I’ve been losing my mind. I keep doing wrong things twice

I was waiting for a carer to come pick me up and take me to the airport. I was nervous and smoking heavily. I smoke cigarettes on my balcony. One of my Neighbours doesn’t like me.  He probably doesn’t like me smoking. Him and his wife always say something to each other and he quite often glares up at me like he’s a menace as they walk past. Today he walked past my balcony with his wife. His wife looks like a ghost. She’s pale with no features. He is short and podgy with a potbelly that he tries his hardest to suck in and has a receding hairline but wears his hair in a ponytail. He also wears a goatee to hide his double chin. He carries himself like a fat teenage girl. He walks awkwardly on the tips of his toes. As he passed my field of vision he flipped me the bird without looking. He kept his finger up at me with his stare facing down my street. Coward, I muttered under my breath. No one likes meeting a winner. I wanted to give him some back but I didn’t. I let him have his win. I’ll have something ready to throw next time.

A kangaroo lost my wheelchair. Getting on in Christchurch a Tuatara placed a kangaroo tag on the back of my chair. The tag was a long rectangular piece of cardboard on which they had gotten me to write my name, flight number, phone number and address. Once I had provided my details they doubled the piece of thin white elasticised thread it was attached to and then went through itself to it to tie it to the back brace. They then took a piece of fluro-orange paper tape with my flight details and also attached it to the piece of aluminum brace. There was also a large rectangular pink and white candy striped ticket with ‘SPECIAL ASSITANCE’ that they looped to the back of my chair.

Getting on an airplane in a wheelchair is an experience. They make people in wheelchairs get on first. It’s really not that good because they make people in wheelchairs get off last. They probably do it so people won’t stare at us and so we won’t get in the way. I pushed myself up to the departure gate and handed her my ticket. If you are able to do so yourself you push your way down the ramp to the airplane’s door. At the bottom I put the brakes on and transfer onto a skinny chair that can fit inside the aisle of the aircraft. They place my cushion on to it as I transfer. It looks like a trolley from a warehouse with thin black vinyl cushions on the back and bum. To make sure that you don’t fall out of the trolley they strap you on to it with two long black Velcro straps. They strap one around your chest and one around your shins. They will then pull you backwards on to the plane. Every time I am strapped in I feel like Hannibal Lecter being pulled towards his cell. Every time I’m pulled onto the plane I will shout out, I AM NOT AN ANIMAL. That will normally make the person pulling me smile.

In New Zealand I ate enough red meat to make a butcher smile for a week and listened to enough Christmas carols to make the baby Jesus weep for a month. Before I left Sydney I told my mum about how fat I’d gotten. When I arrived my mum said she thought I would have been fatter. I never exceed people’s expectations. I was raised Anglican. Growing up a child Christmas was a big deal. I have distanced myself from all who love and have loved me. I attend orphans events in Sydney. We call them orphans Christmases. We call ourselves orphans yet we are the ones who left home.  I attend Christmases where we all get wasted. We drink until we dribble. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt my mother’s love on Christmas day. I couldn’t help crying when I saw her at the airport. She had tears in her eyes that brought tears to mine. Her blue eyes stare into my blue eyes. I was crying on Christmas day and I felt fine.

I got so angry I almost cried at the airport. All the animals were ignoring me. I knew that if I yelled I would probably get in trouble so I just sat on the trolley and saw my life ebbing away. People strolled past me and I was jealous. They were getting to go home. I thought of my home and all the people I’ve let in it to it since I fell. I woke out of a coma to find the rules had changed. I woke to find the rules have changed for all of us. The dollar is hard and the dollar is the king. I let two women into my life as I was discharged from hospital.  I didn’t have a choice. The doctors would not let me be discharged unless I was to have twenty-four hour nursing and caring support staff. My best friend has told me that he’d warned me. I told him I’d forgotten. That’s why I had twenty-four hour nursing and caring. I asked my friend what they had seen? My friend said that they could just feel it. I spent three years living in an apartment that didn’t even feel like it was mine. It felt like I was living in a bus shelter. I used to go into my lounge and watch somebody getting paid for being with me. I would ask them if they’d mind letting me change the channel on my television. One would say to me that I could as soon as their programme was over. I am finally well enough to have control over my house and I watch what I want. I am well enough to go down Bondi Rd to the gym and back and well enough to go shopping twice a week. My life may not sound much to you but it is my life and I could feel the airport robbing it one hour at a time.

I have a carer who has told me repeatedly that she doesn’t like men. She has repeatedly told me what a lovely man I am. Do you think I should I be offended by her statement? I know that I am not like most men who have properly functioning brains, hearing and spinal cords that let them think walk run piss and shit at free will. I know that I cannot work like most men and I know that I will never love again like most normal men. As I sat strapped to the trolley I could visibly see how I was different to everyone else. People were walking right past me. I only look in the mirror in my bathroom at home. I don’t look at myself in shop windows anymore. I used to do that all the time when I could walk. I’d do it to check how I looked. Conceit is bred of circumstance. When I look at my reflection in a window now what I see is not what I am. I don’t see a man anymore. I see a boy wearing a man’s body. I see a lonely boy who is not old enough to work and a boy who sits at home and masturbates by himself. I see a boy who hides under covers and masturbates into socks. The airline saw less than a boy. The airline saw nothing when they saw me.

There were three of us who were led onto the airplane in wheelchairs. There was a long delay because the plane couldn’t board at the airport terminal. They drove out a tall skinny set of steps for everyone who walked. All three of us were taken down to the tarmac by a baggage platform and then transferred and taken back up to the opened plane door on a service elevator. There were two other wheelchair users. One was elderly with one leg and the other had Parkinson’s. The old man swung his head and stared at me in the eyes as I queued behind him. He looked angry as he shouted; you need a haircut you yobbo. I do have a haircut, I said back at him. No, he said, you need some style. You should have a short back and sides like me. I don’t want to look like you, I told him. Do you have a girlfriend, he asked me? I said, no. It’s no wonder, he screamed at me. Do you have a girlfriend, I asked him? You look disheveled and dirty, he said, you’re only going to attract a dirty and disheveled women looking the way you do. Maybe I want a disheveled and dirty woman, I said. He kicked me in the shins with his one leg. I can’t feel that much but it hurt. The old man’s face crinkled as he said, you want to take a bloody good look at yourself. He said, with that haircut you look like you’re saying that you don’t care. I don’t care, I said. You have money, he said, go out and buy a nice shirt and tie, and get some nice pants. I told him that I’m comfortable in tracksuit pants, sneakers and a singlet. That’s your problem, he said, you’re too comfortable. You smile too much for a man in a wheelchair.

The airline fucked up and kept my Beverly wheelchair as one of theirs in New Zealand. My wheelchair has a specially designed back and I have a large molded cushion that I have custom designed at a seating clinic. My wheelchair has Spinergy wheels with red spokes and blue tyres. I got off the airplane and waited strapped to the trolley with the cushion under my arm. I asked if they wouldn’t mind un-strapping me as people were beginning to stare. They said okay but only un-strapped my legs. People still stared. I had arranged for a carer to pick me up and was getting anxious thinking that they’d be worrying where I was. A kangaroo walked past me so I pulled on its tail and asked where my wheelchair was? The kangaroo got up real close and sniffed me. It leant back on its tail and pushed me with both of its feet. The kangaroo’s claws dug into me and the one on the left ripped my singlet drawing a tiny bit of blood. The airline trolley shot backwards till I was right at the back of the queue. I looked down to see my own blood. I had to reach right down to push the tiny tires. The tiny grey tires made the palms of my hands black. I pushed my way back up to the front of the queue and slammed my fist against the front of the desk and said, Oi! Did you say something, the Kangaroo asked me? Not yet, I replied. Oh good, it said. It reached down into its pouch and brought out a packet of cigarettes. It shook one out and rocked back on its tail, lit drew and sighed. It smiled and took another deep draw. EXCUSE ME, I yelled. I can’t smell anything, it said. That’s because you’re a smoker, I said, and I didn’t fart I was trying to draw your attention. You can’t draw attention, it said; you can draw an airplane or a packet of cigarettes though. Can you draw my wheelchair, I asked? The kangaroo turned from me and started talking to a wombat beside it. Both animals were smoking and pretended that I didn’t exist. They started talking about the previous nights episode of Neighbours. I twisted my torso and farted.

I got so angry I could cry. Everyone from my flight had collected their luggage and was leaving the airport. I am an incomplete paraplegic. That means I still feel pain. I feel pain when I spend too much time inactive. I kept looking around with wet eyes for something to bring me my wheelchair. I spent over an hour and a half waiting strapped to the trolley for the airline to find my chair before another wombat from the airline told me that it couldn’t be found but may still be in New Zealand. What, I exclaimed? How could you’ve lost my wheelchair? The wombat was smoking four cigarettes at once. The wombat told me that they had a wheelbarrow I could use to get me home. How do you lose a wheelchair, I asked? There was no sticker on it, the wombat said. Bullshit, I snapped, there were three on it. We have a wheelbarrow that you can be pushed home in, it said. How is that supposed to help me, I screamed at the wombat? Well, like I said… you could be pushed home in it. The wombat held the four cigarettes up to the right side of it’s head and said, duh. But where’s my wheelchair, I shouted? The wombat took a drag and told me, who knows? It’s probably somewhere over Brussels. 

They put me in a red wheelbarrow and started pushing me towards the immigration desk. There was a man walking slowly beside us on the right who looked like the grim reaper. He pointed a skeletal finger at me. He said, hey look I’ve given you the bone finger. I rolled onto my left bum cheek and said, so, I’ve given you the bone bum. A hot Indian girl was walking in time with the barrow on my left. She turned and looked at me. She winked and screamed, any old iron, any old iron? I told her I had some extra bits of metal in my back. She smiled at me. She looked as sweet as a piece of peach pie. I wanted to kiss her. I asked her how she knew that song? The smile drained from her face as she told me that she was born in Sydney. She spat, just because I look Indian; I’m an Australian you know. No no, I said, I didn’t mean it like that; it’s ‘cause you look so young that I didn’t think you would’ve been old enough to have heard of that song. She smiled again and I was happy. She continued walking beside me. Her smile suddenly dropped to a frown as she asked me, so what… you’re an ageist instead of a racist? Isn’t that better, I asked? Her tone was like that of a mother as she said, bigots of a feather flock together. Can we, I asked her? What, she said? Flock together, I said with a grin? You can flock off, she shouted. What the flock, I yelled! Uugh, she groaned, I think I preferred you when you were a racist. I never was a racist, I retorted. I don’t think I know what you are, she said. I grinned again and told her that that made two of us. She kept pace with the wheelbarrow. She didn’t speed up or slow down. My face burned as I asked her what she was doing later? Her face flushed as she asked me, why… do you want to get together for a curry or something? No I wanted to flock you later, I said. I laughed then she laughed. I asked her how come I liked Indian women but Indian women didn’t like me? She stammered that Indian women very seldom went for men out of their own race. Who’s a racist now, I asked her? We were talking about you and not about us, she said. Ok, I said, now how about that dinner? What are we going to have, she asked? I said, a haggis and a fifth of scotch. So are you Scottish, she questioned? No, I said, I just feel like throwing up. She grinned and she said, you’re making me feel the same way. I smiled and she smiled.

So do you mind, I asked her? Mind what, she asked? That I’m in a wheelchair, I said. I can’t figure out if I mind that more than the fact that you’re a bigoted racist who feels like throwing up, she replied. Don’t you feel like throwing up, I asked her? Not right now, she said, maybe after you’ve flocked me I will. So we are going to, I said? What, she said? Flock, I replied. That depends on you, she said. I sat and continued being pushed in the wheelbarrow while thinking of what to say next. With my damaged brain I have forgotten the combination to the lock. I can’t even find the lock. Most women would prefer a man quick of wit. These days I’m more halfwit. My face burned as I thought to myself, think man think! What did you say, she asked? I didn’t say anything, I told her. I thought you said, think man think, she said. I could feel my face burning brighter as I wondered if I had said out loud what I’d been thinking. I told her that I didn’t think I had said anything. I thought you did, she said. Oh well, I thought, at least we were still talking. We may’ve been talking nonsense but that was better than not talking to a hot Indian woman at all. So what are we going to have for dinner, she asked? Before we flock, I said? Before we flock, she replied. Whatever your heart desirers, I said. She smiled and I smiled. I had figured out the first part of the combination. Can you cook, she asked? Oh good, I thought, if I can get her to my apartment that was half the battle. I can make you whatever you want to eat, I said, I’m quite versatile. For a bigoted racist who feels like throwing up, she asked? Exactly, I said. I would like a curry, she said. Hot medium or mild, I asked her? She told me none of the above.

I asked where she’d just come from? She said Christchurch. I told her, I didn’t think there were any hot girls in Christchurch? There isn’t anymore, she said. I smiled and she smiled. She told me she had never left Christchurch. She told me she had been raised her whole life on a farm that bred whales for people who ate them. I asked her if she thought that was an ecologically responsible industry? She said, probably. I started to say, I wouldn’t think that an…. I stopped. I looked at her and I saw her back straighten as she said, WHAT? Now, I said, … nothing. You wouldn’t think what, she demanded, that Indian people would like eating whale? I looked her in the eye and said, I thought you weren’t Indian. I thought you just looked it. She punched me in the chest and said, WHAT, again? Ouch, I yelled! Can you feel that, she asked? That’s about all I feel, I said. She punched my crotch and said, that… what about that, can you feel that? I can’t feel it the lower you go, I said. What about when you’re flocking me, she asked? I don’t know, I said, maybe just when I’m throwing up after I’ve flocked you. Yuck, she said, can you go back to being a racist for a while? Otherwise I’m not going to able to flock you at all. I told her I never was a racist. I reminded her of how she had told me Indian women were racist. I asked her why she’d left Christchurch. She told me she couldn’t hear the whales cry anymore. I asked her did whales cry a lot? She told me they cried the most moments before they were eaten.

Her head swiveled a smile like a sunset. Her smile was enough. She got in a cab and the cab drove away. I asked her for her phone number but she gave me her grandma Maggie’s recipe for Afghan biscuits and a Facebook friend request instead. I sat strapped to a trolley and wondered whether I could fool her into thinking that I was someone she could love. I sat and wondered how much I would have to change to get her to love me. I sat and wondered if the pantomime was worth it? It is. I will definitely be the man she needs me to be. I’ll let you know if I ever get out of this airport.

Andrew Stuart Buchanan