Seized
It was my turn to take the car into the dealership for a regular check up and oil change. Not a task I relished what with the 30-minute drive down Highway 30 into the strip-mall that is all I know of Merrillville. But I did like the salesperson who had sold us the car. He'd had a life before selling Subarus as a grade school teacher. We'd discuss pedagogy and how to inspire students to write. There was that to look forward to.
I arrived to a full lot. The only available parking space was a spot with the wheelchair icon. I took the spot and ran in to find the nearest employee. It wasn't my favorite salesperson. "I didn't see any other spots," I said, pointing over my shoulder. "Is it okay to park in the handicapped spot?" I want to say the sun flashed through the show room at that moment. We were in the front part, where all the cars are on display, with three of four walls entirely made of glass. It would have been blinding.
"Now why would it be a problem?" he replied. But it wasn't what he said; it was what he did--threw out one of his legs and dragged it at his side as though it were lifeless. He implied with a gesture that, of course, it was okay to park where I had. All I had to do was fake a bad leg, pull out the ol' disabled card. No harm done.
They say you need to change your oil regularly or risk dirt build up that ruins the viscous nature of the oil. Metal rubs on metal and eventually seizes. Then you're dead in the water. Frozen stiff.
I hated what was happening. I have good friends who rely on handicapped spots to make their interactions with the world smoother. I took a disability studies course in grad school and know that it's not the impairment that disables as much as it's our society, constructed with the able-bodied in mind. I knew better. I said nothing. My mind seized.
You know, the funny thing is that in the movies, whenever characters find themselves in moments of righteous indignation, my imagination leaps into high gear. I know exactly what to say, how to act; I'm convinced of my ability to pull it off. If the character fails the moment, I scoff. If the character rises to the occasion, I cheer, seeing myself in that portrayal. It's such an illusion. I freeze every time.
I only wish the fix were as easy as going in to have my oil changed. Though for my money, I'd take my business elsewhere.