Published: 2025-10-31

No human voice came out of the telephone speaker; instead, a catchy popular tune turned jazz fusion accompanied me in my waiting. The girl from the healthcare company told me she was working with me, “even if I couldn’t hear her.” What a liar, I bet she is gossiping with the person in the next cubicle, maybe she even left the cubicle and went for a coffee. I should know, I worked in customer service.

I don’t do much work these days, though. The economy keeps growing, or so it says the president every time he’s on TV. I wouldn’t know, I never watch him, I’d rather put a bullet through my skull than worship that some of a bitch, or the next one, or the one after the next one.

I keep taping my foot; these are the last pair of good sneakers I own. They used to be nice leather sneakers with orthopedic soles, white like snow, comfortable. I stole them after I realized the neighbor always let them dry on the roof. They’re not white anymore, and the leather surface has as many creases as my grandmother. I joke, of course, grandma died many years ago. I hope she’s resting peacefully, but chances are she ain’t, she was a piece of shit. Cancer gets you like that.

The jazz fusion stops, the girl is back. Finally.

“Thank you for waiting, Mr. Agramonte. Are you still in line?” She says.

“How was your coffee? Did you go take a dump too?” I think.

“Yes, miss, I’m still here,” I say.

“Unfortunately, we cannot approve your mother’s claim at this time. You can visit one of our branches with the proper documentation and dispute the decision. Would that be OK with you?”

“What do you want from me? A cancer certificate?” I think.

“That works for me,” I say.

“Perfect. These are the required documents…” The girl proceeds to list the documents I need to prove that my mother will die unless their greedy-bastard-owned company approves her claim. Her voice is soft, charming, even sensual. “Ya mama is gonna die,” is all I hear. I zone out. There’s no cancer certificate. They should invent one.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” She says.

I snap out of my trance.

“No, there’s not.”

“Understood. I hope you have a great day.”

“I hope a maniac shoots you in the head.” I think.

“Thanks. You too.” I say.

What now? My options are begging the insurance company to approve the claim or getting thousands of pesos to pay for chemotherapy myself. I wish I could just pay for it myself, but money doesn’t grow on trees — I should know, I have checked.

I'd better make my way to the insurance company, maybe if I explain that Mama is a good woman, they will pity her and don’t condemn her to die, maybe they’ll settle for causing her a heart attack.

Worst-case scenario, I could raise some quick money at the pawnshop. What is there to pawn here? The toaster? The blender? That won’t get me much. Maybe I could pawn the TV; Mama doesn’t have much appreciation for the old tube these days. Well, she’s bedridden… Also, do they still call it the tube?

The tube… I could use a break. What is there to watch? Reality TV? Nothing says reality like a bunch of weirdos with self-esteem issues trying to squeeze 5 minutes of fame out of life, or talentless celebrities whose ascent to glory even our greatest minds couldn’t explain. When did we as a species become this stupid? Did cavemen and cavewomen wake up one day and say, “You know Pietro from across the street? From now on, he’s a celebrity.” I laugh at the absurdity of my thoughts.

I hear mama groaning in her sleep, maybe the TV volume is too loud, better turn it down. Is she even asleep? I walk to her room, yes, she is. Being unable to escape from pain, even in sleep, that’s not a life worth living…

I go back to the living room. Show me something good, old tube. The news are depressing, another deranged man kills his house, they call it “passion crimes,” because nothing says passion like being brutally murdered by the person you gave your entire life to. I laugh. I shouldn’t laugh. It’s the irony of it that gets me. We are so accustomed to celebrating men that even their crimes have to be seen through apologist lenses. Mama is not sick, society is sick.

There’s this piece of news going around: the government is set to introduce a new bill guaranteeing the well-being of domestic animals by providing food, shelter, and health services to them. All paid for with the taxes they collect from us, the working class. I mean, I don’t work anymore, but that changes nothing.

Animal lovers are praising the forward-thinking initiative; hypocrites. They pet their dogs while their freezer is full to the brim with beef.

Weren’t social programs going to ruin this country? Oh, silly me, I forgot that only applies to the programs that the working class benefits from…

The fact that a man who owns no less than three yachts can stab mama to death, but a dog doesn’t go hungry, is the ultimate irony. Like a first-place winner in a cruel joke contest.

Shoot! Look at the time. Time does fly when you debate with yourself about social inequality. TV poisons the mind, Mama was right all along. I'd better get ready to take it to the pawnshop.

Do my eyes look sad enough? Where did I put those documents? I’ll need receipts too. What else do they want from me? A urine sample. Bastards. I shouldn’t swear this much, Mama doesn’t like it. Is she still asleep? Yes, she is. Better this way.

I kiss Mama on the forehead and leave. Nobody but us is gonna fight our fights. We are not animals; they got rights, food, and shelter guaranteed by law, we got nothing. Nothing, but the middle finger of a man that could not afford a fourth unless he kills my mama.

THE END.