Faux Friends and Mentors

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

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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The Color Caucasian

 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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