Please Seek Canadian Healthcare

The sky was gray that morning, drizzling rain fell on Billy’s freshly shaved head. He hovered over his McDonald’s Big Breakfast platter, trying to block the rain from drenching his pancake and diluting the syrup, which was the only small pleasure an unhealthy like him could get. He tried to cover the small plastic container that housed the syrup, only to read that it was imported from Bangladesh, manufactured in a lab with synthetic sugars. Billy shook his head for a moment, only to stop before doing untold damage to his pancake.

He couldn’t risk sitting inside, not that it was allowed anyway. Unhealthy’s were lucky to still be alive, lucky enough to pick up his breakfast at McDonalds from the walk-through, and lucky that his lifestyle choices were respected in the World’s first Post-National Country. 

Winter left a few reminders of it’s cold presence behind, a real treat for Billy, who’d read that there wouldn’t be snow next year due to climate change. He scooped a handful of snow and threw it above him, trying to catch the falling flakes on his tongue like he remembered doing as a boy. 

“Hey!” Billy heard, “What are you doing, eh? Poisoning the water supply until we’re all unhealthy like you?”

An older woman, early fifties with a furrowed brow and sporting a tube top and daisy dukes marched over to Billy. Her baggy, extra skin hung off the sides of her tight clothes, flapping as she motored to him like bits of lettuce off a Big Mac.

“No, I just-“

“Save it. I’ll have to report this.”

Billy couldn’t afford another demerit. His Human Rights Council Advocate was known as a real screw and recommended Hospice for most of her Unhealthies who got out of line. Most advocates were making these recommendations, quota system and all, but like most over-educated bureaucrats, she resented having such a menial job and took it out on the cases that came across her desk.

“Please, I’m sorry. It’s just, I doubt I’ll ever see snow again and I wanted to savor it.”

“Stay back, don’t get any closer to me. I see that look in your eye”, she screamed as she pulled out a tablet and held it in front of him. “I’ve got you on camera. Don’t you move a fucking muscle.”

Billy stood there like a statue as she called the police. They didn’t bother asking him his side of things and he was hauled off to the local holding facility for Unhealthies, The Trudeau Center for At Risk Populations, they called it. The man behind the desk was Cree, but Billy made no mention of it, because he might have been wrong and even if he wasn’t, there’s no way to tell the man was Cree without committing a hate crime and he was in enough trouble already.

The man of known, yet unknown origins processed Billy without looking away from his computer screen, shield from illness by a piece of plastic with several holes cut in the middle to allow speech. Billy was confused at this sight and thought the man a prisoner inside his small cubicle, but was at least allowed visitors, which was better treatment than his people had gotten in the past, though Billy was not allowed to mention such things and wiped the slight smile off his face as the police led him to the open room full of bunk beds and other 

Unhealthies. 

He stayed away from the others, who he called Choicers, but only to himself since he didn’t interact with many people and most Unhealthies were Choicers who kept going on about their selfish desires and whims, like they didn’t live in society. They stayed as far from him as he did them, which suited him fine. He was used to being alone and grew to prefer it.

His second night in the Center, he felt a bad stomach ache and asked for the man of indeterminate origins to take him to the hospital. The man said nothing, got on his rubbers, and drove Billy, who couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a car, only to realize that technically, the trunk of a police car is being in a car, though he preferred the back seat and getting to see out the window at the night sky. More snow was falling this evening and Billy considered himself even more lucky than before, but became sad as if he’d known there’d be more snow, he wouldn’t have upset the woman the other day and could have caught these flakes with his tongue instead. He then grew sad because the Not-Cree man would have to spend a long time disinfecting the seat that he occupied after arriving at the hospital and the trunk would have been easier to clean instead. 

Billy walked through the Emergency Room doors, and lucky for him, the line ended indoors and he wouldn’t have to wait outside. He was told to take a seat by the nurse, who was Chinese, though not Han and again, he berated himself for knowing things he couldn’t possibly know without committing all sorts of human rights violations.

He sat, holding his stomach for the next three hours as others who came in after him, healthy, vibrant citizens all, were seen before him. 

“Muh name Jamal” was all one said and he was taken to be seen by a doctor.

Another hour passed and Billy fell asleep, but when it was his turn, the man who drove him, who may or may not be a Cree Indian, still wearing his rubbers, shook him like a newborn at Family Health Clinic. The doctor only addressed his handler and Billy’s name had not come up once. He was given a bottle of Motrin and told to drink plenty of water. His stomach still hurt, but he didn’t want to cause more fuss and rode back to the Center in the trunk, getting in of his own volition to the visible annoyance of the man he guessed was Cree. But of course, he couldn’t know such a thing.

Another two days of pain and Billy was dragged off to see his Advocate, a woman he thought reminded him of the pop star Lizzo, but couldn’t say that for reasons that confused him. Her name was Charice Washington-Reynolds and she expected to be called Ms. Washington-Reynolds, even though Charice was shorter.

“Can I help you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then what you doing here? I’m a busy woman.”

“They say I tried to poison our water supply and that I assaulted a woman.”

She let out a long sigh, soaked in judgement and indignation.

“Ms. Washington-Reynolds, I haven’t done anything wrong. I was going home after finishing my breakfast platter, which I’d gotten as reward for getting my head shaved, as is required. My stomach hurts. I’m quite tired and-“

“You’re tired? Honey, I’m a black woman. We’ve been tired for a long damn ass time. And you don’t see us acting a fool, do you?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“I’m recommending that you seek Hospice as soon as it is available, which should be in about thirty minutes.”

“But I don’t want to seek Hospice. I like being alive.”

“Yeah right. If that were true, you’d have gotten your treatments like everyone else.”

“I can’t. I’m allergic to the treatments. It could kill me.”

“We all have had to make sacrifices to fight for better Health.”

Billy started to cry, which only annoyed the advocate even more. She pushed a button and two men in rubbers came in and dragged him down the hall to the Hospice wing of the Human Rights Council building. He sat, with other Unhealthies and a few normal people as well. He’d heard that even normal men and women seek Hospice as well, a mistake by God for putting them in the wrong bodies, he figured. That was, if one believed in God, which he did not. What kind of God would do this to him, when he only wished to follow the law?

“Billy Poe?” a voice rang out. It was the first time he’d heard his name spoken in some time. Her voice was angelic and flowed through him like a river, invigorating him to go wherever she told him. “Please follow me, Billy.”

He followed her and noticed how beautiful she was. Long, brown hair that went past her shoulders, a shapely figure and kind eyes. She led him to his Hospice suite and sat him in a comfortable chair with a view to the outside world. He started crying and she hugged him. It was the first hug he’d gotten since he was diagnosed Unhealthy. She then took a seat opposite his and asked him about his life. Where he was from, what his parents did for a living, if he had any siblings. The kinds of things one would ask on a first date. Or at least, what he’d seen asked on first dates in television shows he remembered. He told her as much.

“Oh, we have television if you’d like. We can put on Netflix or something if you’d like. We also have movies, video games, pornography. Really, anything you’d like. We also have a large menu for last meals, with several vegan options.”

It was all too much to bare and he broke down again.

“I haven’t watched television since I was a boy. Why? Why all of this if you’re just going to kill me? Why not get it over with?”

“Kill you? We can’t kill you. That would be a violation of the Human Rights Commission. But, you’ve been recommended to seek Hospice, and you won’t be leaving this room until you’ve been cured.”

“So I can stay here for forever if I wanted?”

“I suppose you could. No one ever does, though. Most Unhealthies hate the idea of being stuck in a small room for that long. They order a meal, maybe watch some Hockey and usually are done in about an hour.”

“I’m not like most Unhealthies. Say a day or even a week goes by, what then? Will some beauracrat come in and take me away?”

“Like I said before, Billy, you’re never leaving this room again. The least your government can do, in accordance to the Human Rights Statutes of 2025, is keep you comfortable until you choose to cure yourself.”

Billy was washed with joy, he’d live here for the rest of his days, doing whatever he like, eating whatever he wanted. No longer a leper, no longer Unhealthy. The world assumed he was dead and now, he could live again. He spotted a cell phone on a small table next to him.

“Can I use that?” He asked, pointing to the phone.

“Of course. As I said, every precaution has been taken to ensure your final moments are safe and humane. You can call loved ones and say goodbye if you so choose.”

“Most of my loved ones are gone.”

“Well in that case, you can call up some enemies and tell them to go to Hell. Many Unhealthies call the Prime Minister’s office. They typically let the machine get it but every so often, someone will pick up and hear Unhealthies rant and rave. I think they find it funny.”

Billy grew more and more excited at his prospects. There was only one thing missing.

“What if I said I thought you were pretty? Hypothetically, of course. Would I get taken in front of the Human Right’s Council?”

“As I keep saying, you are never leaving this room, Billy. As far as the government and wider society is concerned, you’re already dead, so there’s no point in paying attention to you. In fact, your file says you’re already cured.”

“What if I said I wanted to make love to you? Jump on you and show you the best time of your life? What then? Surely, I’d be hauled out of here if that happened? An unprompted sexual assault is a death sentence.”

“I’d say my shift is over in fifteen minutes and you’d better wait for Janice to take over. She’s prettier than me anyway, at least many of the other Unhealthies thought so.”

“What?”

“In accordance with the Human Right’s Council’s statutes, Hospice attendants shall, in the service of their duties, perform sexual acts with the soon to be cured as is requested.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

“It pays the bills. Sex work is work, after all. Most Unhealthies don’t ask for that, though. Most are angry and resentful and get it over with quickly. The ones that do don’t last very long, so it’s almost as if it doesn’t even happen. I have to get more frequent treatments being around Unhealthies all day anyway, so there isn’t much risk in fucking them, too..”

This floored Billy, who hadn’t even dare look at a woman for fear of being sent to Hospice, a fear that turned out to be justified. He lived his whole life in fear that they’d kill him, only for him to now just start living.

“Why not just take me out back and shoot me?”

“Your human rights-“

“You keep saying that, but my whole life, my human right’s have been abused. I’ve been treated like less than human because I didn’t get a treatment that would kill me. But now you’re concerned about my rights? Why? Why?” He pleaded, tears streaming down his face. He got down on his knees, looking up at her for answers.

“Oh, that’s by design. The Government found that if they made life intolerable for Unhealthies and showed them maximum kindness at Hospice, they’d be more likely to volunteer to be cured, rather than continue to put the population at risk.”

Billy wiped his tears and went over to the menu, looking at the decadent options for last meals. Under the breakfast section, he saw the McDonald’s Big Breakfast platter greyed out. He’d have to wait until morning to get it. There would be many mornings and many platters. He stood at his window, looking out at the snow pile up on the ground.

“Oh Canada, my home and native land”, he began to sing.