Got, Again
So there I am, at a less-than-fulfilling job, doing my job, peddling paper, offering up the gimmick of the day, as ordered. That's when it hit me, the urge to use the restroom--that saving grace, that hail mary pass, that mother of all battles (wait a second). Yes, sir, she did not have to come calling twice, for it was my every desire that I should be true in the first place. But, yea, and I went. But lo! and behold what I beheld: a small man--who, as it happened--appeared to be mentally-retarded and physically-handicapped, or, if you prefer, mentally-handicapped and physically-retarded. His sandal had come off in the restroom--a most undesirous circumstance. As his foot lay prone in the pee-mud, and with his sandal in his mouth, I used the bathroom.
I recognized him from a year ago in the store. He once rubbed his tongue on my hand as I had tucked his bib back into his collar. He had been left at the store by his uncle that time and his bib, which keeps his drool off his shirt, had fallen to the ground and he couldn't put it back on himself. He asked for my help. It wasn't easy to understand him, but Jesus helped me. And once I knew what he wanted, it was easy to deliver: Until he rubbed his tongue on my hand as I tucked in his bib. I was a little put off by that. And this was quite distinct from the homophobic reaction you might expect--no, this was a new revulsion altogether. I was unsure as to the exact nature of his "mental-retardedness".
So there I was, with Jesus, Buddha, and the rest of humanity looking right over me, taking a leak in the urinal, wondering what on earth I should do to help this seemingly helpless man out with his pee-muddy bare foot. His sandal was all the while being generally sucked on and gnawed at as he grabbed disposed of paper towels to add to the mix. It was a test, I was sure. I knew I had to wash his foot and hands and put his sandal back on. So I got him to sit down in a clean area of the floor and I washed his foot off. He was very pleased by this (all the while, mind you, I'm ignoring--for the sake of my own peace of mind--the sound of magazine pages turning in the occupied stall just a few feet away). He kind of laughed and moaned with contentment. Hell, who wouldn't have done the same? And besides, I figure I'm doing the Lord's work at this point, washing the sandaled foot of the least among us and all.
I leave the restroom with a feeling of accomplishment. After several months of feeling worthless, here we are, a real moment of worthwhile action. I had cleaned the piss and mud off the under side of a stranger's foot for nothing. I could have left it to whomever or to no one at all. But it had been done for once and forever. And for once, life felt meaningful. Doing things for other people, while always containing some self-interest, is nevertheless thoroughly invigorating, to the degree that it helps the other person.
As nice as that may sound, that is only the prelude to this tale.
He finds me again, this time minutes later on the bookfloor as I'm going about straightening up at the end of the night.
"Hi, Adam." I says, "I'm George."
"George!" He garbles, clearly excited at the mere sound of my name. I'm touched. Genuinely.
And as I continue on my path of recovery (here, we're talking about my "path of recovery" at work, which involves walking up and down aisles at work looking for stray books--not my "path of recovery" personally, which involves electro-shock therapy, horse tranquilizers, and ultrasonic immersions in "heavy water")--so, as I continue on my path of recovery, in the store, with Adam following behind, I pause every so often to answer his questions, insofar as I can understand them. Come to think of it, they were mostly his comments as opposed to questions.
Apparently, as I came to hear it from him, his dad was with his younger brother and they had left him there. Well, he came there with his dad and brother, he said. I just assumed that they'd always left him there, as he'd been there lots of times before with no one else around. At any rate, he continued to paint, in a mentally-retarded kind of way, a picture of abuse. He said that his brother and father didn't always put a diaper on him even though he wets his pants. He also said that his grandfather didn't change his diaper for a week and hit him when he went in his diaper. I, feeling every ounce of Jesus' Love and every non-straining fiber of the Buddha's Serenity, could not help but ask if his father knew this; and upon hearing that he did not, offering up to tell him myself. Looking back it was a bit curious how he'd said he didn't want his father to be told even though he'd volunteered the information in a beckoning manner. But his drool and frothiness was real enough, and his look was kind of haggard like it be, too.
As I walked away from our talk-exchange in the back corner of the store, he called me back for something. He wanted a hug, or what sounded like a hug. So, in the Presence of our Lord, in the Know-not-knowing of the Buddha, I surrendered a friendly hug in the Self Improvement section (frighteningly close to the Sexuality sub-section).
*At this point I would like to refer the reader to "The Over-Soul: Let Us Hearken Unto It", a piece I wrote earlier. I don't remember what it was about. But I think it might explain a few questions that might be popping into your minds at this point.
Getting back to the hug. It was a very unattached hug from my end, if you catch my drift. I mean, I tried to convey as much human kindness and brotherhood as a brother could. But I didn't want to bump into no other wood, ya dig? He, on the other hand, was clinging with a paulsy-like tenacity. And also, I knew his tongue was going to come out. Sure enough, right on my collar, and just a little on my neck, the white frothy tongue of a stranger, embraced in a platonic hug of brotherhood and soulmanship.
Now, as a side note, it occurred to me on a few occassions with this young man before (he's in his early twenties, apparently, and I'd spoken with him at least once before {the time he rubbed his tongue on my hand [in a mentally-retarded fashion]}) and on this occassion, that, when I was looking around and caught him in some side aisle, he would have the stance and posture of a decidedly non-physically-handicapped person who was sneaking around subtley, looking for a sucker like me. But I withdrew those thoughts by-and-by in the Presence of Our Lord and sunken in the Sublimity of the Buddha, and put my faith once again in human goodness.
It was at this point, that we were closing the store for the night and I'd caught a glimpse of him leaving the store. I had been anxious to confront his guardian about the purported verbal and physical abuse, not to mention the leaving him there unattended to wallow in the piss-mud of our restroom. But alas! he was leaving alone, and with a sure-strided step, the likes of which I hadn't seen since the freshman were late for class. I squinted my eyes like Clint Eastwood in "Dirty Harry" to get a better look. Only now, for me, it's more like "Dirty, Hairy". And it was more like wincing. For what my eyes beheld was no less damning than whatever it was Clint was pretending to look at. I saw this guy walking out of the store, taking his bib off, letting his hair down, and getting into the driver's side of an early 90s model Toyota.
That's right, this guy, whom up to this point I believed was mentally-retarded and physically-handicapped, was getting in a car and driving away. What the fuck?
The only thing I can figure is that he gets off on being babied--some type of infantilization fetish. Or maybe he wants to be "taken advantage of" in some way. Or maybe he actual is mentally-retarded and physically-handicapped and this is just some twisted mind-fuck I've played on myself and revealed to the world.
Welcome to the absurdity of today's Christian life with its excess of unanimity. To remain earnest in such endeavors and to not lose one's shirt, so to speak, or if not one's shirt, one's entire garb, or one's mind--that's the trick for a Humanist or a Christian in our time, for all time (if he seeks to remain such a thing).
But damn me if I wasn't "taken advantage of" by a pseudo-mentally-retarded, physically-handicapped sociopath. But isn't that just life? I mean, c'mon.
© 2005 George Czar
posted by Jor Jazzar @ 12:17 AM
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