Distance Between Fingers

As It Appears to Me

This jigsaw puzzle is huge, and there are so many pieces that I've lost count. But they are cut to precision, and they lock together so nicely. It's an image of the entire world. But when I look more closely, I mean really focus, I see...myself? Is that right? Yeah. It's me. I can see myself waving. I have a name and a face. I am Karen Lichtman, a 52 year old widow from Brooklyn, New York. I live with PTSD, and I am currently in discovery mode. I am my own advocate. I have to be.

My Head On the Street

I have been thinking so much about Michael Moore's body of work lately. Look around. Can you blame me?

Early on he had a show called TV Nation. Less than 20 episodes aired between 1994 and 1995, but they were all truly fantastic.

In one memorable episode, he takes renown actor Yaphet Koto, and a scrawny white guy, who had just gotten out of prison for murder. They both stand on the same midtown Manhattan corner. And cab drivers would consistently go around the actor to pick up the ex-con. He even pulls out a huge sign, which clearly displays "I NEED A CAB," with a big arrow pointing at Yaphet Koto and still, the same results occur.

Now let me ask you a question. You are a New York City cab driver. Who would you rather receive a tip from: me, or Danny Glover?

When I used to work at The Theater, I used to step out onto the street to hail cabs for audience and cast members, and co-workers who were unable to grab one on their own. It was SO embarrassing. It wasn't the task. I was front-of-house. I took care of people for a living. But as a broke New York artist, working in the supposedly most liberal city in the world, my home City, THAT was the embarrassing part. Never have I ever had to jockey a cab for Danny Glover, although I would have been happy to. But there are three people of color who I routinely had to hail for. They share numerous award nominations and wins, talent, and quite a bit of fame. I don't really like the word fame, but if I invited any of you to share a cup of tea with any of them, you would freak out in the best possible way.

I will never, ever, forget the expression changes on the faces of the cabbies, as I would open the car doors to let the others in. And I would wonder what their turns to disgust were all about. They picked up fares for a living, and here I was giving them big ones, huge. At this very moment I would like to send humility and peace out into the universe, and hope it finds each of these cab drivers. I am comforted by the fact that ordering a driver with an app has alleviated some of this. But then again, I wouldn't really know because typically when I would hail a cab I would be in Eastern European skin, and an usher's uniform. It was relatively easier for me.

Inside, Outside, All Around the Body

The jumbo shrimp of the American healthcare system is the topic of discussion in Michael Moore's 2007 documentary "Sicko." At the very beginning of the film, an uninsured citizen of the United States accidentally severs two fingers. The cost of reattaching his ring finger is $12,000, however, his tall man is $60,000. He didn't have the money for both, so claiming to be a "hopeless romantic," he chose his ring finger.

He is indirectly told to shove his excremental middle finger up his ass, but not for keeps. Couldn't they at least donate it? Did it have to be landfill? I have been told to shove lots of things up my poop shoot during my lifetime. Recently, it was a bill from my mental health Amusement Park, for my share of what my insurance doesn't cover.

• Do I sound amused?

• I work for The Biggest One Ever, technically full-time.

• The Biggest Owner just crossed over into an obnoxious level of wealth. They directly and massively benefited from the COVID-19 pandemic.

• I was medically excused from work for eight weeks. Because I'm 52, and my doctor didn't want me anywhere near that curve. Plus, I recently experienced an anxiety relapse. So my doctor excused me for some extra time. And I needed it. I didn't travel, and it wasn't fun. But sometimes, all we need is rest to heal ourselves.

• But in this case, The Biggest One, owned by Obnoxiously Wealthy, chose not to pay me for the time off to rest and heal myself, even though a medical professional excused me. It was justified to me because I experienced no symptoms of the actual Virus.

• So, I don't have any money sitting around to pay the Ride Operator.

• If I were diabetic, or asthmatic, would this situation be handled differently?

• I remember hearing about people living with AIDS, who couldn't cover their own medical costs. So they were selling their life insurance policies, from which the purchaser would benefit obnoxiously once the seller died.

• So now, let me ask you something. I'm not supposed to take money out of my retirement to pay the Amusement Park, am I? I've got some money put away, but that's for later. I worked for a dead communist for 20 years, who I never met. But he made certain that I was vested after five years. But he produced theater and gave the tickets away for free, so what the hell did he know,

• Now I'm not saying that I'm choosing between limbs here, or a lung and a pancreas. And thankfully, I'm not terminally ill. But I find it grossly ironic that it's cheaper for me to medicate myself, than experience live therapy sessions. How did that happen?

• Doesn't the Biggest Owner have enough room up his Obnoxiously Wealthy ass for my bill?