Mindela Ruby
A storm cloud mushrooms above the storekeeper’s head when I shut his glass door to the street noise. His shoulders square off. He sighs aggressively, thinks he’s intimidating.
…..Chances are this prig would fear and loathe any scuzzy punk that set foot in his little shop of horrors. He hustles around the counter to intercept me. I’m a germ; the store’s a cut; he’s Bactine to the rescue.
…..Boo-ya! I could half nelson this puce hair, jug ear, veiny skin alarmist sales clerk to the floor with the greatest of ease.
…..“Can I help you?” he says. Despite the name tag smiling on his shirt pocket, “Stan”’s face is contorted with multiple qualms. I look like trouble. By his calculation, my money’s worth less than other people’s.
…..Little does he know that, tromping all three miles down here from home, I connived ways to save the wampum for this purchase. Skipping the bus and walking, to start with. Crossing tequila off the weekly grocery list—big savings, among other advantages. “Just browsing,” I say, buying only time so far.
…..I’ve passed this shop in cars and busses a hundred times, never thinking I’d set foot in here. So this is California Wheelchair from the other side.
…..Presumably there’d be a fleet of handicap transit to pick from. But floor space is limited, selection skimpy. Catalogues and leaflets sit on the sales counter. The only retail fanfare hangs on the walls, posters for Invacare, Sovereign, Quickie—not that I’ve heard of these brands. Stan would be equally clueless if he saw the Jawbreaker and NoFX posters tacked on my walls.
…..At the back of the place (do I hear trumpets bugling?) sits the exact gimpmobile I seek. A no frills original, straight out of a ‘50s movie about a cripple. Clearly not the Product of the Week, the old-fangled hack sits unshowcased and unloved, wedged between a canopy on a stand and some cartons.
…..Stan pivots to block my access and flings his short-sleeved arm at the two chairs under the bright lights up front. In case I’m a valid shopper along with being a crusty trollop, he wants me feasting my eyes on his fully equipped stock, that look like headless robots. He wants to sell the state-of-the-art line. Too bad I’m not that legit a customer.
…..He asks questions like who the disabled is (“my neighbor Sada Pollard”), where the chair will be used (“wherever”) and if I want Sada Pollard to have the most comfort and mobility available in a power chair today.
…..“I want her to have comfort in that chair.” I point at the sweet old ride.
…..Stan’s nostrils flare and blast a hyena sneeze, as if the mere thought of that chintzy throwback chair is sickening to a quota-hitting sales professional. When he lifts his bleary glasses to dab tears from his eyes, I seize my chance to skip past him in the aisle.
…..Lobotomized McMurphy got parked in just such a wheeled contraption—I discovered One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest in Ma’s garage and re-read it throughout high school. As I sit down to test the feel of the wide black seat, Stan hurries over to say, “Home users favor power chairs four-to-one over the self-propelled.”
…..I sprawl back happily in the self-propelled dinghy and picture housebound Sada riding through sunshine.
…..“That vehicle does have a triple chrome-plated carbon steel frame.” Smelling a transaction, and seeing as how my butt’s already all over it, Stan pitches this cut-rate product. “Flame-retardant, mildew-resistant upholstery, gusseted braces, casters, and axles–all standard. Chest strap and amputee attachment optional.”
…..“Too much damn information,” I say, thrusting my palm to halt the amputation talk. For God’s sake, Sada’s the one person on earth who’s provided me a reason, let alone the opportunity, to be something other than a fuckup. “Let’s not bring up worst cases when I’m feeling so good about this,” I say.
…..“That makes one of us,” Stan says.
…..I ignore his negativity and read the price tag hanging on my backrest: $169.00, nineteen bucks of which I’ve already salted away. “Why do the wheels splay out?” I say, worried the product’s defective.
…..“For stability. A feature called camber,” Stan says. “Perhaps you’d better get out of it.”
…..I give the wheels a whirl and stably roll to his oxfords’ toes. He reaches to grab the chair, but I sharp-angle backward to escape. “Medication time, Nurse Rat Shit!” I say, bowling myself up the aisle and working up a drool.
…..Stan vaults after me and seizes both chair handles. “Stop this disrespectful charade!”
…..I jump out and frown at the chair like it’s to blame for my nervous clowning.
…..Shaking with fury, Stan says, “You’re insulting our customers and wasting my time.”
…..He’s right. I’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, as usual, and this time, when it counts, when it means a lot for someone other than me, I need to do better. “I am in the market for a wheelchair,” I say, lifting sad cow eyes, “really.”
…..“For who did you say?” His tone is vocal battery acid.
…..“A lady with sclerosis. Her skin’s calcified, and she can’t walk.” My eyes get watery, spilling hot tears down my cheeks. “Her one enjoyment’s watching birds. A chair like this…it’d be her only chance to see something besides four walls. Can you understand? Could I buy it on installment?”
…..“We don’t arrange financing. Sorry.”
…..“Darn.” I glance at the super-duper merchandise and sniff. “What’s so great about those?”
…..He smiles for the first time. I’m right where he wants me, asking about the prized line. “Their main advantage to the mobility-impaired is independence.”
…..I automatically think of the Declaration of Independence–life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness—and study the mechanized wheelchairs for guaranties of any such blessings for Sada.
…..“The left unit travels up to 7.2 miles per hour,” Stan gleefully says. “The one to the right, 5 MPH. Both models are vibration-free with dynamic anti-tippers, shock-absorbing forks, semi-pneumatic casters, and custom anodized finishes such as sparkles, chameleons, and transparents.”
…..Sparkles. Chameleons. Transparents. How poetic, Stan’s way of describing his merchandise.
…..I step to the high seat-back version, turn over the laminated price tag and feel a beastly pinch in my chest. Dynamic anti-tippers set a pilgrim back thirty-eight hundred smackeroos.
…..“These buggys are too,” I pause for the right word. “Complicated,” I say–code for costly.
…..“Better living through technology,” says Stan.
…..“Just swinging your basic ‘companion model’ back there’s gonna be tricky on my Chapter 11 income. Heck, I’m not expecting a miracle or anything, just trying to dial back a bleak situation.”
…..“It’s your mother you said will be using the chair?”
…..“My neighbor. She’s closer than family and has no one but me looking after her.”
…..“I see,” he says, though I doubt he knows how unbearable it feels to watch my one emotionally connected person get devoured by a hideous disease. I’m about to tell him to cram his on-board battery chairs up his Stan-the-California-Wheelchair-Man ass when he says, “Most insurance plans cover wheelchair rental with a small deductible. Hundred dollars is typical.”
…..“Cool. I’ll do my damnedest to have that much in a few weeks.”
…..Stan reaches out and squeezes my arm, the message in his touch sending shock waves through me. He’s on my side in this. I haven’t blown it. “Get me her policy info,” he says, his voice going gentle, “and I’ll set her up with dependable personal transportation.”
…..“You mean it?”
…..“We’ll even expedite the claim.” He grabs a brochure from the counter and staples his business card to it.
…..I take the brochure. The bad habit, sex addicted, confrontational former me would be engineering my way into Stan’s doubleknits right about now, out of that complicated brew of insecurity and gender one-upmanship. But this emotion washing over me, as Stan breaks into a Hallmark moment smile, is pure gratitude—Sada’s getting a wheelchair!—so simply honest, it’s all I can do to not bow down to it.
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Mindela Ruby is a former punk rock deejay and current college writing professor. Her fiction can be seen in the latest edition of Literary Mama.
