Alisa

Handicapped Only

I drove down 6th, the ghetto to Beverly Hills in half an hour; to Lerman & Sons Prosthetics to get a cast made. Finally! The old guy helping me tried to sell ‘off the shelf’ stuff but I wasn’t going for it.

‘Believe me, I’ve tried them all.’ I showed him how my foot wiggled free of every apparatus he had. He finally acquiesced and made me a purple fiberglass sleeping cast, Thank Dog! I pick it up in a couple days, he’s going to pimp it, hydraulics, rims.

Almost three — I’d been taking fotos of LA all day and had an indecent collection of wealth and wreckage. Overcast, traffic is light and I’m in a good-ish mood. I went from Beverly Hills to Studio City via Laurel Canyon, I stop by the Shell station to say goodbye to my mechanics. (I love them, they’re Lebanese.) Hit Ralph’s for protein shakes and cat litter. Stopped by the Rite Aid to pick up my pain prescription but they don’t have it yet.

I called Dr Coolchick’s office and the prescription chick said, ‘…I'm sorry, I’ve been trying to get them all done…’ ‘Can you do it within the hour?’ ‘Fifteen minutes.’ Fifteen minutes is fine. I filled my car and fetched my mail. (The kids working at my mailbox are so sweet they bring my mail out and save me from having to get in and out of the car.)

Back to the Rite Aid. There was an SUV pulling into the one gimp space in front of the store. It’s nearly five and the lot is full. I watch a pretty blonde hop out of the driver’s seat. ‘Hello! Are you disabled?’ I yell out my window. She looked at me, ‘you don’t know if I’m disabled or not.’ Tall, thin, boob job, short skirt, high heels; didn’t look gimped to me. She opens the back door and takes out a baby carrier.

‘Some of us really need these spots—Hey! I’m talking to you bitch—what do you think you’re doing?’ She smirked and waved dismissively. ‘Get going honey, move along.’ Bouncing along / a bobble head doll / easily into the store. I had to park a thousand miles away. I walk so slowly and painfully that by the time I got back to the Rite Aid, Bobble Head was coming back out. Carrying the kid with one arm, she opened the back door and strapped him in, then gets in the driver’s seat. Perfectly healthy; lazy and had the baby, just running in for ‘one quick thing’.

I snapped. ‘You fucking bitch!’ I banged my cane on her side window. ‘Fuck you!’ I hit it again trying to break it. Duh, the aluminum cane bounced off harmlessly. I went after her hood. Whack! Whack! ‘Get out of the car!’ The parking lot was a log jam, no one was moving and I was berserk—that bitch wasn’t smirking any more—‘Fuck You! Get out of the car!’ Put a dozen dents in her custom paint job before the parking lot jam abated and she was able to screech away.

I slowly came back down into my body. A few people had been watching the show but now that it was over, they were moving along. I turn around and Rite Aid’s security guard was staring at me, a big fat black dude. I thought he was going to throw my crazy ass out but he just looked at me, arms folded, a trace of smile on his face and ever so slightly nodded his head.

Went and filled my prescription. I couldn’t help but smile, too. That lazy bitch wil think twice before she parks in another Handicapped Only spot. I whacked Bobble Head’s SUV for everyone in a wheelchair that can’t reach that high. I whacked her car for all the little old ladies who’d never behave that badly and had a laugh at the thought of BH explaining all those dents to her husband.

It worries me though, the loss of control. I went to Tournesell and nursed an iced tea, started to tell Fred what had just happened. Rebecca came in half way through my story, Fred got called away on some waiter calamity and I don’t think I ever finished telling him. He’d find it hilarious, he’s young, he’s French. Rebecca however was a bit concerned.

~from gimp, surviving your survival

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