I have a growing relationship with the nation’s “health care system.” I put quotes in there because systems have an internal logic. It may be screwy and pointless logic, but there’s a reason things are the way they are in a system. There’s no logic to health care in this country. American health care is more like the exercise yard at the penitentiary. The weak are victimized by the strong for no reason other than they can. It’s what I imagine Hell to be, pointless, irrational torment.

I could probably fill up a library with commentary on the health rackets, but I’ll save that for another day. Last night I stopped at the pharmacy (that’s the chemist for my UK readers) to get my heart meds refilled. I stood waiting for someone to acknowledge me for ten minutes until a black fellow waved me over. His name was Michael Yababadodaba. OK, I made up the last name, but it was something like that. My guess is he originated in Ghana as they love English first names and tribal last names.

Michael moved so slow it was hard to know if he was actually moving. His English was passable, but I suspected he had an IQ in the 90’s. Everything about the job seemed to confuse him. After fiddling with the computer for ten minutes, he informed me that they were out of the medication. He did not know when it would be available. Further, he said he tried to call me earlier about it. That seemed to be important to him as he repeated it several times, like an incantation. I suspect that by “tried to call me” he meant that he tried and failed to use the telephone.

Another ten minutes of him fiddling around with the computer and he finally grunted out that another pharmacy had the medicine. It’s very weird to have to use hand signals to communicate with someone responsible for correctly dispensing your medication. Anyway, he handed me a piece of paper with a telephone number on it. Michael may not have the sense God gave a goldfish, but he has very nice penmanship. He has that going for him.

Pharmacist used to be a job for middle-class white kids from the state college. The job did not require much in the way of IQ, but you needed to be conscientious. Filling the wrong meds or letting someone take something that would have an adverse reaction with their other meds are the sorts of mistakes a pharmacy likes to avoid. The pharmacist is supposed to be a pest for little details, as the last check point in the quality control system. They are the sorts of people who enjoy reading the fine print on small bottles.

That worked fine until the usual suspects decided they needed to loot the pharmacies so they have started to import third world types on visas to fill those jobs. Instead of dealing with a pleasant white girl from the neighborhood, I now deal with illiterate Africans not entirely sure how they got here. I can’t imagine anyone in America is standing around saying that we have a shortage of Africans , but here we are, importing them from the mother country.

I called the number from my cell on the way out and learn that it is for a pharmacy in the ghetto. I fear no man, but being an old white guy in the ghetto at night is inviting trouble I don’t need. After reaching a human, I learned they do have the meds and my script will be filled and ready in the morning. The woman on the other end sounded white, pleasant and competent. I mentioned in passing that Michael did not fill me with confidence and she laughed and assured me my drugs would be there waiting. You can always trust the drug dealer to be straight with you.

Mid-morning, I had a break in the schedule so I headed over to the ghetto to make a drug buy. I always feel like I should have the soundtrack of Shaft playing in my eight track when I head into the ghetto. In the hood, it always feels like 1972. One thing about living in or near the ghetto is you quickly learn that black people are not good drivers. They are unpredictable drivers. For no reason other than they want to, a driver will make a right hand turn from the left lane or turn onto a busy street causing a pile up. That means you have to pay extra attention to avoid getting wrecked.

Sure enough, a clapped out sedan comes speeding toward me out of a parking lot on the left. Traffic coming the other way skidded to a stop in the snow and I had to do a series of maneuvers to avoid getting hit. The two yos in the “hoopty” were completely oblivious to the fact they almost caused a multi-car pile up. They just had somewhere to go and that’s all that mattered.

Anyone who has been to the third world knows that driving in those places is a life altering adventure. Drive anywhere for any length of time in these countries and you have a near death experience. A hallmark of the third world is comically dangerous roads. My sense is it is due to the lack of self-restraint and time preference. In the ghetto, time in not linear. As we invite the third world to settle in our lands, the ability to navigate ghetto drivers will be an essential skill.

I parked and headed into to get my meds. As I walked in the help all stopped what they are doing and looked at me like I just parked my space ship. They don’t see too many white guys in there. They assumed I was either cop or a higher up in the store’s management. Once they figured out I was just a customer, they went back to doing nothing. The woman at the counter was polite, but “customer service” in the ghetto is an abuse of the language. The woman was named, I’m not kidding, “Chakita” and she must have spent her pay check getting an elaborate hair weave. From behind the bullet proof glass she handed over my drugs and I handed over my money. What a way to live.

This is our future.