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Cleaning Toilets in New Orleans
by Earl Lee
—George Orwell
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Winston Salem felt a vague pain in his lower left side. He sat up in bed and gently probed the skin above his left hip. It was there again. Winston had gone to the emergency room two months ago. The MRI revealed an abscess in his gut that had become badly infected. A round of antibiotics had cured him, but the pain in his side felt like the infection was back again. Winston couldn't afford another trip to the hospital. He still owed them money from the last visit. And Winston was sure the doctor wouldn't give him another round of antibiotics unless he had another expensive MRI.
Winston slipped into his house shoes and padded his way to the kitchenette. He sat at the small white table and stared at the two brightly colored boxes of cereal that sat in front of him. Should he eat the processed wheat and sugar, or should he indulge in the processed sugar and wheat? Both boxes were Red, White, and Blue with large letters. One had a smirking chimp on the front. The other had a famous anti-war hero, who had endorsed the processed sugar and wheat in return for hard cash. Or Winston could just forget it and instead get an egg & bagel at the McDonalds on his way to work. Until a few years ago, Winston had worked as a computer programmer for an automobile manufacturer. But then his job was outsourced to India and the factory was moved to Mexico. After that, Winston had trouble finding work. Even though his advisor at the local community college had convinced him to take a course in VCR repair, six months later Winston was no closer to finding a decent job. Instead he worked six hours a day as a greeter at Wal-Mart, and then went to his night job as a stock boy and cashier at the Quick Stop on the corner. Winston ended his breakfast dilemma by eating a piece of processed wheat flour that had been toasted in an electric oven and then covered in yellowed vegetable oils. Winston preferred this to the rendered animal fats and the artificially flavored and colored corn syrup that his ex-wife had enjoyed. Winston still thought about her sometimes. Their marriage fell apart after Winston lost his job and they lost their house. They had to move into a tiny apartment. She left him the day she found a large rat living in their closet. She still had this thing about rats—hated the filthy beasts. Winston was bored. He pulled yesterday's newspaper out of the recycling bin and began to read. The "Dear Abby" column was his favorite. It was always nice to know that there were people whose lives were more messed up than his own. Similarly, the Beetle Bailey cartoon reminded him of his days in the National Guard. Blondie and Garfield reminded him that he was still hungry. Sherman the Shark convinced him he would always be hungry. Winston read an editorial by some guy who worked in the Free American Foundation in Washington. This guy was going on and on about something called "The Bankrupt State." He was defending the President for running the government into debt. This guy said that the Federal government should be deeply in debt. It was important that the Federal government be burdened with enormous debt. He thought the government should be essentially bankrupt. That way the government would be financially hobbled. It would have to stop alleviating the suffering of the poor and the sick and the elderly, not to mention the environment. Instead the government would have to focus on its real job: funneling tons of tax money to private contractors. These contractors promised to use the money to rebuild Iraq and rebuild New Orleans. (This guy also hinted we should blow up and rebuild some more countries, too—starting with Venezuela.) Instead of wasting money by giving it to poor people, the government should be funneling cash to construction companies who could create jobs. We needed to support these decent, hard-working construction companies. And even if these companies were based on a Caribbean island and didn't pay any taxes in the US, they still created jobs in this country. After all, eight dollars an hour is nothing to sneeze at. Winston felt himself agreeing with the writer. Eight dollars an hour would be nice. The twinge in his left side reminded Winston that it would be great to have health insurance, too. The hospital charged him a third more for its services because he didn't have any health insurance. They billed him for $8,000 for the MRI and the antibiotics. But if he'd had even bad insurance it would have been less than $6,000 and the insurance would have paid half of that. So Winston owed the hospital $8,000 instead of the $3,000 that a guy with bad health insurance would owe. Of course, Winston didn't have $3,000 either. But it would be nice to owe $3,000 instead of $8,000. Winston shifted in his chair. Maybe he would eat the processed wheat and sugar, then get a McMuffin later on. But he should watch his weight, too. Winston's love handles were more like love anchors—and maybe that's why he had the pain in his side. Winston thought about sneaking into the YMCA and working out. He couldn't afford a membership in a private health club or day spa. And even if the weight machines at the Y were a little worn out, it was still better than trying to jog. That only made his knees hurt. Finished with the newspaper, Winston shuffled through the pile of mail on the kitchen table. In spite of his bad credit, Winston got four or five offers for credit cards every day. He also got a letter from The Red Cross asking for money, not to mention a membership offer from the AARP. Even though these organizations were big corporations, they still felt that Winston, if he were a real American, should support them. The Red Cross wanted Winston's blood, too. He knew that because they called him on the phone to ask for it. Of course, if Winston ended up in the hospital, they would gladly sell his blood back to him. Among the other letters was one from a nun in Calcutta. She wanted Winston to send her money for the poor and sick in Calcutta. She strongly believed that God's work needed to be done in Calcutta. God told her so, Himself. The elderly nun had a vision. She believed that some day—God willing—the whole world would be like Calcutta. There would be two classes of people: the very rich and the very poor. God really loves poor people. Every place in the world should be just like Calcutta. At least that's the way God wants it. With so many desperately poor people, there would be so many more opportunities to save souls for God. She was offering Winston a chance to get in on the ground floor of this great mission to do God's work. Winston wasn't so sure he was ready to do God's work. Maybe he would write a check to The Salvation Army instead. At least the Salvation Army tried to help the really poor people in New Orleans. And they didn't donate money to politicians or buy advertising on Fox News. Winston thought about this, while a fat gray rat scampered across the floor and began nibbling at the crust of processed wheat flour that fell from Winston's plate. It was still too early to walk to work, so Winston turned on the television and began watching the news. The president was signing a bill to give nine hundred thousand billion dollars to private contractors who promised to spend some of that money rebuilding New Orleans. The president hinted that—except for the bordellos he had visited in his youth—the whole place should be rebuilt as a Disney-style theme park. Instead of a “Pirates of the Caribbean” ride, they could build a “Get Osama Out of His Hidey Hole” miniature golf course. That would be nice. The players could chase Osama all over the golf course, trying to hit him with their golf balls. Maybe even the President would come to New Orleans and play in a golf tournament. The TV news commentators thought this was a swell idea. They could already see their networks making tons of money selling advertising for the theme park. The president also thought a “Survive the Burst Levee” ride would go over well, water parks being very popular these days. And the Ninth Ward needed the jobs. Then the president’s mom came on TV and said people shouldn’t blame her son for not trying to save New Orleans faster. After all, that place was already pretty messed up, and now they can bulldoze the place and do a clean sweep. Soon all those evacuees can come back home and get jobs cleaning toilets in the theme park. Winston leaned back in his chair and wondered what they paid for cleaning toilets in New Orleans. Maybe it was even more than the eight dollars an hour that was going to the day laborers who were cleaning up the mess. Winston threw a shoe at the gray rat, as it slunk across the floor, its belly distended with something dead it found lying behind the fridge. |