Given my current financial situation, I am hoping that the economy continues to slip (though dive would be preferable) such that we will find ourselves in a true Great Depression mode, prompting a return to the days when those who could not pay for services in cash were allowed by the individual philanthropist to pay in potatoes (or some such other potable good).
I have plenty that might be traded along these lines--bushels of apples in the summer, for instance (God knows I don't want the damn things), strawberries from my garden, zucchinis, green onions.
I also have two dogs that could be traded off for some small consideration. Well, the big one anyway. The small dog honestly ain't worth a pinch of snuff, and I have too much personal integrity to dishonor myself in an uneven transaction.
In addition, being an at least marginally able-bodied worker, on a good day, I might also make payment in labor--painting houses, mowing lawns, providing sexual favors, that sort of thing.
Here's the trouble: I have at present a neurologist, a dentist, and an ophthalmologist telling me that I must receive treatment if I want to maintain any sort of livable existence. The clear implication is that I would be stupid not to do so. My few remaining teeth will soon flee, my MS will relapse, my sight will grow dim. Within weeks I will transform to the likeness of the Hunchback of Notredame.
And I agree with these folks. I really do. I certainly do not mean to be recalcitrant or obtuse.
Yet we seem completely unable to communicate. Because they do not understand the the words No money. No matter how many times I say the words, no comprehension results. It is as if I were speaking in some rare dialect of Mandarin or Swahili. The words go in one ear and out the other. They are meaningless, impotent.
The doctors stare right through me, listening but not hearing. And then they say I very strongly advise you to do this. You will be very unhappy if you do not.
Of course I will. I know. I agree. But, you see, I HAVE NO MONEY!
Nor do I have money for medications. Protonix, Lexapro, Baclofen, Provigil, Ropinoril. All have seen their final refill. Until that lottery ticket pans out.
What luxury, what comfort must reside in the ignorance of want.
No money? No money? What can it mean? No money? Why, the man is either mad or an idiot. Doesn't he know that it grows on trees?