Todd Levin

Recently, I met a friend at a bar. Now this was back when I had friends, so bear with me. He was there on an informal date. The woman was seated on a bar stool, and was extremely lady-styled – long denim skirt, long nails, high boots, etc. – and extremely friendly. She also knew how to smoke, which I find extremely relaxing. We talked about her career as an “actress”. She had recently returned to NYC after performing in a touring company of the Will Rogers Follies, which had her stationed in Branson, MO for over a year. I can’t imagine what anyone could do in Branson for a year, so I had many questions for her. And all the time we spoke, she was a perfectly normal height. Thank God.

Then, as the three of us got up to leave, she lifted herself from her bar stool and literally rose to the heavens. She had a torso that suggested a height of five feet-five inches, but her legs must have been crumpled up beneath the bar like a discarded bath sheet because, fully extended, she must have been close to six feet-four inches tall. Maybe more. I can’t see that far without my glasses.

This instantly made me uncomfortable, and not for the reasons you might think. I am not especially short – I’m five feet-nine without afro – and I’ve never had power-related issues concerning my height, at least with regards to women. But I feel like you take someone who looks like me – slightly nebbish, thin, Jewey – and put me alongside a very tall, somewhat elegant woman the first thought that must surely pop into everyone’s head is this: Tranny Chaser.

I pay a LOT for health insurance, yet I have not nearly enough energy to actually use it. That’s because, while the monthly fee is almost prohibitively high, the actual coverage is weak and the rules you must follow to receive said coverage are draconian. For instance, if (hypothetically!) I wanted to have a fully-functioning, psychic eyeball removed from the palm of my hand I have to see my doctor, wrestle him to the ground for a referral, then get blood drawn, come back to my PCP (that, in the parlance of people getting fucked by healthcare corporations, is “Primary Care Physician”), get another pair of referrals for both an opthalmologist and cosmetic surgeon. Then, if either of those specialists require more than two visits, I have to return once more to my PCP, who is collecting $20 for each visit, even if I only use him for his signature. The PCP treats you like a glitch in a video game that allows your character to make an infinite number of return trips to a room filled with gold coins and invincibility spells to keep racking up your score. The administrative process is so deliberately maddening that, to save time, money, and a bit of mental well-being, I just bought a mitten. Hypothetially, of course.

I think most people with the kind of health insurance I have hate their PCPs, because the foundation of this particular brand of health services is based on a system of referrals to nicer, more competent doctors. PCPs tend to be over-crowded, under-qualified, and super-distracted. Enter my PCP’s offices and it looks like a holding cell at the Immigration and Naturalization Service headquarters. The downtrodden wait and wait, applying pressure to open wounds or coughing themselves off their chairs. The last time I was at my PCP’s office I had to wait over two hours while she rotated in about 15 different patients, including a prized fighting cock. While I waited for my referral-appointment, I occupied my time by thumbing through one of the many healthcare trade publications available for patient consumption. The magazines have titles like Pulmonary Health Forum and What’s Up, Doc?, and a typical article would be something like, “May I Have Some More…Prilosec? Finding Healthcare Management Solutions in the Work of Charles Dickens.”

After I got the signature I needed, I went to the receptionist’s area to fork over my co-payment fee. As she counted out my change, she tapped her Monoxodil-sponsored pen against a glass fish bowl resting on the counter. The sign taped to the bowl, written on a blank prescription, read, “TIP JAR.” Does anyone know what the Canadian job market is like right now?