I Can’t Say "No" to Disabled People

So, the other day I went to the dentist to get a pre-emptive cavity filled. Like the current war, I’m rather certain that I didn’t need it and the dentist was just scamming me out of $150. However, even if it was an unnecessary filling, disputing it would be totally hopeless because I have no basis for my dispute. I mean, I’m no dentist and there’s no way in hell I’d be able to examine my own tooth, so my only real option is to trust a total stranger who claims to be a dentist . . . I don’t trust him.

Anyway, medical deviance aside, I would now like to shift focus onto what happened AFTER my cavity was filled.

As I was walking out of the lobby (it’s a huge, corporate dentist office – this comforts me because it decreases the chances that I’ll actually form a meaningful relationship with my dentist) I noticed a gross, disabled woman in a wheelchair outside. It appeared she was struggling with a concrete garbage can.

Because she sat between me and my car I had no choice but to take a deep breath, pretend to be on my cell phone, and quickly make my way past her.

So, I began walking – every muscle tense – hoping to God (or whatever the fuck is in charge of the universe) that she wouldn’t say anything to me.

Well, unfortunately, it seems God has it out for me. Not six steps past the woman did I hear, “Excuse me, sir.”

Ewwwwaahhhhahahaaw. Her voice sounded like something from the Pumpkinhead movies. It was as if her throat was stuffed with semen-covered sandpaper.

I slowly turned around (trying to hide my distress) and said, “Yes, ma’am?”

“I dropped my cigarette,” gurgled the woman. “Can you pick it up for me, please?”

OH DEAR GOD . . . . I looked to the pavement and there, next to the garbage can, lay a half-smoked cigarette. So not only was I being forced to communicate with this frog-like creature, but I had to actually touch something THAT HAD BEEN IN HER MOUTH.

Now, if any normal person asked me to pick up their cigarette, I would probably say something along the lines of, “Fuck off, slime.” However, this woman was handicapped, which gave her the upper hand. I can’t say “no” to the handicapped. I mean – who can? The handicapped have that power over the rest of us – they can make us do whatever they want because (for some reason) if we don’t do their bidding we feel guilty.

So, accepting my fate while fighting the urge to vomit in my hand, I smiled and said, “Sure, I’ll get it.” Then I casually skipped over to the cigarette, pinched it as close to the ash as I could without burning myself, and handed the cigarette back to the woman as if I were performing a “happy everyday task.”

Then, expecting to hear a “Thank you, sir” I prepared to deliver a “you’re welcome.” However, the “thank you, sir” never came. Instead, I just stood there and watched the gurgling pile of sludge take frantic drags off her newly recovered cigarette. Like a calf to its mother’s teat, this woman found solace and comfort in her cigarette – totally ignoring the fact that I’d just helped-out her crippled ass.

Since the conversation was non-existent and there was no “thank you” in sight, I awkwardly nodded to the woman, whose eyes were hidden by brown, saucer-sized sunglasses, and quickly made my way to the car . . . my faith in humanity shaken just a little bit more.