Bought toilet paper in the economy size of twelve rolls, single ply. Got the special on Turkey burgers even if we were more in the mood for steak. Now it’s five hundred for this, five thousand for that…And they never tell you in advance what it costs. It’s like going on a spree, piling all this shit on the counter, and none of it has any price tags. We only pick up twenty percent in co-insurance, but that’s after the five-K deductible. One single lab bill—that’s a hell of a lot of toilet paper.”
“Double-ply,” said Jackson.
“I’m thinking, why did we ever eat Turkey burgers? And then I remember that I’m not supposed to care. Ultimately, I don’t care. All that matters is Glynis.”
“That’s what they’re counting on, bud. That’s the whole scam in a nutshell. Same with Flicka. It’s your kid, right? So what are you gonna say, no we’re not going to treat her pneumonia—again—cause we want the kind of DVD that records? And, friend…I hate to say it, but for you this is just the beginning.”
“I know,” said Shep quietly, as they hung a left on Ninth Street and headed for Prospect Park. “Even to cover the last stack of bills…Well, you know I’ve kept this other account, where I put the proceeds of the sale of Knack once I paid off the feds. It’s earmarked for The Afterlife, and I’ve never touched it. But there wasn’t enough in our joint checking, so I had to tap the Merrill Lynch. I’d never written a single check on it. Number 101 went for the CAT scan.”
“My guess is you’re already on 115. Take my advice, and order another checkbook pronto.”
“Signing that first one was strangely emotional. Even if it’s ‘only’ money, as my father would say.”
“Yeah, ‘only’ the proceeds from over twenty years building your own business. ‘Only’ eight years of humiliation with Randy Pogatchnik.”
“It doesn’t matter. I just didn’t realize at the time what I was really saving for.”
“You ever think about it? Pemba?”
“No,” said Shep, and changed the subject. “I guess we’re lucky, though. We live in the States. Hey, we get the best medical care in the world.”
“Think again, pal. In comparison to all the other rich countries like England, Australia…Canada…I don’t remember the rest. Look at all the statistics that matter—infant mortality, cancer survival, you name it? We come in last . And we pay twice as much .”
“Yeah, well. At least we don’t have socialized medicine.”
Jackson guffawed. Shep wasn’t stupid, but he could be painfully cooperative. That “socialized medicine” bogyman went all the way backto the 1940s, when Harry Truman had wanted to bring in a national health service, just like the Brits. Nervous that doctors wouldn’t keep raking it in, the American Medical Association concocted this inspired cold war buzz phrase, which had struck terror in the hearts of their countrymen ever since. A genius stroke of labeling. Like when supermarkets came out with that “no frills” line, packaging a perfectly standard, decent product in stark, ugly-ass black-and-white, thus ensuring that no one with any class would buy it, at half the brand-name price. It worked. Even Jackson’s cash-strapped mother hadn’t wanted to be caught dead with no-frills tissues in her cart.
“You realize fortysomething percent of this country is either on Medicaid or Medicare?” said Jackson; history lessons always put Shep to sleep. “All this ooh-ooh about how we don’t want ‘socialized medicine.’ Well, we got socialized medicine, for nearly half the population. So the other half is paying twice. Your Mugs are paying for your Mooches’ CAT scans with confiscatory taxes”— confiscatory was a wonderful word Jackson had learned only about a year ago, and he used it at every opportunity—“and a second time for their own damn scans.”
“You sound so down on Medicare and Medicaid. But you’re not saying that you wish old and
“Double-ply,” said Jackson.
“I’m thinking, why did we ever eat Turkey burgers? And then I remember that I’m not supposed to care. Ultimately, I don’t care. All that matters is Glynis.”
“That’s what they’re counting on, bud. That’s the whole scam in a nutshell. Same with Flicka. It’s your kid, right? So what are you gonna say, no we’re not going to treat her pneumonia—again—cause we want the kind of DVD that records? And, friend…I hate to say it, but for you this is just the beginning.”
“I know,” said Shep quietly, as they hung a left on Ninth Street and headed for Prospect Park. “Even to cover the last stack of bills…Well, you know I’ve kept this other account, where I put the proceeds of the sale of Knack once I paid off the feds. It’s earmarked for The Afterlife, and I’ve never touched it. But there wasn’t enough in our joint checking, so I had to tap the Merrill Lynch. I’d never written a single check on it. Number 101 went for the CAT scan.”
“My guess is you’re already on 115. Take my advice, and order another checkbook pronto.”
“Signing that first one was strangely emotional. Even if it’s ‘only’ money, as my father would say.”
“Yeah, ‘only’ the proceeds from over twenty years building your own business. ‘Only’ eight years of humiliation with Randy Pogatchnik.”
“It doesn’t matter. I just didn’t realize at the time what I was really saving for.”
“You ever think about it? Pemba?”
“No,” said Shep, and changed the subject. “I guess we’re lucky, though. We live in the States. Hey, we get the best medical care in the world.”
“Think again, pal. In comparison to all the other rich countries like England, Australia…Canada…I don’t remember the rest. Look at all the statistics that matter—infant mortality, cancer survival, you name it? We come in last . And we pay twice as much .”
“Yeah, well. At least we don’t have socialized medicine.”
Jackson guffawed. Shep wasn’t stupid, but he could be painfully cooperative. That “socialized medicine” bogyman went all the way backto the 1940s, when Harry Truman had wanted to bring in a national health service, just like the Brits. Nervous that doctors wouldn’t keep raking it in, the American Medical Association concocted this inspired cold war buzz phrase, which had struck terror in the hearts of their countrymen ever since. A genius stroke of labeling. Like when supermarkets came out with that “no frills” line, packaging a perfectly standard, decent product in stark, ugly-ass black-and-white, thus ensuring that no one with any class would buy it, at half the brand-name price. It worked. Even Jackson’s cash-strapped mother hadn’t wanted to be caught dead with no-frills tissues in her cart.
“You realize fortysomething percent of this country is either on Medicaid or Medicare?” said Jackson; history lessons always put Shep to sleep. “All this ooh-ooh about how we don’t want ‘socialized medicine.’ Well, we got socialized medicine, for nearly half the population. So the other half is paying twice. Your Mugs are paying for your Mooches’ CAT scans with confiscatory taxes”— confiscatory was a wonderful word Jackson had learned only about a year ago, and he used it at every opportunity—“and a second time for their own damn scans.”
“You sound so down on Medicare and Medicaid. But you’re not saying that you wish old and
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