The Charity Chip

by Brock Booher

  Julio hurried to the bathroom and scrubbed his hands twice before returning to the examination table. He loved it when he was allowed to help. He hoped to be a doctor himself one day.

  Doctor Barilla was cleaning the gash with peroxide when Julio got back. “With a deep wound like this, we have to irrigate it to ensure that there isn’t any debris left in the wound.” The girl let out a whimper, and the mother reassured her with a calm voice. Doctor Barilla continued to focus on the wound. “Okay, Julio, open up a couple of those alcohol wipes and clean her foot around the cut.” He looked at the girl and said, “This is going to sting a bit.”

  Julio tore open one of the wipes and began to clean around the wound as instructed. The girl jerked her foot when the alcohol touched the wound, but Doctor Barilla held it still so Julio could finish.

  “Julio, it looks like we will need the lidocaine from the refrigerator and a clean syringe, please,” said Doctor Barilla. Julio rounded the desk again and pulled open the small refrigerator door. A large, half-empty bottle of vodka sat in the middle of the shelf. Pushing it aside, he began reading the labels of the various glass medicine bottles until he found the lidocaine. With the bottle in hand, he searched the second drawer of the supply cabinet and extracted what appeared to be a clean syringe. He used a cotton ball and rubbing alcohol to wipe it down.

  As Julio approached the table with the bottle and syringe, the girl began to cry. “Don’t worry,” said Julio. “The wound that heals doesn’t hurt.” He glanced up at the mother. “That’s what my mamá used to say to me.”

  Doctor Barilla drew the lidocaine from the bottle with the syringe and then offered it to Julio. “Okay, Julio, I’ll hold her foot down while you inject the lidocaine into the wound just like I’ve shown you before.”

  Julio’s hand was shaking. The last time he had helped this much, the patient had been a drunk and barely conscious. It felt different helping with a little girl that was wide awake. He took several deep breaths to calm himself before he poked the needle into her foot.

  “That’s it,” said Doctor Barilla. “Inject the wound from both sides.”

  The girl cried out at the first injection, but her mother kept her calm. Julio emptied the syringe and let out a satisfied sigh.

  “Okay, Julio. Switch places with me,” said Doctor Barilla.

  Julio set the syringe on the table and swapped places with the doctor. He glanced over at the girl and smiled before turning his attention to the doctor’s demonstration.

  “You shouldn’t feel much from now on, maybe some tugging and pulling,” said Doctor Barilla as he prepared the suture thread. “Julio,” he whispered, “turn so you can see clearly, and so you can block her view.”

  “Remember what I showed you the last time?” asked Doctor Barilla as he threaded the needle. “Go in perpendicular.” He pushed the needle through the skin using the surgical pliers. “Rotate the needle until the end protrudes from the opposite side of the wound. Then grab the end of the needle and pull it gently through, but leave some thread for the knot.”

  Julio swallowed and nodded. He was glad that the lidocaine had taken effect and the girl wasn’t crying anymore.

  “Now for the knot. Hold the pliers in your right hand and loop away from you. Then grab the short end of the thread and pull it through. Try and pull evenly on both sides.” He pulled the thread tight and squeezed the wound together. “For the second half of the knot, loop the pliers toward you and then grab the short end and pull it tight. Grab both parts of the thread and cut.” He cut the thread close to the double knot.

  “It looks like she will need four stitches,” said Doctor Barilla as he started to insert the needle again. “You watch me again on this one and then you can do the last two.”

  “Do you think that will be safe, Doctor?” asked the mother.

  Doctor Barilla laughed. “Yes. His young hands are much steadier than mine. Besides, he charges much less than I do.”

  When they switched positions, Julio could feel his palms sweating as he picked up the pliers. He took a calming breath and inserted the needle. It was a strange feeling to have this much control over someone else’s body. It made him feel powerful, even important. He followed Doctor Barilla’s instructions to the T and tied the first knot.

  “Very nicely done,” said Doctor Barilla. “Now finish it up.”

  Julio was no longer nervous. His hands moved with confidence as he inserted the needle and tied the knot for the last suture. When he cut away the extra thread he admired his work. He swelled with pride as he compared his sutures to the doctor’s and couldn’t see any difference.

  “That takes care of the sutures,” said Doctor Barilla, “but we need to give you an antibiotic to fight off any infection.” The girl’s eyes followed the doctor as he retrieved another small bottle from the refrigerator and filled another syringe. He held out the syringe to Julio. “Give her the injection in the arm.”

  The girl looked at Julio and then to her mother for reassurance. Her mother nodded and patted her hand. Julio wiped her arm with alcohol and injected the antibiotic. She let out a small cry, but before her cry had ended, Julio was finished.

  “You’ll be as good as new in no time, but be careful for a few days,” said the doctor. “It will be sore. Come see me, or Julio, in a week, and we will remove the sutures.” He began picking up the bloodied rag and the used alcohol wipes.

  The mother stood with her eyes fixed on the floor and her hands clasped in front of her. “I have nothing to pay you with.”

  He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, avoiding eye contact as if he were also embarrassed by the situation. “Pay me what you can, when you can,” replied Doctor Barilla without concern. “Besides, my intern, Julio, did most of the work, and as an intern, he can’t charge you anything.”

  The mother scooped up her daughter as she spouted effusive thanks and headed out into the Sunday morning street. The office fell quiet as Julio helped clean up after the minor surgery and returned to filing papers. For a moment he forgot about all the struggle and sadness in his own life.

  “Okay, where were we,” said Doctor Barilla as he sat back down at his desk and punched a key on the computer. He adjusted his glasses and began reading the article on the screen aloud. “ ‘Caritas is the Latin word for charity, but it is also the new word in aid to the less fortunate. The brainchild of Isak Blixt, an information and technology specialist from Sweden, Caritas uses modern monetary technology to push funds provided by governments and NGOs to the user level. Using a personalized implantable chip, dubbed the ‘charity chip,’ each recipient has the power to access funds for necessary purchases such as food, clothing, and other basic needs while drastically reducing the overhead of the program.’ ” Doctor Barilla’s voice trailed off to an inaudible whisper as he read on.

  Julio finished storing the files and stood in front of the filing cabinet hoping Doctor Barilla would finish reading the article and explain it to him.

  “Fascinating,” said Doctor Barilla. “The program here in Lima is the prototype. If it works here, the UN wants to expand it to other countries.”

  “How will they know if it works?” asked Julio.

  Doctor Barilla slipped off his reading glasses and sat back in his chair. “I guess if they can help enough needy children from starving to death.”

  “How does it work?”

  “It looks like they put a chip in each of the children and then load the chip with money for food.” He put his glasses back on and moved close to the screen. “They have a name for it . . . the charity chip.”

  Julio wasn’t enamored with the idea of being implanted with a chip, but if meant that he could eat every day like he did last night, he might be willing. “Do you think I should go see Isak Blixt?” he asked.

  Doctor Barilla picked up the card from the desk and offered it to Julio. “It looks legitimate, but you can’t be too careful when it comes to dealing with these foreign parasites.”

&
nbsp; Julio took the card and shoved it into his pants pocket.

  “By the way, Julio, nice job with the sutures today. You’ll make a great surgeon someday,” he said with fatherly smile.

  Julio blushed and nodded. “Do you have any appointments tomorrow?” He knew that nobody made an appointment.

  “Appointments?” Doctor Barilla laughed. “Let me check my calendar.” He punched a few keys on the computer. “It appears my calendar is clear tomorrow.”

  “Since you don’t have any appointments tomorrow, maybe you can come with me to Caritas.”

  The smile left the doctor’s face. He reached for his coffee and took a big swallow. He leaned back in his seat and looked away. After a long pause, he let out a heavy sigh. “Julio, I am an old doctor with, shall we say, an unpleasant past.” He shook his head. “Anybody that knows my history will never take my questions seriously.”

  “Everybody in the neighborhood knows your history, and they still come to you.”

  “They come to me because they can’t afford to go anywhere else.”

  “I trust you.”

  Doctor Barilla sighed even deeper than before. “I don’t understand why, after what happened with your mother.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” said Julio. Even though Julio and Raúl had lived in the unused floor above Doctor Barilla since the night Mamá had died, Julio had never told him those words. “She would have died anyway that night. There was nothing you could do.”

  Doctor Barilla looked at him in disbelief. Then his eyes clouded over and his bottom lip quivered slightly. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Julio. That is kind of you to say.”

  Julio shrugged. “So, will you come with me tomorrow?”

  Doctor Barilla smiled. “If I don’t have any patients tomorrow morning, I will go with you.” He sipped his coffee and added, “Si Dios quiere.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  La Calle

  (The Street)

  By the time Julio got back upstairs he found two bags of picaras. Raúl had eaten everything else. He grabbed the cookies and shoved them into his backpack. He was glad he had taken the time to help Doctor Barilla, but now he felt anxious, like he was behind schedule. Two bags of cookies wouldn’t be enough food for the day. He needed to hit the streets.

  He grabbed his backpack and skateboard and hurried down the stairs. The metal door scraped against the uneven concrete as he shoved open the door, and he was greeted by typical winter weather in Lima—a dull gray sky with lingering fog. He groaned. A little sunshine would be nice once in a while. He tightened his jacket.

  He skated to the gas station located next to a tire shop a couple of streets over. “Hola, Zambo,” he said to the curly-haired attendant. He pulled out a package of cookies. “Can you give me a refill for a package of picaras?” Zambo nodded and held out his hand. Julio tossed him the cookies and dug a battered water bottle out of his backpack.

  “Why don’t you get a job instead of wasting your time in the streets?” asked Zambo as he topped off the bottle with diesel fuel.

  Julio grunted and said, “Who’s going to hire me?”

  Zambo grinned and handed him the bottle. “El Circo. You could be a fire-juggling clown.”

  “I don’t think there’s much of a future in that career.”

  Zambo laughed. “Like you have a future?” He ripped open the package of picaras and popped one into his mouth. “Why don’t you move into one of the government barrios?”

  Julio turned his head and spat. “I’d rather die before that.”

  “Bueno, if you keep juggling when the extranjeros come roaring down the street on their motorcycles, you just might.”

  Julio put one foot on his board. “You can hear them coming a mile away.”

  A customer pulled up and Zambo stuffed the unfinished cookies into his pocket and ambled over to help them. “Suerte,” he said over his shoulder.

  Julio skated off. Since today was Sunday, he would work Avenida 28 de Julio next to the cathedral. Julio’s system was simple, but a little dangerous. He knew the red light at that intersection would last about two minutes. That gave him barely enough time to light the batons on fire, juggle in between the rows of cars for thirty seconds, then spend the last minute asking for donations before running back to the curb to avoid being run over as traffic started moving again. It had kept him and Raúl fed and clothed for four years, but after the conversion to digital money it was getting harder every week. Almost nobody carried cash anymore, and it took too long to do a chip-to-chip transfer in the middle of a busy intersection.

  A few of the usual beggars and street vendors lounged in the plaza like workers on break as Julio skated past the statue of Manco Cápac, the Incan ruler. Most of them were boys his age or younger. Girls working alone never seemed to last more than a few weeks before they disappeared. Several women in tattered and dirty clothes with babies strapped to their backs sold caramelos to the passing crowd. Everyone hustled for a handout.

  Julio skated past the one-armed boy selling matches across from the church and stopped next to the busy intersection at the corner. A barefoot boy he had never seen before darted in and out of the cars stopped at the light and begged for money. He was shoeless with baggy pants that were too short and exposed his dirty ankles and feet. The bright colors of his sweater were subdued by dust and dirt.

  Julio stuffed his skateboard into his backpack and began juggling the batons to warm up his act. He didn’t want to fumble the batons in the street while they were on fire. He juggled three batons in the standard pattern without any fancy moves. The fire and the traffic added enough drama.

  After practicing his routine for several minutes, he wetted the batons with the diesel fuel from his bottle and waited for the light to change. Just before the light turned red, he pulled out his Saint Michael’s pendant and kissed it for luck. When the traffic stopped, he struck a flame with his lighter and walked out into the intersection juggling the burning batons. After an hour of playing with fire and dodging traffic, he had five soles to show for his effort, not even enough to buy lunch. He sighed and sat down on the grass.

  “Where did you learn to juggle?” asked the barefoot boy he had seen earlier.

  Julio shrugged. “I saw a street performer juggling downtown near the capitol building a few years ago. The tourists tossed money at him as they walked by. When I first started working the streets, I remembered that experience. So, I just learned.”

  “Maybe that’s what I need, a performance or something.” The boy wiped his nose on his dirty sleeve. “Begging doesn’t seem to work.”

  “It used to be easier, before they stopped making hard money.” Julio shook his head. “Now nothing seems to work.” He stood and began soaking the batons for another performance.

  The boy looked out over the snarled traffic. “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Four years.”

  The boy’s face clouded over. “After four years of this, I think I would pray for death to take me.”

  Julio remembered the first few weeks after Mamá died and how he and Raúl had struggled to survive. “What’s your name?”

  “Emilio.”

  Julio smiled. “Well, Emilio, Mamá used to tell me that hope springs eternal.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Julio.”

  Emilio shook his hand and then stared at the gray sky and let out a sigh. “I can’t eat hope. I came from Villa El Salvador hoping for better luck in the city.”

  “On the streets,” Julio said as he struck a flame with his lighter and lit the batons, “you make your own luck.” He hurried into the intersection and tossed the batons higher than normal hoping to impress his captive audience. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a black sedan about three cars back. When he finished juggling and started passing from car to car, the driver of the sedan made eye contact with Julio and smiled. He was young, and the woman sitting in the passenger’s seat next to him couldn’t have been much older than Julio. In the backseat
he could see another young couple. All of them were smiling.

  The young woman in the backseat rolled down the window and motioned for Julio. Her hair was perfect, and she wore sunglasses even though the sun was still struggling to penetrate the cloud layer that rested over the city. Julio’s heart jumped. He hurried over to the vehicle with his hand out. When he got close to the window, the young woman ducked and the young man behind her reached over her and squirted Julio with water from a water bottle. The cold water hit him in the face and soaked his jacket.

  “I just wanted to make sure the fire was out,” scoffed the young man. Laughter erupted from the vehicle. The driver yelled, “Go to work!” Julio could still hear them laughing after they motored up the car window.

  He was stunned for a moment, and then the sounds of blaring horns and shouting drivers snapped Julio out of his daze. The light had changed and he was in the middle of the street. Luckily, a delivery truck was slow to start moving and left a gap for him to escape to the sidewalk. He stripped off his backpack and wet jacket and threw them on the ground. He screamed and threw himself on the thin grass. He lay on the ground looking up through the smog and haze at the subdued sun and wondered if anyone in the universe cared about his miserable life. He closed his eyes and remembered Isak’s offer.

  He hated the thought of getting a chip implanted, but he wondered if he was just being paranoid. All the rich people he begged from had embedded chips. It was their excuse for not having any money to give him. They made all their purchases using a small implanted chip with a DNA sensor that protected their money from theft. He had a free chip hidden in his Saint Michael’s pendant. Why not get an embedded chip?

  “Sleeping on the job, hermano?” He opened his eyes and saw Raúl’s grinning face hovering over him.

  “I’ve been working the street for over an hour. Where have you been?”

  Raúl stood up straight and shrugged. “Playing fútbol with los mALditos.”

  Julio sat up and saw several members of the gang riding their skateboards through the plaza. Sergio, the leader, was skating in circles around two young women in dresses walking to the cathedral. Turco, the natural centurion of the group because of his enormous size, had Emilio pinned to the ground while two of the gang members, Chancho and Esqueleto, searched his pockets.