Why is it that anyone who has had an encounter with disability, at some point in their life is driven to confess that to any person with a disability standing in line any where , anytime, on earth. I went to the local art store over lunch. I am out India ink. I browsed a while then got the ink I thought that I needed and proceeded to check-out. There I was sitting in line, minding my own business an the old fart standing in front of me turns and proceeds to tell about the one time he had to muse a chair just like mine—except his chair did not have a motor. Duh!? If you chair did not have a motor then it was not like mine. Then the codger proceeded to explain to me the reason he was in the art store. I tried to be respectful and look a tentative and I sort of pulled the task off. I just could not figure out why he was talking to me but it seemed important and I patiently let him verbally grope me.
You know that is what it is. This old guy copped a “verbal feel” off of me. I wish I had gotten a picture of him, actually he and his wife both as old as dirt. His nose just sort of poked out of his face. The nose was big and sharp—like a cartoon which had managed to come to life on a blustery Spring afternoon. His wife was at least as ancient as the old odd man, she too seemed cartoonish and had a very strange mouth. I wondered if the mouth was a prosthetic device of one sort or another…the mouth just did not look right. The wife also had a raspy, drag in the sand, alien type of voice but his smile was just…odd.
He was an artist though or used to be. Part of the history he shared with me was that he painted his last picture back in ’89. he was coming out of retirement now to do this one last image. The image was for his wife or one of his wife’s friends. He said he would not have done it except they loved his work soooo much, what could you do? The old guy finally processed his items and the bill came up to $158.00 or something like that. He had a stretched canvas board, three or four tubes of paint, brushes, paint thinner even a book on landscapes. He plunged his hand into his right hip pocket and came out with a fat wallet. He fished out a Visa Card . The blonde clerk swiped the card through the machine and the card was accepted. The encounter was over. The artist dawdled a little longer collecting his art items for one last run at the canvas—he was old but looked like he knew just exactly what he was doing—like Roster Cogburn in TRUE GRIT when Cogburn/ Wayne was riding the horse and firing his Winchester lever action over And over again.
I was next: one bottle of India ink and one plastic pencil sharpener $5.85 cents. I took my plastic back and took the items in the white plastic bag and headed back to the office. I noticed the ancient couple was pulling out of the parking lot in a dilapidated Datsun pickup filled with wood probably on their way to paint rainbows.
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