Now, this is one of the parts of this story that I don't
much like. Not just because I come off looking like such a
jerk--though there is that, of course--but because it shows I'm
really no better than anyone else. And I hate that!
'Cause I'm sitting in my chair on the sidewalk outside
Deena's front gate and she's standing there on the porch, her
dad beside her and Heather, her little dachshund-terrier mix,
scampering back and forth through the scruffy yard of the house
they've been moving into all week and she tells me she's here to
go to rehab at the place where I've been a resident since my
nervous system starting coming unstrung and she's looking down
instead of at me and she pulls back the sleeve of her sweater to
show me the needle tracks jagged and zig-zagging up and down her
arm--
And, I mean, I'm the guy in the wheelchair! I should know
better than to feel sorry for her, shouldn't I? I shouldn't be
sitting there thinking, "Oh, how brave she is, struggling to
overcome this terrible condition," right? 'Cause I get that all
the time, and it drives me insane!
"Get to know me," I wanna shout at people. "That'll show
you real quick that I'm no braver or nobler than anybody else!
And if you keep looking at me like I am, you're gonna get a big
black cat lobbed at your head!"
Not that I'd really try to throw El Brujo; I doubt I'd
survive the attempt...
But the point is: I get pity poured over me as regular as a
waitress pours coffee, and there's no such thing as de-caf pity.
So what do I do the first time I meet someone who's got a
problem as big as mine but in a completely different way?
The feeling blossomed up inside me as big and red and waxy
as a hibiscus flower! I'd never had a literal knee-jerk
reaction before, but this, it was like some call and response!
The bell rang, and I drooled, the aroma of that cartoon pie
lifting me into the air and drifting me toward it, the song of
the siren pulling me onto the rocks: I'm surprised I didn't cry
out, "Oh, you poor thing!" right then and there!
And what's worse? Deena could smell it same as I can, and
if she'd been a dog, her ears would've drooped. "Excuse me,"
she whispered, her voice breaking, and she pushed past her dad
back into the house.
Heather gave a little yip. "Deena!" The puppy rocketed
after her. "Wait! What happened?? Why are you so sad??"
Which left me sitting there, El Brujo on my lap, staring at
Mr.-- And I didn't even know his name, didn't know her last
name, didn't know anything except I'd managed to shove my face
into the fan blades yet again.
"She, uhh,..." her dad said. He was pretty young to be
anyone's dad, I thought, maybe late 40s when Deena was probably
in her early 20s, but then I don't have a lot of experience with
the whole family thing. He cleared his throat. "It was nice
meeting you, anyway, Gus. We'll probably see you at Chrysalis
House when...when Deena starts her sessions." He gave me a
little smile, stepped inside, and closed the door.
And what's even worse? The part that makes me into such a
jerk? The part that's making me grind my teeth just thinking
about it?
The next thing that went through my mind after the pity
train had blasted through, was: "Well, I don't wanna get
involved with somebody like that."
More--specifically part 15 of the whole thing--lies across that thin internet divide.
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