invoiced at $2,077. With a knot in my stomach, I let the paper drop onto the keys of my laptop and looked back at the insurance portal glowing on the screen.
When I saw the digital balance the month before, I thought for sure my insurer had screwed up. It had happened before and it always took a few months for them to correct the numbers. The paper bill was usually right.
Looking down at the bill again, I realized it also included a newly applied physician’s fee of $1,105. Our bill now totaled $3,182.
I called the hospital to confirm.
The billing department assured me that it was correct and, according to their records, it was a straightforward case. We visited the emergency room so we owed an emergency room fee.
I tried to explain what happened.
Earlier that Saturday, our doctor had ordered blood work for our son. The first collection had been mishandled and the labs had to be redone. I asked about weekend hours, late night lab fees, whether there was another way to do it, but she told me we could go to the children’s hospital that evening, have the labs drawn in the emergency department, and leave. She called ahead, explained that this was non-emergency blood work, and told us it had been cleared with the staff.
So we went to the hospital. When we arrived, I asked where we should go for the blood draw. I asked at the front desk. I asked the admitting nurse. I asked the first nurse who saw my son. After we had already been processed, I asked again.
“We’re not going to be charged a crazy emergency room fee for this, right? Our doctor called ahead and we just need routine labs. No emergency care.”
Every response was a yes, that’s fine, and don’t worry about it.
And two months later here we are.
Billing told me it was out of their hands and that I needed to speak with insurance.
Insurance told me it was out of their hands and that I needed to speak with billing.
Fuming, I opened ChatGPT and described what happened. By that point, I'd resigned myself to just eating the bill, but it came back with a step-by-step escalation plan.
What did I have to lose?
It told me to call billing again, but this time with a script. I needed to use words like “physician-directed care” and “no emergency interventions” and “coded services”. They took this call much more seriously than the first. I kept them on for a whole 22 minutes before I got the hard no. I considered it progress.
Then it had me call insurance again with a different script. The phrase “formal appeal” changed the temperature right away. Again, I got a no, but I got a lot more explanation out of them.
The dueling bureaucracies were starting to pay attention.
Fired up, I went back to ChatGPT, fed it the results of both calls, and asked what came next. It updated the plan and told me it was time to send a “formal grievance” to the hospital.
It told me exactly what to write, how to write it, and where to send it.
There was, of course, a wrinkle. Patient Relations and Compliance did not appear to have a public email, only a phone number, which is extremely convenient for any organization incentivized to avoid written records of complaints. ChatGPT had an answer for that too. It suggested I send it to billing instead, since they did have a public email, and ask that they forward it to Patient Relations.
To my surprise, that worked.
The next day I got a call from a chipper woman who wanted to walk through everything. I walked her through my timeline, the note from my son’s doctor, and the exact questions I’d asked the staff and the answers they gave me.
The chipper woman and I talked for 45 minutes and she told me she’d get back to me.
A week later she called back with an important fact. The outpatient lab had still been open for another three hours when we arrived. She never quite said that the emergency department staff should have routed us there, but recommended we go there first next time.
I told her that now that we knew, of course we would go there next time, but I pressed a little harder.
“What was the hospital doing to keep other families from getting trapped in the same situation? There was no sign pointing us anywhere else and multiple staff members answered my direct questions with bad information.”
She said they were going to review their procedures and improve them.
Then she said, “In this case, we’ve decided to make an exception to the emergency room fee, and I’ve taken care of all those bills for you.”
I thanked her and ended the call. In the next room, I heard my son stirring from his nap. I closed ChatGPT, stood up, and went to soothe him back to sleep.
