Of all the scenarios in the world, I never thought I would be broken whilst wear-ing a bright yellow helmet that closely resembled the receptacle end of a banana-flavored condom.
I was standing on a dusty street in Mexico, holding a "small" scooter that seemed to weigh at least three times as much as me. Truth be told, I was as terrified as a Manhattanite at a Nascar race. Quite rightly, or at least I thought so, I already had considered crying, or a good bit of yelling (the truly adult tantrum). Never one to betray New Zealand male stoicism, I did neither. I did what I saw all the males do around me as I was growing up; I got silently pissed whilst waiting for a pertinent moment to unleash my frustration.
Moreover, I was thinking deeply about my own mortality and yes, my increasingly wary ways. Damn, I thought, this is me getting old! Or perhaps I really was just acting, as my father would later put it to me not so gently, "like a little girl."
My partner on this particular mission, who will remain anonymous as to stop him or her from deriving too much pleasure from my obvious discomfort with this topic, had a huge smile on his/her face. "Come on," my companion said. "Get back on. I mean, we've paid for it!" I looked from the scooter to my companion. The scooter was sort of perched (dropped) on the side of the curb. The scooter was still idling, a deep growl of satisfaction from deep within its metal belly. It had won the battle, and whatever remained of my pride was resting somewhat uncomfortably beneath its rear wheel. I was all but extinguished. I looked back at my companion with a look that I hoped contained all the hate and venom I intended it to. I squinted and tried to look really mean -- I was hurting. My companion looked back at me with a beatific smile. At that moment, right there on my companion's face, all I could see was the pleasures of youth, of carelessness and carefree behavior, all the expressions of a lost generation to which I no longer belonged. Overnight, I had become a geriatric.
Throughout the morning of the scooter incident, I had conveyed all my reservations. "What if we fall?" I had said to my companion. "We could break a limb. You've seen these roads -- we could end up putting the wheel in a pothole and catapulting ourselves through the air -- we could end up broken, crumpled heaps in the street!" My companion looked down at the array of scooters that lay before us, smiling widely.
"Man, this is going to be fun," my companion said. "We can get out to the beach!"
I was aghast at the flippant remark. "Fun? Life in a wheelchair is not an easy thing, you know! I have seen 'Murderball' -- wheelchair basketball is much more difficult than the original thing!" I thought for a second.
"And skin grafts. If we fall and grind our heads into the concrete -- they'll take the skin from my ass and stick it on my face -- no one will ever want to kiss me again."
My mind raced through the possibilities of skin grafts -- not for the first time, either. That's just me, though.
My companion finally turned around and laughed.
"That's true, unless of course you ask them to kiss your ass."
Oh yes, that was the kind of ground-breaking humor I was dealing with.
After several more minutes of inspecting the potential deathtraps, my companion took a casual sip from an icy bottle of water. How I had come to despise my companion's "chilled-out," zen-like nature. Give me some time, I thought to myself, and I will do some real ruffling of that façade. I tried a new approach.
"You know what," I said, "You're probably right. God, I am such a worrier. We probably won't hurt ourselves -- we will probably just hurt somebody else."
My companion's ears pricked at this -- unlike me, my companion has a selfless, caring attitude to the welfare of others.
I went on: "We really don't know how to drive this thing, you know, and it would be a tragedy if we were to cause damage to the fine citizens of Mexico due to our own incompetence."
My companion crooked an eyebrow, concern passing over his/her face. "Really? You think? Even if we are careful?"
I decided that it was time for the dagger. I held it tight and thrust forward, placing the blade between the ribs and into the heart.
"Imagine if we hit a little kid?"
My companion's eyes began to water. Now I had an advantage, so I pressed on.
"Or two kids at once? Twins? Orphaned twins on their way to school for the first time after the tragic death of their parents? Orphaned twins about to be smashed into pieces by our scooter!"
I knew it as soon as the words left my mouth; I had gone too far.
Suffice to say, my overwrought technique didn't work. We signed the papers and made payment. We gave the scooter a heartfelt effort. Then, after approximately two minutes riding time, during which I attempted to bring the scooter to a stop at an intersection by placing my flip-flop-clad feet down on the street at a speed of about 25 miles per hour before turning right into incoming traffic on a one-way street, my companion and I returned the deathtrap. I spent the afternoon smiling, safe within the confines of a rusted-out Volkswagen convertible. Living la vida loca!
Chris's column runs bi-weekly on Thursdays. He can be reached at garland@cavalierdaily.com.
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