In three years sharing this house, passing each other in the kitchen or on the way to the toilet, my flatmate Robert and I have chatted a few hundred times, and it’s almost always been pleasant. Unlike my other flatmate, the dreaded Dean, Robert never makes me feel like I’m trapped in the talking. When we’ve said enough, I can simply say “‘Scuse me” and dart into my room and close the door, no hard feelings. I love that about Robert.

We’re not quite friends, but we’re both old and fat, a couple of shy misfits, and he’s an OK guy. His health is worse than mine, and he’s poor like me, only moreso. My only luxury in life is that two or three times a month I eat in a restaurant, but when I’ve mentioned that in our brief conversations, Robert says he never eats out. He can’t afford it.

For a few years now I’ve been thinking that one of these mornings, I ought to take him to breakfast. Meanwhile, one recent afternoon, we were in the kitchen at the same time, making our respective lunches. Mine was three sandwiches; his was two turkeyburgers.

Sidestepping each other on the linoleum, we talked about our boring lives, and Robert mentioned that he’d gotten a cost-of-living increase on his military retirement benefits — his sole income at 71 years of age. “My monthly deposit went up by $42,” he said, “and at first, I thought it was great news.”

“Only at first?” Forty-two bucks isn’t a lot, but when you’re poor even a few dollars can be a real help.

“The computers talk to each other,” he explained, “so I got a letter from the Department of Agriculture.”

“Department of Agriculture?” In all our kitchen conversations, Robert had never mentioned working on a farm, so I was confused.

“Well, SNAP,” he said, but I still wasn’t understanding. “Food stamps,” he added, and finally it clicked in my head. The Department of Agriculture runs SNAP, the food stamp program. “Somehow SNAP figured out that the Army had raised my retirement checks by $42 p/month, so they cut my food stamps by $42.”

I’ll say to you, dear reader, what I said to Robert in the kitchen. Holy fuckin’ shit. The billionaires who own this country pay next-to-nothing in taxes, and the politicians hand them tax breaks so they pay less and less — but a poor veteran barely surviving in his old age isn’t allowed a $42 monthly raise in his pension?

Explain to me, please, why we the people haven’t risen up in riots, and put our precious Second Amendment and a few homemade guillotines to good use.

8/7/2025

itsdougholland.com
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