I tell him that, too. I like him to know he's useful. I like to make him know that he is a viable human being. And he is, too... I'm not blowing smoke up his ass. That's a big thing to handicapped people. They hate being a burden. I know a few of them, and that is the common factor among most of them. They want to be treated like anyone else. How would you like it if people were fussing over you all the time, acting like you were a kid, when you're a 60-year-old man with the same needs and desires as "other people." Can you imagine never being able to make love to a man or woman? Can you imagine not even being able to kiss a man or a woman? Can you imagine not being able to just stand up (or sit down) to pee? Ford has to wear a diaper.
The next time anyone complains about their day... including me, we need to think of Ford and those like him. For those who already do this, thank you, and sorry I have been so slow to the game. I'm not special, I'm just a writer. I get that, a lot. "Why are you so 'special'?" I'm not... again, I'm the writer. Nevertheless, I digress: and it's not window dressing, making Ford believe he is useful. It's not a ploy. It's not a placebo. He does help me. He forces me to listen to him, because he can't speak like you and I can speak. His words come out slow and garbled most times. You have to listen, carefully, to hear what he says. And, for the most part, I understand everything he says. Sometimes no, but that's okay, we figure it out in the end.
Again, I digress.
We sat in the grove and I coaxed the fat squirrels over to us. Ford got really excited to see the rodent. A squirrels, to me, is nothing more than rats with a competent public relations operation behind them. Both are rodents, both carry diseases, only one has a bushy tail, and there you go. But Ford could've cared less of the delineation. He was making all sorts of noises that only whales could understand. We sat there for a good half hour and then it was time to wheel Ford around places he had never been... like the alley that leads into the ultra-yuppie-douche-bag "bar," Jupiter, or the outlet through the tanning salon that few know about. Ford had never been there, ever. Again, it's hard for him to get around.
Then, this past Saturday, I had a surprise in store for him.
Ford had mentioned wanting to go up to Telegraph Avenue some day. Telegraph, on Saturdays, teems with all sorts of folks and vendors, in the streets, on the sidewalks... it's a very carnival-type environment, for those who have never been here. But first, we would roll through the University of California, Berkeley campus. Ford got excited, again, when we saw Sather Tower. I asked if he wanted to head right, into the forest trail, or straight, toward the tower, and it wasn't even close. If there were a fight between Sather Tower and that tree-laden trail, it would have been a K.O. in the first round, the first five seconds of the fight.
So we rolled up that long hill... where I began feeling every bit of my 44-years. We made it, though, as I wheeled him through into Sproul Plaza. A week earlier, I had sat in that plaza, making a sign out of cardboard for that day. I believe the sign read, "I have 'faith' in 'logic' and 'reasoning.'" Again, nevertheless, I noticed a group come through and heard the group's historian talk about Sather Gate, but never once mentioning the historical context of the plaza or Mario Salvo or any of the free speech movements that came from that very spot... so I made sure Ford knew of it. I told him about meeting Daniel Ellsberg, known for the book, "The Pentagon Papers," when I stood there, all night long, staring at police officers, because they beat up a female professor and female student who protested... I was (justifiably) angry.
Ford was like a kid at Disneyland for the first time. I don't have children, but I would imagine this is what that feels like, when the kid sees something for the first time, or hears something that inspires them to do something creative and beautiful, instead of destructive and horrifying. I get a lot out of being Ford's friend. He makes me see the world differently. He forces me to slow down, something I desperately need. I've been on fast mode my entire life, strung out on my own hyperactivity disorder. Ford is that balance. Who needs (bad) drugs when you have that!
We would end up in the Chinatown section, near the campus. We would purchase a large, carne asada burrito and share it. I have to feed Ford. His hands work a little, but he can't pick up a fork or a straw to drink. And people were staring at us, like we were freaks, as I wiped his chin of food and soda. There wasn't hatred in their hearts, but there was fear and some confusion... and uneasiness. People don't know how to act around people like Ford. I always act the same as I would act around any other friend, but that's me. Some folks behave like they have to talk slow, or special, to these folks. That's the wrong idea. They're not dogs, and they're not stupid. So don't treat them that way, please.
When we finished our lunch we headed south, down Telegraph Avenue, until we arrived on the corner of Haste Street. Just across the street from Amoeba Records, on the corner, a guy played acoustic guitar, while the other banged out booming drum beats. The percussionist was way louder than the guitar player, and Ford noticed, immediately. He motioned and screamed for me to roll him over to them, so I did. The drummer was keeping nice time and would switch, quickly, and we both noticed. Ford, again, would get excited when that occurred... but he's "handicapped." Anyway, so Ford then motioned for me to pull out his money pouch, to get a dollar out. We then rolled up and Ford paid the men for their art. They thanked him and we rolled back and listened for another ten minutes or so. Ford was having a great day and so was I.
After that, we headed down toward the Bing Wong Wash Center, where I do my laundry once a month, whether it needs it or not. And just off to the side of Bing Wong there sits a street lined with trees and secret gardens, everywhere... I rolled Ford through... he would utter, "Wooooooooooowwwwwww." When Ford sees something special, he says "wow" very slow. Like he just smoked a big bowl of NYC Diesel through a gas mask bong. Hmm... note to self.... After that little stroll, we would head back toward Shattuck and downtown Berkeley. We would roll through the neighborhood I walk through from time to time. We rolled down the middle of the tree-lined, Victorian-house streets, as I informed Ford, "We own these streets! These are our streets! This is your street, Ford!" To which he would reply, "YEAAAAAAEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHhh!"
Once back on Shattuck we would check out Ford's favorite book store, Pegasus Books. We checked out some children's books. Ford likes the pictures on those type books and marvels at the artwork put into the craft. We would then go outside, near the bus stop and sit there and "people watch." Ford likes to people watch as much as I do. We talk sh*t about them, too. Good sh*t. Bad sh*t. Funny sh*t. We're bad, and we could care less what anyone thinks about it. Besides, most of these folks need to be made fun of. If we don't do it, who will?
Then it was time to wheel Ford back to the library, so he could await his special chariot so he could go back to his house in Hayward. I didn't want the afternoon to end! We were having too much fun. But all good things have to come to an end. So much for weekends being boring. Between my friend Bob kidnapping me and taking me out to Golden Gate Fields for "Dollar Sundays," and Ford hooking me up with "Rolling Saturdays," I now have something (useful) to do with my weekends!
Thanks, Ford (and Bob!)!
"Recently, in a public bathroom, I used the handicapped stall. As I emerged, a man in a wheelchair asked me indignantly, 'Are you handicapped?' Gathering all my aplomb, I looked him in the eye and said, 'Not now. But I was before I went in there.'"
-George Carlin
-James Richard Armstrong II
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