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Show 59 Snake Oil She is standing in my open doorway, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, wishing, I am sure, that I would ask her inside by some mute acquiescence. I will do no such thing. She is holding the can in her hand. The cure-all powder. The very expensive cure-all powder. In another era, it would be called snake oil. In these times of political correctness, it is called "alternative medicine," I am thinking. Invariably, doctors have conspired to keep whatever "it" is out of the hands of their patients, so the theory goes, because "it" would put all those evil doctors out of business and they would no longer have big houses with heated swimming pools. These neighborly vendors say this with such alarming regularity that I am sometimes tempted to believe it. "I would just give it to you," she is saying, apologetically, and I know what is coming as a caveat even before she states it, "but I can't afford to," and I am wondering who it is that concocts hope in a can and sells it for a steep price. These things are never as cheap as their combined ingredients would indicate and I imagine that her garage is bulging with boxes of these cans that she is now obligated to sell in order to afford her own self- written prescription. Not that Medicaid would afford it if it worked. Not that I could afford it apart from Medicaid, if it worked. As it is, I think twice before affording a pack of gum. I am only momentarily grateful |
