Letters From The Loft

After about 20 seconds of bouncing off the mob’s indestructible shell, my heart was brought to a screeching halt by someone directly behind me, yelling at bull-horn level: “MOVE ASIDE! COMING THROUGH!”

I turned in the direction of the voice, and at first all I saw was the same one-way aisle, empty except for the crowd of Chuck groupies at the far end and the convention staffer who had prevented my escape. Then I lowered my gaze a bit and realized it was a young man in a wheelchair whose voice had caused me to reach for my defibulator.

At this point, I feel obligated to issue the following

WARNING! INSENSITIVE COMMENTS TO FOLLOW. STOP READING NOW IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED, COMMITTED TO POLITICAL CORRECTNESS, PRONE TO TAKE ME SERIOUSLY, PREGNANT, OR SUFFERING FROM LOW BACK PAIN.

I instinctively shied away from this gentleman, not because of his disability, but because he continued to yell at the top of his lungs, “WHEELCHAIR, COMING THROUGH! MOVE ASIDE. LET ME THROUGH! WHEELCHAIR!” His confidence made it obvious he was used to doing this. I was surprised that, by this third day of the Convention, he hadn’t equipped his wheelchair with a flashing red light, siren, and cow-catcher. Folks were trying to yield to his forward motion, but this crowd was as dense as a brick and it really wasn’t possible to make way without pushing the people around you.

So that’s what happened. It was sort of like standing outside of a cornfield and watching someone taking a joy-ride through it with their muscle-car. You couldn’t see the wheelchair, but you could see the ripple in the crowd, both in front and to the side of the juggernaut, as people stumbled into each other. And you could still clearly hear him giving folks the heads-up: “WHEELCHAIR, COMING THROUGH! MOVE ASIDE!”

Now let me make this clear: in spite of my reputation as an insensitive and thoughtless clod, I like to think I have compassion for the disabled. I honestly feel that, except for the grace of God, that could be me in a wheelchair, so I don’t begrudge them additional accommodation to make their lives easier. It doesn’t bother me that their parking spaces are closer and they get to go to the head of the line at Disneyland. Something bad has happened to them, and it doesn’t hurt the more blessed of us to acknowledge that and give them some extra consideration. Nevertheless, in this situation, “compassionate” isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe the question that was running through my mind:

Does being disabled give one the license to be an overbearing jerk? For the life of me, I couldn’t see why, as a function of his disability, it was more important that this guy make it through the crowd before anyone else. I guess the same go-to-the-head-of-the-Disneyland-line logic could apply, but there’s a system set up for that situation. Here, all of us were facing the same obstacle: stuck in a human log-jam with no discernible forward progress. Should being in a wheelchair make it acceptable to demand that the obstacle be removed exclusively for him? If, instead, he had inched forward like the rest of us, he wouldn’t have experienced a disadvantage… he would have made it through the bottleneck at the same time as those around him. Plus he would have been sitting down during for the entire time. Instead, he felt that he needed to push through the crowd, while announcing his disability at bladder-loosening volume, to get the courtesy he felt was due him. Was that right?

I thought these were very profound reflections, worth sharing with Ben and Sam at the end of the day. Their gape-jawed reaction reminded me that my afore-mentioned reputation as an insensitive and thoughtless clod is probably well-deserved.

At any rate, eventually we were able to inch our way through the crowd, stepping over the folks with wheelchair treads on their backs, and by that time we figured we’d make our way upstairs to another panel featuring a comic book writer from the 70’s. We were a bit early, but our feet were tired, so we planned on sitting in on some of the preceding panel, then just staying in our chairs until our panel started up.

As it turned out, the preceding panel also featured a 70’s creator… unfortunately, he was an underground comics publisher and he had brought plenty of slides to illustrate the kind of explicit, counter-culture material that comprised and defined the underground market. I’m a baby-boomer that grew up in the turbulent 60’s and 70’s, but I was an atypical member of that generation when it came to the culture. I used to take extended rides up and down elevators because I enjoyed the music, and no one in their right mind (or even drug-addled) would offer drugs to a guy with my haircut and wardrobe. But although I wasn’t into the counter-culture, I was interested in comic books, so I was aware of underground comics and their content. Sam’s a product of the permissive 90’s, so I assumed that he wouldn’t bat an eye at stuff intended to shock a 70’s audience… I mean, let’s face it, nowadays nothing, no matter how deserving, is underground. But once the slide show started, he admitted he felt uncomfortable… so uncomfortable that he wouldn’t even discuss why he was uncomfortable. So I can only surmise that it surprised him that people my age were ever people his age, or that they were forced to draw shocking things instead of just capturing them with their cell phones.

Once that panel was finished and we hosed down, we stuck around for the interview with the 70’s comic-book writer, but it was a disappointment. Apparently picking up on the vibe from the previous panel, he spent much of the time talking about how corrupt our country was at the time, and how depressed he’s been ever since at the lack of improvement. By the time Sam and I left that room, we were ready to stick it to The Man.

Fortunately, we had no idea where The Man was at, but since it was the end of the day, we decided the best place to look for him was at the Hometown Buffet. By this time, everyone there greeted us by name, and they unveiled the brass plaque that now adorned the newly-named Thornton Commemorative Condiment Bar. We were so touched, we left a tip… but we didn’t have the heart to tell them they wouldn’t see us for at least a year.