Walker

Here, it is beautiful today. The end of December, and we've got temperatures around a gentleman's 73, billowy clouds bumping around a blue sky, and a slight wind that blows hats from their heads and napkins from their picnic blankets.

On days like today, I like to drive around with the windows down seeing what sort of once-in-a-year happenings Winter's friend Cabin Fever will sprinkle upon the town. Days like today are when I get to bear witness to all types of little events: fender benders, dogs splashing through puddles, the cops chasing a man on foot. Generally, days like today are the days I get to see other people's stories, to have some external visualization for all of those interwoven yarns, the minor pulses that make the rhythm of my small town beat, beat, beat.

Days like today are prime days for awkward situations.

Driving, eyes open, windows down, music humming, a man on a bicycle "strolling," or the equivalent of strolling for cyclists, down the sidewalk, and another man walking towards him. I say walking, but I rather mean "walking with cerebral palsy."

He looked like, and only because of his hair and clothing (leather shoes, even), my imagination's representation of Lennie from Of Mice and Men or the unwitting men I'd seen in pictures from the 1940's of the mentally handicapped who took the fall for others' rape/murders. "He has no disease; and so what if his birth mother was just an alcoholic!" yelled the jury/lynch mob. The hung had no idea.

However, this man, my contemporary man, seemed to have an idea. His awkwardly bouncing walk made his back arch and head wobble, but if he didn't have CP, I'd bet he'd walk like the tallest man on two legs. His eyes seemed to pick out people driving past and say "Look at me, I dare you. You are scared." And I'm sure some were scared. I'm sure many people don't know too much about CP (I don't). I can spot the hell out of it, but I couldn't tell you what it does or how it works. All I know is that this man had it, or something like it, that caused his knees to bow and force him to walk on his toes, as if his heels were tied to his neck from behind and he was carrying a full-grown man in his mouth. Still, his rhythm was steady, bump, bump, bump.

And his eyes, too, worked quite well, almost inversely well compared to his withered joints. They were alive with a spirit, even if it seemed accusing and haughty. Selecting every few drivers, he'd watch them and contort his mouth into what seemed a snarl. I calculated quickly his pattern, and realized I was on his hitlist.

What should I do? Were he to stare me down, I'm sure I would be accused of being closed-minded and ignorant. I'm sure I would be forced to look away, even though I have nothing about which to be guilty. I'm sure that my questions would betray themselves and me.

The moment of truth. I drive by, still looking at this man but without judgement. I have no condecension or even pity for him. He is a man like any other to me, equal and capable as we all are unless we choose not to be. His eyes, the most steady part of his entire body, snap and lock onto mine, and before I can tell myself "nod, as one man to another," I look away. I flinch. I lose.

Feeling red in the cheeks, I return my gaze to him before he looks away to find his next victim, and his expression is of smug victory. He has defeated me and my closed-minded, simplistic, black-and-white view of the world that I don't even hold. He has come out on top, metaphorically standing with one foot on my chest, pumping the words "Now who's better than whom" into my forehead with a steady pulse that mimics the cars and traffic lights and potholes, thump, thump, thump.