Riding in one of those little go-carts at the supermarket
We all have seen them. They are sometimes old, sometimes
middle-aged. They look like they are not actually
absolutely disabled, but they are certainly not in good
health. And they are whirring down the aisles of the
grocery store in an electric cart, their little basket
upfront filled with 20-ounce bottles of Diet Pepsi and strange crackers that no one you know eats.
We let them roll by, and we envy them. Because we were
forced to leave our chariots, our convenience machines
outside in the cold parking lot, while we rattle and shove
our poor wire shopping carts down the aisle, hurting our
backs as we stow our 24-packs of Coke on the bottom rack.
We all secretly wish that we could have those carts.
And that is because we are all idiots.
I was hit by a truck a little over a month ago, and until recently I was unable to walk at all without the use of crutches. So imagine my delight when I headed out to the supermarket and realized that finally it was my turn to wield the grocery-mobile, my turn to hear and control the high-pitched whine of the electric motor powering me down the rows of cereal and bread. My turn to enjoy some pure excess and leisure while shopping.
One thing I never understood, before it was my turn to take the helm of one of these devices, was why no one enjoyed themselves driving these carts. They should be doing drag-races down the dairy aisle, wheelies to impress the butcher, but instead, they are bitter looking, not talking to anyone or smiling. As I unplugged my cart, I thought to myself "I'll show them how much fun this really is." I put on my charmingest, broadest smile, and prepared to be an ambassador of the young and entertainable to the withered
world of the old and jaded.
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My broad smile was gone before I left the fruit section.
In the cart, you are not a grocery shopper. You are a cripple who happens to be shopping. People stare, or worse, work very hard to not stare. You are suddenly an intruder.
In the cart, there are three other kinds of shoppers. There are those who attempt to get out of your way, to make things easier for you. There are those who are indifferent. And there are those who will cut you off, so as to not be stuck behind the slow-going invalid.
The store itself becomes an obstacle. You cannot reach half the items in the store. Passing someone in an aisle becomes a difficult chore for both parties. You cannot read the signs that indicate the aisle's contents until you are so far past the aisle that you cannot turn into it, unless you go backward. And if you go backward, your cart emits an embarrassing beeping sound, like you are an incompetent garbage truck. Everything about the carts and the experience reminds you that you are one thing, and one thing only.
In the way.
Think of this the next time you stretch out on your toes to grab the tea you love that they keep on the top shelf, or the next time you don't walk up the sidewalk ramp, but just hop over the curb instead. The world of being disabled is not entirely different, and not always worse, but it is rarely better.
And it is always more difficult.
— Dan Norton (dan@flakmag.com)
