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Wheeling along the road to riches
I've been kind of depressed lately. My dog has several foxtails where they really need not be, and the look on her face didn't get much better when I told her our arthritic vet was too busy giving a colonoscopy to an elk.
My next-door neighbor no longer talks to me because I wouldn't buy his Weed Wacker he was trying to sell at his garage sale Saturday, muttering something about the flames from my weed-abatement efforts often reaching the height of his fence. And nothing gets under my craw more than a hospital that sends you bills at least a year after your rendered has been serviced. I probably shouldn't bitch it could have been my vet.
And I probably shouldn't be too surprised when an all-too-often lubricated associate who tells me he swore to put the plug in the jug gets a DUI for drinking too many O'Douls. Nor should I appear apprehensive when a coworker with whom I spend much of the day informs me with visual aid in hand that all she eats are nothing but corn dogs.
Now, I know corn dogs and Weed Wackers don't compare to the travesties and tragedies perpetuated by a world gone mad hurricanes in Florida; genocide in Africa; take-a-side in Iraq, or is it Vietnam bipolar scenarios all, but still not quite enough to drive me to Canada for a do-it-yourself prescription cocktail of Prozac, Paxil, and Percodan.
But I do tend to get a little cranky when my wallet gets light enough to float out of my pocket on its own, which is too much of the time. It tends to get me thinking about my lot in life, which, coincidentally, seems to be always covered in weeds. I started thinking I should have been more persistent in insisting I was the one who invented blue ketchup and bacon-flavored Easy Cheese. In fact, I had the phone out to make a special arrangement with 7-11 when suddenly I saw the answer, right in front of me on TV. This handicapped guy, Jarek Molski, was passing on his secrets - which he claims can lead to a richly rewarding and financially satisfying life. Can't be that easy, I thought. Still. What the hell, Dad won't miss his wheelchair for a day.
So off to Morro Bay I went. Whoever thought this quiet little coastal community would hold the riches of Gold Rush towns like Sutter's Mill or Angels Camp!
I found a seafood eatery so popular there was a line out the door. Great. This is the place. The longer the wait, the more uncomfortable.
By the time I reached the top of the ramp, I'm sure I had developed carpal-tunnel syndrome. Right on schedule.
"Welcome, Sir," announced the owner. How humiliating! I've never been called "sir" in my life. Sitting down or standing up. I wrote down "age discrimination." I was then guided to a window seat offering the obligatory Morro Bay seafood restaurant view the Rock the Stacks the seagull poop.
My depression was lifting a little. The grimace on my face was being replaced by a tight grin. This place was way too noisy. People were having too good a time. I couldn't hear myself talk. This I wasn't going to tell anyone because no one has ever listened to me anyway. But I was getting richer by the moment. I could barely make out what the polite waitress - or is it server - was asking me. I jotted down "loss of hearing."
I was on a roll. I'm going to need a wider wallet.
"What do you mean you have no corn dogs?"
Infuriated, I made my way to the next target.
This is going to be very worthwhile, I thought. I had to think, remember, because I could no longer hear. Please knock before entering. Pu-lease. My O'Douls is making a fuss. How embarrassing. But at least my knuckles hurt. I was getting more disabled by the hour.
Then, paydirt! It wasn't the urinal, although the memory of Madonna's was about to become a reality. It was the stall. Barry Bonds couldn't hit a homer it was so large. I got lost, and no cell phone to bail me out. I would be missing for days. I wrote down "frustration, fear, and despair."
I'll buy Dad a new wheelchair, if I ever get out of here. I'll even grab that Weed-Wacker.
Then the door opens. It's a disabled guy with bruised knuckles. "Hi, partner. Isn't this a great place? They think of everything here."
Yes, they do, I thought to myself, as I wheeled my way out.
I was laughing. No more depression. No trips to Canada. Just a quick jog to my attorney. Then to the bank. They won't deny me access there.
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