It might never have happened if I hadn’t lost my shoe. Not that that in itself was unusual; footrested feet and dressy shoes are soon to be parted, but I was out zooming around in my wheelchair through the city to prove that, as a collegiate feature writer I was more than my limitations, almost like a head full of ideas in a jar with an appendage so I might type. No inconvenient bodies at all. I had even been on time, which was a tiny miracle that bled away as soon as I heard the “clunk” of my favorite black flat with the rosette on it hitting the pavement. I just couldn’t show up with one shoe and say I knew anything about where the student newspaper was heading. Also, I really loved the shoes; abandonment wasn’t a serious option, nor was touching the footrest long-term in the desert heat wearing a sheer slipper sock.
I didn’t sit there for as long as it felt like before I heard a low, even-tempered voice. “Can I help you?” The woman, on closer inspection, a girl like me, not far into her early twenties asked. She had big blue eyes like mine behind her glasses. For an instant, I wished I could do what seemed like the independent thing and lie. People wanted to think disabled people out and about could manage for ourselves, but I was in no position to prove that. My story about the newspaper came out in a flood as she listened calmly.” It’s just the worst!” I blurted miserably.
“It could always be worse, right?” The girl, maybe Cait or Megan, said with a smile. ‘I mean, cheer up. You don’t have the clap, right?” I still remember her cute lopsided smile, and how audacious it felt for her to talk about something sex-related to a disabled person. Most of my friends didn’t even do that, not that I would have much first-hand gossip to add if they had. I hoped she didn’t notice how far down the list of my undergraduate problems that kind of infection would be, even as she made me laugh with it. “No, I guess that’s true.”
She directed me into the shade and I trusted her to take my foot in her hand. Only afterward, did that seem weird. In the moment, we could have been in a class together working on a group project called “Get Erika To Her Meeting” and so I thanked her and we parted…maybe we were on campus together, but for such a brief moment, I’ve never forgotten that someone was willing to ease a stranger’s struggle and touch her foot. Also, the “clap test” has, in a weird way, helped me keep things in perspective for years, even though I can’t quite say I never spun out about anything again.
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Find Erika on her cool blog: www.bohemiancrip.blogspot.com or on Twitter @chicating