I recently read an article that made me feel like I’m surely going to die any day now. Reading that article was probably supposed to make me feel energized and hopeful. But it had the opposite effect on me.
The article was entitled, “Ways to Increase Your Daily Step Count.” It said,
Often people get around to asking me what makes me crippled.
I then say what I believe to be true. I don't take the opportunity to make up some bull shit, like some cripples I’ve known. I heard someone ask that question of a friend of mine once and she replied, “I got hit by an airplane.” I don't blame her for saying something like that. It’s hard to be set up so perfectly for a joke and not take a swing. But I always just say what I think my medical diagnosis is. And then I say I don’t know what my official diagnosis is because I haven’t taken the time to find out for sure. And the reason that I haven’t taken the time to find out for sure is because I really don’t care much what my diagnosis is.
A lot of people seem like they’re surprised to hear me say that. Maybe that’s because a lot of people seem to think that a cripple’s primary quest in life is to find out as much as they can about their diagnosis and then do a lot of therapies and exercises and shit like that accordingly, as if we’re preparing for a boxing match.
But most of the cripples that I’ve ever met aren’t motivated in that way. Like most people, what motivates them is they're just trying to get laid. And all that exercise and therapy stuff gets in the way of achieving that goal, unless you think that a physical therapy gym is the kind of place where you should hang around if you’re looking to get laid.
I feel much more solidarity with those cripples who are just trying to get laid, which is another reason why I don't care much about my diagnosis. Maybe I fear that the more I dwell on it the more likely I am to run into people who are determined to cure me. Sure enough, there is a group that is out to cure that which makes me crippled. I try my best to stay away from them because I ‘m afraid that if I get within sniffing distance of them they’ll try to recruit me. Although it wouldn’t do them much good if they did because about the only suitable poster that they could put me on would have to say something like, ”Please cure me so it’ll be easier for me to get laid.”
I don’t think that would inspire many people to open up their wallets.
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Another good thing about being crippled is that you get a lot of free meals out of the deal, if you play your cards right.
It has happened to me many times. One time I was eating alone in a Greek restaurant and when it came time for me to pay the waiter told me that someone had picked up my check for me. I wondered who that could be. I looked around and I saw an older guy across the room who was also sitting at a table alone. He held up his water goblet and toasted me. I thought about toasting him back to say thank you. But then I wondered if he might be some kind of pervert and the reason he bought my dinner was not because I was crippled but because he thought I was cute. Or, even worse, maybe he thought I was cute because I’m crippled. So I just let it be.
And then there was the time that I went to the pub I frequented often. This other crippled guy frequented it often, too. But he wasn’t a wheelchair cripple. He was what everybody used to call retarded. (Don’t call them that anymore.} I don’t know what genre he was of. I just assume that he wasn’t Down Syndrome because they all look alike and he didn’t look like any of them.
Anyway, he was always alone. He sat at the bar a lot and I never saw him talking to anybody else. But one day he came and sat at my table with me. We ate and drank and didn’t talk much. And when the check came he snatched it up and walked away. But a little while later the server returned with the unpaid check. He said that that guy often drops checks on the bar without any money and leaves. And I ended up paying the whole damn thing!
Now there was a cripple who really knew how to play his cards when it came to scoring free meals.
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I used to think that those people who complain all the time about diversity were just a bunch of stupid whiners. Why were they so threatened by the prospect of someone other than a bunch of white, Christian, heterosexual, uncrippled males always being in charge of everything? Why did they always jump to the conclusion that anyone else’s gain is necessarily their loss?
But now I’m not so sure, not since I heard about the AFBCD. That stands for the Association of Future Blind Cab Drivers. This organization claims that it represents “the thousands of legally blind Americans who aspire to be professional cab drivers.”
The founder and CEO of the AFBCD is a militant blind man named Andrew Crapola. In an exclusive interview with Smart Ass Cripple, he said, “Let's face it. Cab driving is a profession that has completely shut out blind people. And that’s because of the pernicious stereotypes that has always prohibited blind people from driving motor vehicles just because we can’t see.
“But the freedom fighters of the AFBCD say , ‘So what if we can’t see. Everyone knows that driving a cab is a very glamorous thing to do. And if a blind person wants to drive a cab, we believe that it is their inalienable right to be able to do so. Neither the government nor anyone else can tell us what we can do with our own bodies.’
“So we spend a lot of our time lobbying legislators, trying to get them to lower standards so that blind people can someday realize our dream of becoming cab drivers. That’s the key to achieving true diversity: lowering standards.”
If the AFBCD succeeds in accomplishing their mission, Lord help us all! Whenever you get into a cab, you’ll always have to make sure that your driver is indeed a white, Christian, heterosexual, uncrippled male. If not, get out fast!
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Way back when I was but a wee criplet, certain people came around
because, they said, they wanted to be my friend. And those people really
creeped me out.
They usually were part of some charity that said that their mission was to make friends with cripples like me. They’d usually try to take us bowling or horseback riding or off to do something we didn’t want to do anyway.
So that felt empty to me, like losing your virginity to a rubber doll. I don’t know why it was so important for them to make me feel like we were friends. The ones that came around were often teenagers and it felt like they were being my friend because it would earn them extra credit or something. Or maybe they’d put hanging out with me on their college applications under extracurricular activities to increase their odds of being accepted. Or maybe they were just trying to score points with some chick.
Whatever the reason, it always creeped me out when they came around. I felt like they were prostitutes, snuggling up to me and trying to make me feel like I was special for an ulterior motive. And as soon as they got what they wanted from me they’d move on to the next guy. So I felt it was best not to get too close to them.
And I would get extra freaked out if the people who came around trying to be my friend were also trying to mentor me. I was always suspicious of organizations that have mentoring in their mission statement. Because I thought that meant that they must’ve thought that what I really was looking for was for someone like them to show me the way. But didn’t feel like there was any one person out there who could show me the way and if I ever did want a person to be my mentor I would probably ask an older cripple. But now that I am an older cripple I resist efforts to match me up with another cripple so that I can be their mentor. That’s too much pressure! I know that if someone hangs around with me because they expect the to be full of sage wisdom, I’m bound to let them down. Because what the hell do I know? All I know is what has worked for me. But that’s no guarantee that it’ll work for the next guy, All they can do is try it (or not) and see.
But I suppose that when I was a wee criplet and I let those guys hang out with me for extra credit, I ended up doing them a favor. At least it kept them off the streets.
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Transactional intimacy. That sounds like an oxymoron, doesn’t it? I mean,
how can a relationship be both transactional and intimate at the same time?
A transactional relationship is all business. And an intimate
relationship is, well, it’s just the opposite.
But that’s exactly the type of relationship that I have with the members of my pit crew, which is what I call the people that I have hired to come to my home every day and help me do all of the stuff that everyone has to do every day, such as getting in and out of bed and getting dressed. The state pays them to help me so this is their job and my home is their workplace So in that sense, it is a business relationship.
But I often joke with them that this is the type of job where you may see your boss naked on your first day on the job. Because when they come in to get me out of bed, the first thing that they are likely to see when they uncover me will be my bare ass. I may even involuntarily entertain them with a medley of my farts– - there’s the creaky door fart, the foghorn fart and the motor boat fart. I got a million of ‘em! I have great versatility when it comes to farting. But, sadly, I can't summon up any of them at will. They just come out randomly, and at the damndest times. (I probably should say that I “subject them to” rather than “entertain them with” a medley of my farts. Because I think when you call something entertainment, that implies that it’s something that’s worth paying money for. And no sane person would ever pay money for that!)
And when they put me on the crapper, they’ll eventually have to wipe my butt, too.
Can you get more intimate than all of that?
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I wear compression hose. Those are those knee-high, tight-fitting socks that are supposed to improve the blood circulation in my legs.
They come in many different colors but the only colors I have them in are black and Caucasian.
I used to refer to my Caucasian socks as my “flesh-tone” socks but then a woman set me straight. I don’t know if she was trying to set me straight but she sure did.
She answered the phone one day when I called the pharmacy from which I used to order my compression hose. I said I wanted two pair and when she asked what color I wanted I said “flesh-tone.” And she said, “What color is that?”
I don’t know who that woman was but I’ll be forever in her debt because that really got me to thinking, How presumptuous it was of me to automatically assume that flesh-tone always meant Caucasian. I thought about Milton, the kid with two false legs who went to cripple elementary school with me. Milton was black but I don’t know if his false legs were also black. Because I don’t recall ever seeing Milton’s legs. I don’t recall ever seeing him wearing shorts. I never saw him in his underwear or anything like that.
Maybe that was because that was back in the day when everyone automatically assumed that flesh-tone always meant Caucasian. So maybe Milton’s legs were Caucasian color because that was the only color he could get them in back then. And maybe he never showed his legs because they were a different color than he was and he was ashamed of them for that. If a secret like that ever got out, the other kids would probably tease him brutally.
We sure have come a long way since then.
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