“Medicaid Labor”
In the farm fields outside of Las Vegas, the temperature was 100 degrees and rising*. As the senior citizens were bent over their shovels, doing unpaid farm labor for Medicaid, a weak female voice suddenly crackled over the two way radio. “Front desk to overseer, front desk to overseer, come in.”
The surly guard, a steroid enhanced 19 year old sitting on horseback, replied brusquely, “What do you want, front desk?”
“Overseer, I'm having trouble speaking, please send Agnes to help me.”
“I don't hear nothing wrong with your voice, Jan,” replied Officer Jones.
“I'm having trouble speaking, and you know it. Send Agnes.”
“Alright Jan, if you must.”
Officer Jones lifted up his bullhorn and yelled, “Agnes, get the hell over to the office!”
Agnes, the 64 year old widow who was working for cancer chemotherapy, didn't know what the office wanted her for, but at least she was happy to be getting out of the heat. Despite the temperature, the workers hadn't been given water in over an hour.
“Move your ass, grandma!” yelled the young punk on horseback as the old lady shuffled as fast as she could. Someone buzzed her into the office, where she found Jan, a 50 year old stroke survivor, partially slumped over a desk. Jan, assigned as an indoor worker because she wasn't medically fit to handle farm tools, didn't have to wear an orange jumpsuit, instead wearing a white tee shirt that said 'volunteer.'
Jan said quickly, “I'm glad to see you, I need you to take the phone. My speech is starting to get garbled and I don't want to answer the phone if the sheriff calls.”
“Jan, you don't look well. Don't they allow you to take any time off?”
Jan handed the handset to Agnes, then turned to cover her face. Jan began hearing a loud whistling noise and then started having vertigo, followed quickly by the sense of an overwhelming smell of ammonia.
“Honey, what's happening to you?” asked Agnes. Jan was having a seizure.
After a few moments, Jan raised her head and looked at the unfamiliar grandmother sitting beside her, not quite recognizing her. “Who are you?” the confused receptionist asked. She wasn't yet completely aware of her surroundings. “It happened again, damn it.”
Agnes, looking concerned, noted, “This business of using us old people to replace migrant farm labor isn't working so well.”
Jan, starting to come back to her senses, replied, “It's almost as good as the way landlords, cops, and psychiatrists have been treating us for the last 40 years: destroying the working class to further enrich the rich.”
*Kudos to anyone who knows where Saigon was.