$15 Magic

Las Vegas. January 2006.

“Yes, Mr. Marshburn. I am calling you back in regard to your application for health insurance with our company.”

“Yes, sir?” I respond over my cell phone. I am standing in the break room of the car dealership.

“You listed that you presently take Accutane?”

“That is correct.”

“You also listed that you were diagnosed with colitis one year ago?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Because of these medical issues, I am sorry, but you do not qualify to be insured by our company,” the man on the other end of the line says.

***

Eventually, after being turned down by a few other health insurance companies, I find one that will insure me for certain things, with a $5000 deductible. So, at least I do not have to worry about going bankrupt if I get into a car accident out here in Las Vegas. My job with the car dealership does not offer health insurance benefits.

***

Cullowhee, North Carolina. 2008.

While in graduate school, I write a blog entry encouraging our political leaders to reform health care. I write that the public will thank them for it and even build statues in their honor because of it.

***

Live Oak, Florida. Present Day.

The hunched over lady limps up to the receptionist window of the doctor’s office. I watch as she fumbles around in her pocket book. Her shoes are worn and dirty, her clothes simple. I was here in the waiting room when she was called back to see the doctor. Now, she has come out, and it is time to pay the bill.

“How much is it going to be?” she asks the receptionist.

“$175, Ms. Graham.”

The lady looks down.

The door between the waiting room and the treatment rooms opens. A nurse calls out, “Nathan!”

I stand up. The others, old and sickly for the most part, look at me, a healthy young man wearing a suit and tie.

I walk back, see the doctor, and within 15 minutes am again standing in front of the receptionist counter. She gives me back my Blue Cross/ Blue Shield health insurance card that I have by virtue of being a state employee.

“That will be $15,” she says.

***

Over the past couple of weeks, through conversations on Friday night at the Brown Lantern Bar, through lunch conversations at the Downtown Café or other restaurants in Live Oak, I have learned that I am perhaps the only person in Suwannee County who supports Obama care.

One of the attractive waitresses at the Brown Lantern asked me last week what everyone was arguing with me about. They had all ganged up on me.

“I’m defending Obama care,” I tell her.

A shocked look comes over her face. “Boo!” she says to me.

The restaurant most likely does not give her health insurance. She is married to a cop, though, so she would have benefits through his job.

Across the country, it seems that I have misjudged the way many Americans would react to health care reform. It is still early, though. Obama care has not had time to work, yet.

The most vociferous detractors of health care reform strike me to be people who have had government or company provided health insurance almost their entire lives. A lot of them are military veterans.

Perhaps I am wrong, but I think those that argue with me believe they deserve the benefit of health insurance because of the hard work they have done and the position they have achieved in life. Others in society who have not worked as hard do not deserve the same benefit.

If that is their position, then I come from a simply different moral philosophy. Health care should not be a reward for hard work. Everyone should have it, regardless of what has happened to them or where they are in life. Sure, those who disagree with Obama care have worked hard, but there is an element of luck involved in this, too. Not everyone can have a government job. Not everyone can make a career with a good company that provides benefits. There are winners and losers in life. But the losers should still have something as basic as affordable health care.

Almost everyone who has argued with me on Obama care also claims to be a Christian and attends church, so far as I know. I will admit that, despite the best efforts of my parents to raise me as a Southern Baptist, I do not consider myself a Christian and have not been to a church service since 1998. Still, this opposing stance (to me) does not seem to be in line with what Jesus would do. The disregard for their fellow humans appears to be a contradiction to his teachings.

“We can’t afford it bro!” One guy said to me at the bar. “We can’t afford to take care of everyone in society. If people think it is bad here, they should go to the Dominican Republic and see how people live there. My church did a mission trip there.”

“We have to try,” I answered him. “And if we can’t afford it, then we need to reprioritize our spending. The old health care system was broken. We have to try something different. Also, you shouldn’t hold up the Dominican Republic as a model. America should be the model for the rest of the world.”

Perhaps there is something genetic, or engrained in our DNA about this argument.

One of my friends from law school sends me a weekly write up that he does for his investment firm. He is a nice guy and has always been very successful. He played football for an ACC school and still stays in tremendous shape.

He posted an article on his social media page and called it “Spot Me Some Entitlements, Bro!” The article was a dagger of a piece, basically saying that men with more upper body strength tend to be conservative in their political thinking, while men with less upper body strength tend to be liberal and favoring wealth redistribution. The idea is that strong men do not need the help. Going back to prehistoric times, they can go out and hunt whatever they need. Weaker guys need more help from the community to provide for them and their families.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-2325414/Men-physically-strong-likely-right-wing-political-views.html

Maybe he has a point, or maybe it is all nonsense. I do not know. I acknowledge that part of what shapes my thinking on this is from selfish personal experience- I have had some health issues, and it startled me when I could not get health insurance. All my savings could be wiped out in an instant through no fault of my own. Also, being successful is not so easy, at least for me. Keeping a job and building wealth has proven to be a continuing challenge.

I also acknowledge that I am no expert on how Obama care will work or how it is supposed to work. The old system was a wreck for many Americans, though, and we can do better. The reaction of many of my friends and colleagues to Obama care has surprised and puzzled me. But I find that the older I am getting, the less certain I am of many things.

Athleticism

Lumberton, North Carolina. 1989 or 1990

The basketball is loose, near the sideline. I sprint for it and get there first.

Oh, man. Here I am, charging on a fast break down the basketball court at Littlefield High School.

Littlefield is a grade 7th through 12th school, but the total student body population is only about 600. I am in 8th grade, playing a game of pickup basketball with my brother and some friends.

I have watched several high school basketball games on this court, and the players are larger than life to me in the green and gold (yellow) uniforms and “Hornets” insignia. One guy on the team, Tim, can jump so high that when he takes a jump shot, it looks like he is shooting down on the goal.

This is also the floor where I sit in the bleachers and watch the pretty Littlefield cheerleaders. I am in love with one of the cheerleaders, a red head named Amy. She has never paid attention to me, though. The cheerleaders do their routines during the timeouts, and then jog back over to the first row of bleachers when the game begins again. After their routines, one cheerleader does a slow split as the others jog off. It is a sight forever etched in my brain, her smiling at the crowd as she slides to the floor with her tan legs. She holds the pose for a moment, and then gets up to join the other girls.

I run past the exact spot on the floor where she performs those incredible splits, going as fast as I can while bouncing a basketball.

The gym also has a stage for plays and school presentations. Coach T sits on the stage in a metal folding chair, watching our pickup game. Coach T is an all-around good coach for any sport. I want to impress him because he is the high school baseball coach, and that is the team I would like to join more than any other.

I do not know if anyone is behind me, catching up to steal the ball, but I don’t dare look. The basket is only a few more feet ahead.

The white bordered square on the glass backboard looms ahead of me. When shooting the ball, I have been taught that you should concentrate on the back of the rim- unless you want to bank the shot in. If you want to bank it off the glass, then make sure the ball hits in the middle of that square, and it will go in.



I cannot dunk a basketball, so this is going to be a lay-up off the glass.

Hit the square, I think to myself. Hit the square.

I am under the goal, now, still running about as hard as I can go. I put the ball up with two hands, like a chest pass, and it hits the center of the glass square perfectly.

Instead of going into the hoop, though, the ball launches backward and lands well behind the three point line. It bounces clear back to half court.

Everyone sort of freezes in stunned silence. Coach T has his arms crossed on his chest, and keeps a stoic expression. My friend, Ron, is the first to burst out in laughter. He puts his hands on his knees and doubles over.

My brother, a very good basketball player, just stares at me. We are both at an awkward age where we do not say much to each other in public, in front of other people. But once we are home, he lets me have it.

Years later, even in the present, he still talks about that play.

“We were all just shocked,” he says. “I couldn’t believe that you were that uncoordinated. I mean, the ball bounced back to half court. Didn’t you know how to make a lay-up?”

“I hit the square!” I answer defensively. “I was always told that if you hit the square, the ball will go in!”

After that disastrous attempt at a lay-up, I work on my technique a little more and learn that if I go up with one hand and pull the ball back from the backboard just before I release, then it takes away the momentum of my sprint and softens the bounce against the square. The ball should go in.

Luckily, no girls were around to watch that spectacle of athleticism.

The Ferris Wheel

Kissimmee, Florida. February 2012.

I can hear the crowd cheering inside the Silver Spurs Arena. The rodeo has already started. I have never been to a rodeo in person, and I was looking forward to this. I debate whether or not to buy a ticket and see what is left.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" I say to a lady on the other side of the glass window at the ticket booth.

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you know if they've had the bull riding, yet?"

"Yeah, that's one of the first things they did. It's over, now."

That decides me. The bulls were the main thing I wanted to see.

"Okay. Thank you."

"I'm sorry," she says.

I smile at her and walk away from the arena. About fifty yards to the south is the entrance to the Osceola County Fair. Florida seems to hold their county fairs in the winter, which is definitely a change from where I grew up in North Carolina. I have always associated the fair with early autumn or even Halloween.

Night has fallen here in Kissimmee, and I stand in line for my ticket with talkative teenagers and guys wearing cowboy hats with girls hugging their arms.

"How many?" the man in the booth asks me when it is my turn at the window.

"Just me," I say.

"Just you?" he echoes.

"Yep."

"That'll be five dollars."

Once inside the grounds, I walk around for a bit, to take a look at all the attractions.

The predominant feature is the Ferris wheel. I have never ridden on one of these, either, and I think back to a story that my dad told me from his childhood.

He was at a fair, probably the Pender County Fair in North Carolina in the late 1950s or the early 1960s. He rode a Ferris wheel for the first time, along with his brother and a friend. Dad said that he was amazed by all that he could see, as he had never been so high in the air before. He had a royal time, too, as the Ferris wheel operator apparently forgot they were on board. They rode for about half an hour.

I think I want to go up in the Ferris wheel. In the darkness, I know that I will only be able to see lights down below, but I am still curious.

There is quite a long line of people, and I am hungry. So I buy a hot dog and a bottle of water to eat and drink while I wait.

After about ten minutes, I am close enough to the base of the wheel to see a sign that gives me pause. It reads in all caps: "NO SINGLE RIDERS." I have waited this long, though, and I do not know when the opportunity to ride a Ferris wheel might present itself again. So I stay in line.

Four men stand at the base, loading the passengers into the gondolas. As I watch them, I see that they are carefully picking and choosing who goes into each one. The gondolas swing back and forth on the rim of the wheel, and I suppose balancing each of the gondolas is an important thing.

Finally, it is my turn to get into one.

"Who else you got with you?"

"It's just me," I say.

"Aaah," the man exhales, scratching his forehead. "I can't put you in one by yourself."

"It screws up the balance?" I ask.

"You got it." He thinks for a moment. "Here, you can get in this one."

I sit for a minute by myself while people climb into a couple of other gondolas. Then one of the men directs a family of three to get into the gondola with me.

The family stands frozen for a moment. It is a young couple, younger than me, probably, with a small boy. The woman is pretty obese, and the guy is big, too, but in a brawny style. He is 6'2" or 6'3".

"Can we have a car by ourselves?" the woman asks.

"Sorry," the man answers. "I've got to put you in with him."

The husband tries to usher his wife in.

"I don't want to ride with him!" she says loudly.

This obviously embarrasses the husband, who strikes me as a good ole' country boy. When she sees his embarrassment, I suppose it occurs to her as well how she must sound, so the entire family climbs in with me.

I look at them and shrug sheepishly. "Sorry."

They say nothing, the husband shyly looking down at the floor of the gondola.

The Ferris wheel starts up. The kid has his head on his mom's shoulder, and he is staring at me. The mom has a small, sour frown on her face and avoids eye contact with me, though she is staring at her husband and seems to be wanting some reaction.

I turn and look out over the countryside. Though I cannot see them in the night, I know that the fair grounds below are surrounded primarily by open fields. In the distance to the north, I see a lot of lights. I wonder if these are the lights of Orlando. To the northwest horizon is another set of lights, some of which are neon red and blue. I wonder if this is part of Disney World- if I can really see that far. It would be nice to know. Instead, the lights remain a mystery.

The ride is over soon. The family and I climb out, quickly replaced by a young couple.

I do not hang around at the fair much longer after my ride on the Ferris wheel. Next time the chance comes up, perhaps it will be in the day- or at least I will know what I am looking at from high in the air. Maybe next time, too, a cute girl will be with me and I will not have to stress out a family of three... Maybe, but I have learned not to hold my breath, and to instead go ahead and take the chances when they arise.

David Copperfield

Las Vegas. Spring 2005.

"There must be some mistake. I think you are at our table."

I look up and see an older, balding man with intense blue eyes peering down at me. To his left is a beautiful woman with reddish brown hair. To his right is a fit looking guy, probably only a few years older than me. The younger man wears small glasses and looks intelligent.

"Really? I don't know," I answer. "I just sat down where the usher told me. "

People are flooding into the theater, which is not that large, and taking up the seats quickly. So this group of three decide to sit down at the table with me.

The theater is filled with cocktail tables covered with white cloths. The tables seat up to four people, though only two people are at most of the tables. The four of us are sort of crowded in together.

"What is your name?" the younger guy asks me.

"My name is Nathan. I'm out here on vacation."

"By yourself?"

I smile. At this point in my life, I am growing more comfortable with being alone, in going to social events alone. I am getting more used to people thinking of that as a little odd. "Yes, I'm by myself. How about you guys?"

"It's a sort of business trip," the older man says, studying me carefully. "This is Dan, my accountant."

I smile and nod to him. I look at the woman and smile at her, too, though I decide not to ask who she is.

Dan seems like a nice guy, but the older fellow is obviously irritated by my presence.

"Is this your first time to Las Vegas?" Dan asks.

"No, I came out for the first time in 2003."

"You know, I was hoping to be able to talk business with my colleagues here," the older man says.

The abruptness of his comment startles me. I do not know how to respond. "Oh, I'm sorry."

I look around. There is one empty table left close by. "I suppose I can ask the usher to move me to that table."

The older man gives me a look like he is trying to keep from yelling at me to do it, to move. At that moment, though, an usher seats two women at the table. It is a full house, now- no empty tables left. A waiter brings each of us a cocktail, which is included in the price of the ticket.

The friendly thing might be for us all to clink glasses and say "Cheers!" But we do not do it. The look on Dan's face is unfortunate. The older man is not happy, now, and this is not good for Dan, I can tell. The woman seems apathetic to it all.

I sip my cocktail. It might be a great cocktail, but I would not know. I have only recently started drinking, and nothing tastes that good to me. No matter what the mix, the flavor and odor of alcohol is overriding.

I try to be affable. "When I saw that David Copperfield was performing in Vegas, I knew this would be a rare chance for me. I grew up in North Carolina. He is the first magician I ever remember seeing on television. He made the Statue of Liberty disappear when I was a kid."

Dan forces a brief smile. The older man does not. The woman is looking away, uninterested.

"Where are you guys from?" I ask.

No one speaks for a moment.

"You don't know who I am?" the older man asks.

This surprises me. The glare and intensity of his eyes are something, but I take a moment to study his face anyway.

"No."

"Really?" he asks. "You have no idea who I am?"

"I'm sorry," I answer. "Should I? What is it that you do?"

"I'm a businessman," he says, looking away as he speaks with what might be described as disgust.

The lights to the theater go down. From his tone and expression, I decide not to ask him further questions.

The show is great. David Copperfield is only a few feet away on stage, and I keep my eyes there the entire time, rather than looking at my three unhappy table companions.

Toward the end of the show, Copperfield says that his parents are in the audience, and a spotlight shines on their table. It is only three away from ours, and actually further back. The parents are both dressed nicely, in evening ballroom style.

When the show ends and the lights come back up, I tell the three sitting at my table, "I hope you enjoy the rest of your time in Vegas."

"Thank you, you as well," Dan answers. The older man and the beautiful woman say nothing.

The crowd filters out, but Copperfield's parents stay seated at their table, probably waiting to speak to their son.

As I walk by them, I say, "I enjoyed your son's show." They acknowledge me with a nod.

***

After my return from Vegas to North Carolina, I studied my credit card bill. I noticed that the price of the ticket to the show was not charged. It was an expensive ticket, and I keep waiting for the charge to appear on my monthly bills. It never does.

Only years later does it occur to me that the older man or Dan probably complained to the theater about what happened, and that everyone at the table got to see the show for free.

It is not the first time, and it is not the last time, when I go alone to a social event and find myself, through no control of my own, plugged in with a romantic couple or a group of people who do not want me there. Another instance that comes to mind is the Osceola County Fair in the spring of 2012. I will tell that story next week.

At least I got to see David Copperfield's show for free.