Dorsai - Taxi

Looking at the manager again, she said "Okay, can I go now, Dad?"

Hearing that, I knew that she was jerking the managers chain; it reaffirmed that she probably could be a real whirling bitch when she wanted to.

The manager quickly assured her that she could; the concierge and manager kept her company while I went to get my hack. Once I was in front of the hotel, the concierge wheeled her out to my cab and the two of us carefully and gently got her into the back seat. Then he showed me how the chair would fold up so that I could transport it in the trunk. As we were doing that, he told me "Jim, she knows that getting her in and out of this thing isn't easy, so don't worry too much if putting your hand on her ass is the only way to get her moved. She doesn't like it, but she understands it." I thanked him for the information, and after closing the trunk lid, went around and got behind the wheel. I asked her where she wanted to go first, and after she told me, started the cab and got us moving.

Ten or fifteen minutes into the ride, I heard her tell me "You don't have to drive like I'm a bottle of nitroglycerin or something. I'm crippled, not something you have to worry about breaking."

I looked at her in the mirror before answering "Ma'am, whether you're crippled or not doesn't have anything to do with how I drive: I'm driving the same way I do for everybody. He was wrong when he said I'm probably the best cab driver in town: I am the best, and any honest driver will tell you the same thing. One of the reasons I'm the best is because I AM such a good driver. That isn't bragging, it's a fact."

Another quick glance in the mirror let me know that she was surprised at my response; she didn't have anything else to say the rest of the way to the store she'd said she wanted to go to.

When we get there, I'm relieved to see that they've got Handicapped parking spots that are right by the doors, and I pull into one – to the surprise of a couple of people outside. When I hang the placard on the rearview mirror, they get even more surprised; but not as much as when I get the wheelchair out of the trunk and get it set up before opening the back door. I take a few moments to look the situation over so I can try and figure out the best way of getting Evangeline from the back seat to the chair. Once I've got that worked out, I have at it; it isn't easy because she's no lightweight. I was surprised to see that she was able to move her arms and legs, at least a little bit, when she tried to help. Once she's in the chair and situated to her satisfaction, I close the door to the cab and start pushing her toward the store. Along the way, she tells me "I could see that you were surprised I'm able to move. I'm not totally paralyzed; what happened was that I suffered a spinal cord injury that only did enough damage to take away most of the motor control from my shoulders down. Lucky me."

I didn't bother saying anything – I mean, what could I say that wouldn't sound like I was just dismissing her injuries, or worse still, pitying her?

Once we were inside the store, I noticed that we got more than a few looks. They seemed to fall into one of two categories: either folks couldn't seem to resist looking at her as if she was a freak in a sideshow; or they'd look, and then look away, feeling guilt at the relief they felt that it wasn't them in a wheelchair. I couldn't help but watch Evangeline, and realized that she was all too aware of the reactions she was getting; that got me thinking about what it must really be like, being handicapped as she was – the looks, the pity, and all the rest that goes with it.

We spent a little over an hour in the store before she decided she was ready to leave with the couple of purchases she'd made. I'd been pleased to discover that there was a pouch on the back of the chair that would hold the bags; I wasn't looking forward to trying to push her and carry shopping bags at the same time. While she'd been shopping, all she said to me was to direct me to where she wanted to go, and to handle getting her credit card in and out of her purse when she'd bought something.

Once we were back at my cab, getting her into the back seat was pretty much the reverse of getting her out of it: awkward, something of a strain on my back, and necessitating that I put my hands places that I wouldn't ordinarily have.

After I got the cab started again, I looked at her in the mirror and asked "Where to next, Ma'am?"

She told me, and I got us moving again. Just a minute or two after I got us on the road, I heard her tell me "I can tell you aren't happy about having to put your hand on my ass. Truth is, I don't much like it, either; but I've been in wheelchairs long enough to know that there really isn't any other way to get me in and out of cars. I know you're not getting any kind of thrill or anything out of it, so quit worrying about it. Whatever the hangup is, just let it go."

I give her a quick glance in the mirror and answer "Yes, Ma'am"

Then she tells me "And quit calling me 'Ma'am'. I'm not even 30 yet, not some old blue-haired grandmother. Call me Miss Towers, if you have to, or Evangeline. Better still is just Evie."

"Okay… Evie", I answer.

As I'm driving, I start thinking about what she said to me, and how she said it. Like the concierge told me, she knows I'm pretty limited in how I can get her in and out of my rig; she's admitted she doesn't like it, but that it's about the only way to make it happen, and she's okay with it. That's how things are, and she accepts it – if reluctantly – so there's no reason for me to get 'hung up' on it. I finally decide FIDO: Fuck It, Drive On. As for addressing her by name, I get the impression that I'm being granted a certain amount of liberty and informality that she doesn't give everyone that deals with her; far from it, I suspect.

The rest of the ride is quiet, and we go through pretty much the same evolution of getting her into the chair as we did at the first place. The only difference is that it goes a little faster because I'm not so reluctant about laying my hands on her.

Inside the store, she talks to me a little more as I'm pushing her here and there and the other place so she can look things over. Again, I notice the way people are looking at us – even the sales people, who seem to be reluctant to come over and help her, as though whatever is wrong with her that she's in a wheelchair is contagious. It's actually kind of pissing me off, but I keep my cool. We're in there about half an hour before Evie decides there's something she's interested in. I finally have to gesture to a saleswoman that Evie would like some help before she's willing to come over. Evie finally decides to buy the thing, and after she gets it paid for, she tells me "I think I'm ready to try someplace else, Jim." I get her a few feet away before telling her "Would you mind if I checked something back there at the counter? It won't take me but a minute or two." She tells me that's fine, and I go back to where the salewoman is standing with another clerk, and what looks like a management type.

The saleswoman looks at me expectantly, and I tell her "I don't know what your problem is, but that young lady was in a car accident some years ago that banged her up pretty bad. She doesn't have some kind of disease that you're going to catch, and she isn't some zoo exhibit that I'm pushing around. She's a human god-damned being, and you treated her like crap. You don't think I – and she! – couldn't see that you were staying as far away from her as you could? Hell, even when she said she wanted to look at that blouse closer, you didn't get nearer than three feet! And you were talking to her like there wasn't a real, live person inside. For your information, she was in her last year of college and majoring in Economics when she got hurt – so it's pretty likely that she's a Hell of a lot smarter than you seem to be. The way you treated her, you made yourself and this store, look like crap. I doubt that she'll ever be in here again, so you've lost at least one customer; and I can damn sure tell you that I'm sure as hell not going to be telling anyone what good service you offer! Frankly, she was a hell of a lot more tolerant of your nonsense than I would have been: if it had been me, I'd have told you to stick that blouse up your ass!"