Eddie the Centaur

On a crowded city sidewalk, I heard someone call my name. I turned and there was a centaur, waving and smiling at me.

Oh my God, I told myself. That must be Eddie the Centaur! And look at him! He’s all grown up. 

“How the hell are ya?” the centaur said. Eddie was one of my fellow inmates at the segregated school for crippled children. Back then he was just a boy/colt. But I figured this had to be him because, well, he's the only centaur I ever met. In those days, any kid who was born a centaur was sure to be banished to the cripple school. That’s where they sent all the freaks.

Eddie gave me a great big hug. I felt deeply embarrassed, not because I was being hugged in public by a centaur but because I remembered how shabbily I treated him. We all shunned Eddie at the cripple school, except to play jokes on him. Like onetime, one of the bully crippled kids pulled a secret switch-a-roo when the lunch trays came up on the cart. Everybody else got baked chicken but when Eddie lifted the lid off his plate all he had was a pile of hay. I laughed real hard like everybody else because I wanted to be cool, even though I knew it was mean.

And the adolescent Eddie of the cripple school days was hardly the huggy type. In fact, he was cocky and arrogant. You’d think that somebody born a centaur would at least be humble about it, but not Eddie. He swore he was going to become a pro football superstar. “And when I give my Hall of Fame speech,” he’d say, “I’m gonna personally name every last one of you and tell you all to kiss my ass!”

Indeed, the only time anybody wanted to be around Eddie was when it was time to play cripple Whiffle football. He was the first one chosen when we chose up sides because with Eddie on your team you couldn’t lose. Just hand Eddie the football and it was a guaranteed touchdown because, being a centaur, he galloped to the end zone and flattened any tackler in his path. I guess Eddie never fulfilled his football dream. I don’t follow football  much but if a centaur was elected to the Hall of Fame I imagine I’d have heard about it. Poor Eddie was probably never given a chance to play football beyond cripple school because people are ignorant and he’s a centaur.

“You’re looking great, Eddie,” I said. “Do you work out?” And then I noticed standing next to him was a gorgeous woman. Eddie said, “This is Deirdre, my wife.” Eddie beamed and put his arm around her. She was supermodel gorgeous. I always felt sorry for Eddie because I figured the only girl that ever would be interested in him would be a female centaur. But there was nothing about Deirdre that was even remotely horse-like.

Another reason I felt sorry for Eddie back in cripple school was because he had a rough childhood. Once, when he was in a melancholy mood, he confided in me that his mother went to her grave blaming herself that he was born a centaur. She wondered if it was due to her reckless behavior in college, like the time she got super wasted and, on a dare, she ate horse meat. Of course researchers have discovered that Eddie’s condition is caused by an extremely rare genetic quirk that turns human fetuses into centaurs. But this knowledge came too late to be of comfort to Eddie’s mom.

I said to Deidre, “Your husband was the greatest cripple school Whiffle football player ever.”

Eddie dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “Aw screw football. I work for Disney now. I pull down seven figures. Ever heard of Outer Space Giraffe?”

“Oh course I have,” I said. “It’s the biggest blockbuster Disney movie hit of all time.”

“Well I’m the voice of the giraffe,” Eddie said. “The producers heard my voiceover demo CD and signed me on the spot. And my agent didn’t tell them I was a centaur until it was too late!” Eddie held up his hand for a high five! I slapped it hard.

“That’s how I met Deidre,” Eddie said. “She’s the voice of Queen Bee.”

I felt so proud of Eddie. I was overcome with a great swell of justice.  But I couldn’t help but notice all the passersby gawking intensely at Eddie. It made me angry. It was all I could do to keep from shouting,” What the hell’s the matter with you people? Haven’t you ever seen a man who pulls down seven figures doing the voice of Outer Space Giraffe, is married to a super model and just happens to be a centaur?”

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Feigning Incontinence in the Name of Love

If I’m ever crippled up to the point where I’m homebound, that will be one miserable situation. I’ll be a sad and lonely old man in a musty, cramped apartment. And piled high all around me, like haystacks in a barn, will be hundreds of unopened packages of incontinence pads.

I’ll look like a fucking hoarder of incontinence pads. Because if I’m homebound, I’ll spend all day watching old black-and-white comedies on television. Because what the hell else is there to do when you’re homebound? And when you spend all day watching old black-and-white comedies on television, soon you’ll see commercials for incontinence pads.

And the star of the commercials for incontinence pads is my “personal incontinence consultant.” There she is. Isn’t she lovely? Look at her warm, welcoming smile. Look at her telephone headset. She’s standing by, waiting for ME to call. And it’s toll free!

I know I can trust her with my secrets. I can see it in her eyes. She’s a trained personal incontinence consultant. (Is that what it says on her business cards?)  I’ll be quite nervous when I call because this is my first time. But she understands . She’ll be gentle.

I’ll feel an irresistible infatuation. So I’ll call. She’ll break the ice with small talk. And then, when the mood is just right, she’ll ask if I’m incontinent. I’ll say yes, even though I’m not. But I’ll say I’m incontinent just to impress her. I know that’s the kind of man she’s looking for. I’ll say I’m incontinent just to keep her on the phone.  She’ll ask me if I want her to tell me all about her full line of incontinence pads and I’ll say yes yes oh please yes. And when she asks if I have any questions I’ll ask her a whole bunch of stuff about absorption or whatever. I’ll do anything just to be having a conversation with a woman. I’ll do anything to bring something into my day other than old black-and-white fucking comedies.

And then my personal incontinence consultant will ask for my Medicaid number and I’ll surrender it gladly. And I’ll order a ton of incontinence pads because I love her and I want her to know it. When I fall I fall hard.

And I’ll call back the next day and the next day and the next day and the next just to hear her sweet voice. And I’ll order more and more incontinence pads. All this wouldn’t be so bad if I was incontinent because I’d use the stuff up. But I’m not so it’ll all just pile up because what the hell else can you use incontinence pads for besides their intended purpose? Placemats? I suppose I could stitch a bunch of them together and make a tablecloth.

My friends will hold an intervention. They’ll form a circle around me, sitting on unopened packages of incontinence pads.

But it won’t work. I’ll get in deeper and deeper until my story ends tragically in one of two ways.  I’ll wind up either:

1) In jail, after someone at the Medicaid office notices I’m ordering shitloads of incontinence pads and launches an investigation, or...

2) Dead. I’ll be buried under an avalanche of unopened packages of incontinence pads. 


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Call in the Marines

Apparently, back about 40 years ago, there used to be an elite team of specially-trained U.S Marines whose mission it was to carry cripples up and down flights of stairs.

Because I remember being an adolescent and becoming so bored and restless that I broke down and attended what were known as “muscular dystrophy parties.” These were parties for people with muscular dystrophy that were organized by wealthy uncrippled people as community service projects. Muscular dystrophy parties were always children’s parties, even though they weren’t always for children. There was always a cameo appearance by Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. I remember some square dancers came to entertain us once.  Jugglers and clowns. You get the picture.

Muscular dystrophy parties were held at this fancy banquet hall where the narrow bathroom stalls weren’t wheelchair accessible. But never fear because the muscular dystrophy party organizers made an accommodation!  Nurse Connie was on duty! At the beginning of every muscular dystrophy party the emcee made a formal announcement that if anyone needed to go to the bathroom, just raise your hand and Nurse Connie will help you. Nurse Connie sat on a stool back against the wall, wearing her bright white nurse uniform, arms folded and a no-nonsense scowl on her face. She was built like a lumberjack. I never had Nurse Connie help me go to the bathroom. I was too afraid. I pictured her flinging me back over her shoulder like Godzilla, carrying me into the bathroom and ripping the stall door off its hinges.

And the banquet hall was also at the top of about a zillion stairs. But never fear because the muscular dystrophy party organizers made another accommodation!  They called in the marines! Lined up outside the banquet hall was a pack of marines, dressed in their formal blue coats with the red trim and their flat-topped white hats. And when the cripples arrived we were swarmed by marines who immediately hoisted us up like  the winning coach, wheelchairs and all,  and carried us up the stairs. It was a precision drill.

I assume this marine unit has since been disbanded. When I see marine recruitment commercials and they show the montage of all the cool and exciting stuff marines do, I never see them carrying cripples up and down stairs. So maybe the Pentagon determined that with all the damn access laws that have passed since the heyday of the muscular dystrophy parties, this unit is no longer necessary. Or maybe they consolidated operations and hauling cripples up and down stairs is now the job of the Navy Seals.

Waiting

What the hell was I thinking?  I must have forgotten where I came from?

Here’s what was on my to-do list for the day:

1. Go to the Social Security office and get information about applying.

2. Do a bunch of other stuff.

My to-do list should have read:

1. Go to the Social Security office and get information about applying.

2. Take a number and get in line.

3.  Read War and Peace.

4. Move up two spots in line.

I arrived at the Social Security office and there was the loooooooong line. It was so long, you’d swear Jesus himself must be at the other end passing out free $100 bills. Autographed.

Cripple Comrade Curtis was in the Social Security  line.  He said he was holding number 37. He’d been in line three hours. They were up to number 25.

So I left, feeling a bit embarrassed about my naiveté. What the hell was I thinking? I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve waited in a public service office waiting room. I should have remembered that in the waiting rooms of public service offices it’s not uncommon to see a cobweb-covered skeleton sitting in a wheelchair. Or you might see a skeleton wearing sunglasses sitting in a chair and at its feet is the skeleton of a guide dog.

Cripples spend a good part of our lives waiting in waiting rooms. A cripple’s life is like a Bataan Death Wait. It’s a test of endurance. Cripples wait on waiting lists, too. But we only wait on waiting lists for good, valuable stuff, like affordable, accessible housing. There’s no waiting list for stuff like a poke in the eye. You can step right up for that. Waiting on a waiting list is like waiting in a waiting room where you won’t get served until everyone who entered the waiting room before you dies. And you pray you don’t die first.

Here’s another thing I could have added to my to-do list on the day I went to the Social Security office:

1. Go to the Social Security office and get information about applying.

2. Take a number and get in line.

3.  Read War and Peace.

4. Move up two spots in line.

5. Become an expert on the life and times of the late U.S. Congressman Ralph Metcalfe.

 My local Social Security office is located in the federal office building named after the late U.S. Congressman Ralph Metcalfe. And on the wall outside the Social Security office is a photo essay chronicle of his life. There he is as a young man, dressed in his track and field outfit, standing next to Jesse Owens. Metcalfe won four medals sprinting in the 1932 and 1936 Olympics. There he is later, his hair dusted with white, standing next to famous 1960s politicians.

And so I bet everyone who waits in line at this Social Security office becomes an expert on the life and times of the late U.S. Congressman Ralph Metcalfe. They wander over and read. It’s a brief but merciful respite.

How could I have forgotten the crushing boredom of waiting in line? To pass time you read anything in sight. You read all the signs in the waiting room. You memorize them. It must be like being in solitary confinement. If someone drops an American Girl catalog through the slot, you read it voraciously.

Pit Crew Members Say the Darndest Cute Things

Let us begin this tale with some great words of wisdom from Leonardo da Vinci:

“The penis does not obey the order of its master… The penis must be said to have its own mind.”

Truer words were never spoken. In addition to being an artist, inventor, etc., da Vinci was also a great penisologist, or whatever it is you call people who study the behavior of the penis. Because da Vinci spent a great deal of time contemplating penises, not just his own but those of other dead humans and even a mule. And in so doing he revolutionized our understanding of that random and mysterious phenomenon known as the erection.

This was probably da Vinci’s most significant contribution to humanity. And I probably never would have learned of it if I wasn’t crippled. Because I heared this fun da Vinci fact from a man named Brian Brady, who revealed it to me while he was giving me a shower. And if I wasn’t crippled, I never would have had Brian giving me a shower. Or at least the odds are against it. It’s nothing personal against Brian, it’s just that the only reason he entered my life for the purpose of giving me showers was because he was a member of my pit crew. And if I wasn’t crippled I wouldn’t need a pit crew to give me showers and such, so I wouldn’t have had a parade of young men coming in and out of my home throughout the years to give me showers. Or at least the odds are against it.

I spend so much time with my pit crew guys that we end up talking about all kinds of shit. And sometimes they say the darndest cute things. Brian was giving me a shower and somehow we got to talking about the Mona Lisa and Brian said that da Vinci also debunked the scientific belief of his time that an erection was caused by the penis filling with air, like a balloon. da Vinci came to the conclusion that this was all wrong, Brian said, after he saw a mule fucking a mare.  

So I looked it up and it’s true! da Vinci was always skeptical about the balloon theory of erection. He wrote, "Wind provides neither weight nor density but makes the flesh light and rarefied."  da Vinci was also an avid collector of human body parts and cadavers, strictly for research purposes of course. He was known to attend public beheadings so he could negotiate with the executioner for the head.

Beheadings weren’t the only public executions for which da Vinci had box seat tickets. He went to hangings too and wondered why so many hanged men remained erect long after their bodies were devoid of all oxygen. So much for the balloon theory.

And when he happened to encounter a winded but still horny mule, da Vinci wrote, "I once saw a mule that was almost unable to move, owing to the fatigue of a long journey under a heavy burden. On seeing a mare, suddenly its penis and all its muscles became so turgid that it multiplied its forces as to acquire such speed that it overtook the course of the mare, which fled before it and was obliged to obey the desires of the mule."

So now, thanks to former pit crew member Brian, in my mind da Vinci is synonymous not with the Mona Lisa but with erection.

Smart Ass 10-43

Species Homo sapiens has come up with all kinds of different names for cripples. I thought I heard them all.

But here’s a new one. When I ride Chicago Transit Authority trains, the Homo sapiens who work for CTA refer to me as a 10-43.

“I got a 10-43 at Chicago Avenue!”

A cripple shows up to ride the train. The train pulls up to the station.  The door opens. The station attendant puts down a yellow, fiberglass ramp that bridges the gap between train and platform. The cripple rolls in.   The attendant calls the attendant at the station of the cripple’s destination to alert the attendant that a cripple is approaching so be ready with the ramp.

“I got a 10-43 at Chicago Avenue!”

Some of the attendants really enjoy throwing around that 10-43 stuff. Maybe it makes them feel like a cop or a marine. Once, when the platform was crowded, the attendant walked ahead of me, clearing my path. “Everybody step back,” he said “There’s a 10-43 coming through!”

I bet I know how 10-43 came about. I bet CTA formed a committee with the mission of making recommendations on what to call crippled passengers. Cripples are really touchy about that stuff. It’s easy to piss us off. We can’t even agree on what to call each other.

Because all the commonly-used words for cripple are so tainted. You can't just say, “I got a cripple at Chicago Avenue!” That will piss some cripples off.

And you can’t say, “I got a handicapable individual at Chicago Avenue!” That will piss cripples like me off.

And you sure as hell can’t say, “I got an invalid at Chicago Avenue!” That will piss every cripple off.

No matter what you say, some cripple is gonna get pissed off. So about the only way to come up with a word that’s taint free is to coin a new one. Thus, 10-43. It’s simple. It’s to the point. It’s neutral-ish. There's no taint.

This could be a breakthrough. Because there’s a dire need in the marketplace for a universally acceptable name for cripples. There are a lot of thoughtlessly named products out there. Like once when I was in a hospital examining room, they needed to transfer me from my wheelchair to the exam table. So they rolled in this lifting device that looked like an assless hammock. And the device was called the Maxi Move

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Maxi Move? That sounds like some kind of crane constructed by the Army Corps of Engineers for the purpose of moving a beached whale! But what if they called the Maxi Move something like the 10-43 Toter? Doesn’t that sound much more civilized?

And the brand name of the wheelchair I’m sitting in is Invacare. There’s that word "invalid" again, which Miriam-Webster defines as not valid. But when used as a noun, it means crippled. Same difference. The Invacare brand is to cripples what the Washington Redskins brand is to Native Americans.  I’m surprised Invacare’s logo isn’t a cripple in traction wrapped in bandages like a mummy.

Invacare could call their wheelchairs 10-43 Mobiles instead. Nobody would balk, except maybe some eternal malcontents who might say, “I am NOT a number. I’m a human being!” For them I offer the Bronx cheer.

The more I think about this 10-43 jazz, the more I like it. It has a certain unstigmatized ring to it. Someday I might call myself a smart ass 10-43.

Defenseless Cripples

So it appears the final solution has been determined. In every U.S. state it’s now legal to carry a concealed gun.

I guess the idea is to build to a climactic shootout scene, like the fucking OK Corral, between the good guys, whomever they are, and the bad guys, whomever they are. And when the official final body count is calculated, certified and notarized, the good guys win!

Is that some kind of psycho Barney Fife shit or what?

But a fat lot of good being able to pack heat does for cripples like me who can't use our arms much. The concealed part is no problem. I can shove a gun deep down into the backpack that always hangs on the back of my wheelchair. But what happens when I have to use it, like to defend myself against a mugger? I’ll have to ask some Good Samaritan passerby to please get the gun out of my backpack. But even then I won’t be able to pull the trigger. I can’t even hold the damn gun up! So I’ll have to ask the kind Samaritan to please also shoot the mugger. I know people feel mighty charitable when they see a cripple in distress, but that’s really testing the limits.

But I have to do something to defend myself because I never want to be a defenseless cripple. And pretty soon the bad guys will figure out that the only ones who can’t shoot back are cripples like me who can’t hold up a gun. So they’ll attack us more and more.

About the only lethal weapon I could readily use would be poison blow darts.  But it has to be hands free poison blow darts, so I’ll have to rig up something like those beer drinkers’ batting helmets where there’s a beer can mounted on each side and straws running from the cans to your mouth. Except the straws will run from my mouth to dart launching cylinders atop the helmet so I can shoot poison darts with a mere puff. This will add an extra accessorizing step to my morning routine. After combing my hair, my pit crew assistant will have to dip my blow darts in deadly poison, load them into the cylinders and strap the helmet to my head.

I’ll mass produce these helmets so my fellow cripples can defend themselves in this wide open new world. Once we take down a mugger or two with poison darts, word will spread and the rest of the muggers will know not to mess with any cripple wearing a batting helmet with straws. Then, about the only cripples incapable of self-defense through lethal force will be the comatose. And so the muggers, desperate to find a new pool of defenseless victims, will break into hospitals and nursing homes looking for comatose people to mug. But the batting helmet could probably be equipped with some sort of sensors so comatose people could launch darts by using brain waves. Rigging up something like that can’t be too hard to do. I’ve heard stories about cripples operating stuff like computers and motorized wheelchairs using sensor caps and brain waves. So then the comatose person wearing one of my helmets with sensors cold just think something like “Shoot that sonuvabitch” and the darts fly! Let’s just hope the sonuvabitch they want to shoot isn’t some poor nurse’s aide who gives crappy sponge baths.

That will leave the totally brain dead as the only truly defenseless cripples. I’m afraid there’s not much I can do to help them defend themselves. We may have to throw them to the muggers.