The young man in front of me at the pharmacy doesn’t look very healthy. His hair, cut to a buzz, is thin and his skin is pale. His clothes hang on his thin frame as if they grew a size without permission. The man waits calmly for the pharmacist, enduring the Musak overhead by staring at nothing.

The pharmacist arrives and takes the man’s order. He slips behind a rack, grabs a box, and returns to the register. He rings up the medicine and says “that will be $129.00.”

The sick customer sighs gently and looks to the side, towards a calendar of puppies frolicking in a field. He returns a tired look to the pharmacist and asks “is that the price or the co-pay?”

When the pharmacist grimaces slightly and responds “co-pay” I head for the adjacent magazine rack.  These men are starting the Health Care Shame Game and deserve to be left alone, unobserved by others.  The pharmacist gets yet another chance to wonder how giant insurers can pass along these costs to the sick.  The ailing customer gets the chance to feel financially incompetent. Neither man has done anything wrong but both will lose this game, ending their interaction feeling like crap.

A woman grabs my spot in line but I let it slide. I glance through a news magazine and land on an article about a new fighter jet being developed for $25 billion. I try to do the math in my head: 25,000,000,000 / 100 is 2,500,000,000. I think. Give or take a zero, it’s probably enough to end the Shame Game everywhere.

The customer tells the pharmacist he’ll come back in two weeks, when he gets paid. He shuffles past me with his head down, slogging toward the exit. He might start dying before payday, but at least he'll have a new fighter jet to keep him safe while it happens.

I approach the counter as the pharmacist returns from re-shelving the medicine. He stops behind the counter and leans on the desktop with both hands. He looks straight at me, fatigued.

“You wouldn’t believe,” he says with a sigh, “how many customers ask me if I’ve seen Sicko yet.”