Sunday, October 07, 2007
Most days it seems like I get home around 7. But Wednesday it was 5. Coming up the sidewalk, maybe a block from my apartment, I felt or sensed a little flutter, a hiccup, in my chair's drive. I slowed down, sped up. It seemed ok. I crossed the street.
In front of my apartment door, I stopped to push the garage door opener-style button velcroed to my left armrest. The door opened but my chair would only limp in a labored ellipse. The right motor had gone out. I could smell a faint burned-up electronics smell.
You can imagine how long it took to hit just the right angle into the apartment. If you are imagining a very short time, that is not what I mean.
So I half-assed inside, made some calls. I was going nowhere so I graded a few late papers, full in the knowledge that, lo, Thursday would bite. And it did.
I sat around all day waiting for an Atlanta company to deliver me a rental. Cost? 330-odd bucks for the month. Yay being disabled.
At 7 LaShawnda ambled up with the chair. The Gramps Chair. The Paul Particle Deccelerator.
The Jazzy. The Jazzy Jet, in fact.
Top speed: 3 mph.
Which seems slow in the abstract. The abstract, where you think, yeah, having your penis torn off by a chimpanzee named Moe is a bummer. Bad but you've never met Moe and everything is intact.
The abstract, where I scoffed for years at The Jazzy dribbling past, only to be saved by its slo-mo isn't-Grandpa-cute-barely-passing-through-space-sporty-contours.
But then you run smack up the side of Reality.
And in Reality 3 mph is extremely slow.
Especially when you have to walk to work every day.
Damn you, The Abstract. Damn you, The Jazzy.
So I'm going to New York in a couple of weeks. In my rented cherry red Jazzy Jet.