Birmingham, Alabama—a baseball game. My wife and I went to see the Barons play. It was a well-attended game.
I stood in the concession line for a forty-five-dollar beer. A girl in a wheelchair was ahead of me. She was a happy thing. Early twenties. Pretty.
Our line was long. But not like the line to the women’s bathroom. Ladies stood single-file, stretching clear back to Chatom.
The girl in the wheelchair turned toward me.
“You go ahead of me if you wanna," she said. "I got a REAL big order.”
She had labored speech and a nice smile. She explained that she would be stocking up on beer, buffalo nachos, Magic City Hotdogs, and burgers for her friends.
I asked why her friends had chosen her to be the neighborhood pack mule.
“‘Cause I got a motor,” she said. “Check me out, I’m practically riding NASCAR.”
She demonstrated her motorized wheels, spinning in a complete circle.
Richard Petty, eat your heart out.
“Sure you don’t wanna
cut in line?” she went on. “My order will take a while.”
“It’s only baseball,” said I.
So, we talked. I was hoping to learn some of her story. But that didn’t happen.
All I learned was her name, and that she has cerebral palsy.
Instead, she asked me questions. The more we talked, the more personal her questions.
And since I have my mother’s talkative genes, I talked. I told her about myself, about my mama, my wife, my coonhound. I told her about a rocky childhood, and a daddy who died too young.
I talked about my education—and lack thereof. I told her I spent the first three quarters of my existence as an aimless kid, working…