What Any Self-Respecting Spastic Would Do

Walking home one day through the train station my friend Sebastian calls. I pick up using my headphones.

Sebastian: “Alright dickhead? The bath exploded in the property.”

Me: “Shit. How?”

Sebastian: “Don’t know, but it’s just your luck! Need to sort it out immediately.”

I sigh; think of how much it will cost me. I walk up and down the back of the station talking on the phone, fully aware of how crazy I’d look if I were stationary, talking to myself.

Sebastian says, “I don’t know if home insurance covers exploding baths!”

I don’t want to deal with this. Being a landlord is such a responsibility and I’m such an idiot. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

We are discussing what to do as I walk back and forth, trying not to make eye contact with anyone so they don’t try to help me: the lost, crazy, disabled guy who appears to be talking to himself.

I have to check an email on my phone so Sebastian can call the insurance company. I have to do this as quickly as possible. Soon people will try to help the crazy disabled guy who now appears to be bent over into his crotch area. Not the best look.

I unlock my phone, get up the email swearing at Sebastian that I can’t find it. I find it! Yes, I’m safe! Did it in a few seconds. Now just continue walking. No one has come up to talk to you, asking if you’re okay. Don’t have to deal with the ables.

I was wrong. So wrong.

As I had my headphones on I hadn’t registered what was going on around me, but as I look up I realise a little old lady is trying to ask if I’m okay. She seems to have been asking for a while. The fear hits me. They’re coming! Much like in the Walking Dead, when one sees you they all come.

I try to tell the old lady that I’m fine, that I was on the phone. She, of course, can’t understand me. Her face goes from concerned, to worried, to scared. I say, “I’m fine, I’m on the phone,” but she still doesn’t understand me. This is too much for her. She asks someone to help.

The fear builds inside of me.

The old lady: “Excuse me can you help? I don’t know what to do I can’t understand him.” She stops this shit-hot Spanish-looking girl. Long straight hair, wide eyes, smiley. My jaw drops. Now I can’t talk for a totally different reason. She can hardly speak English. Guessing she’s a language­­­ student. She doesn’t seem to understand the old lady, let alone a stuttering spastic with his jaw open. Now I have to stay cool.

The fear is upon me. I know it’s too late now.

Before I know it five, ten, fifteen people crowd round, each one asking the next to help because they can’t understand me. I’m frantically nodding and smiling, trying to comfort the goddamn ables so they stop panicking. If just one of them paid attention they could work out I was okay.

Not to tell one interfering able person to fuck off is hard enough, let alone fifteen of them, while you still have your mate on the phone shouting, “What the FUCK is going on?!”. He almost becomes that demon voice in my head commanding me to “Tell them to fuck off!” but I can’t. I’m in too deep. In this moment I am an inadvertent representative of all disabled people. They would leave thinking, “Disabled people are so rude and ungrateful! That’s the last time I try to help someone!” It’s so important to be polite to the ables as they’ve only just started talking to the disabled. Got to be cool. Got to be calm. Plus, don’t want to look like an arsehole in front of the hot girl. How is she so hot? It’s insane. Where the hell did she come from? Even in my unattractive state of perceived helplessness, part of my brain is thinking, “You never know you might have a shot!” Obviously that comes from the damaged part as it is 0.0001% likely.

This is what I was afraid of: being engulfed by helpful, well-meaning ables who can’t understand me.

Out of nowhere a middle-aged woman comes barging through the crowd shouting, “Excuse me, out the way. I’m the disability officer for ‘Something’ Rail.” I know exactly the type. She’s taken a five-day course on ‘disability’ and now thinks she’s the Cripple Whisperer. It’s like taking a five-day course on religion and thinking you’re the Messiah, but you’re not. You’re a ‘very naughty boy’! I sigh knowing this isn’t going to save me from the retardation but instead, feed it.

I’m now doomed.

This woman walks straight up to me, in front of everyone, looks me dead in the eye and says slowly, loudly and clearly so she knows I understand, “Are. You. Having. A. Fit!?” I am stunned and perplexed by the question. My limited knowledge of fits is:

1. Shaking uncontrollably, usually on the floor. (Now it should be noted that as a spastic I do shake a bit but I’m clearly able to sit up straight in my chair.)

2. Not being able to make eye contact!

3. Not being able to communicate, because you know, you’re having a FIT!

4. Possibly the most important thing to bear in mind about fitting is you tend to blackout!! Now if I was having a fit how the FUCK WOULD I BE ABLE TO RESPOND?!

There must have been a ‘fit awareness’ campaign that year, as I kept getting asked that question. Maybe she thought I was having a stroke and got confused with the terminology.

Sebastian is shouting in my ear: “WHAT DID THAT STUPID BITCH SAY?!”

You can imagine how hard it is to compose yourself with that in your ear, whilst trying to process how the FUCK to respond to, “Are you having a fit?” with a speech impediment. I honestly don’t understand able-people sometimes. But that’s what I try to do: educate, even to the disability officer! Such a special type of retardation here…

Anyhow, I manage to get my face in a less confused expression as it was probably confirming the ‘fit’ theory to them. Then as calmly as possible, with Sebastian still screaming in my ear to tell her to fuck off, I turn my head, look down to the side, and without thinking whisper to him to “Shut up!” This makes me looks so fucking mental as everyone still doesn’t realise I’m on the phone. After realising that everyone is now looking at me with confused faces, thinking I’ve escaped from somewhere, I say as clearly and firmly as I can: “No! I’m fine!!’ Of course no one understands me. Not one out of sixteen of them including the disability officer! Communication limbo.

I’m trapped.

Sebastian: “Put me on speakerphone. I’ll tell them!” This seems to be the way to solve this epic fail. So I proceed to turn on speakerphone which means I have to bend over my crotch area again, which is where this fuckery began!

I turn speakerphone on, pass my phone to the ‘disability officer’ so she can hear Sebastian. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. The nightmare is nearly over. I can get on with my day and the hot girl won’t think I’m an absolute retard. As I hand the disability officer my phone a feeling of relief washes over me. She just has to take the phone. The relief is instantly followed by the sinking feeling and horror as she takes it and hangs up.

FUCK! Now I really look like a retard. It looks like I just gave my phone to the woman for no fucking reason! Time seems to pause. There’s an exchange of awkward looks, everyone silently communicating that they are out of their depth as it has just been confirmed that I am indeed retarded. No one knows what to do with the retard. I know in this moment I have lost all hope with the hot girl.

Bollocks.

So I did what any self-respecting spastic would do in this situation. I took my phone and ran the FUCK AWAY!! I ran to the back entrance of the car park thinking that would be enough distance to escape. They fucking followed me! All sixteen of them. Couldn’t fucking believe it. I appreciate the care but come on, I am clearly not fitting if I can run away! Pretty sure I shout out, “Come on!” in frustration. No one would leave a disabled on their own in a train station. You would get into serious shit for that. Can you imagine? “Good morning. Today on BBC news a new craze is sweeping the nation. Disabled people are being abandoned in train stations. We have our disability officer live in a station, trying to tackle this issue first hand.”

“Thanks Trevor. Yes, about 5–10 minutes ago I found this poor disabled person lost and alone in the station. We tried to help him but he was so frightened he ran away! Such a sad thing… Oh wait he’s telling me to fuck off. And apparently he’s not retarded… He just told me to get my virtue points somewhere else! Well folks, it turns out you can’t tell a book by its cover or a spastic by its speech impediment. Back to you in the studio Trevor.”

I manage to call Sebastian again and finally give my phone to the bloody woman.

“Hello, this is the disability officer in the station. I’m with your friend and certain that…” She’s cut short. Obviously Sebastian is giving her an eloquent — or harsh — bollocking. Her face contorts from self-important and confident to insulted and sheepish. She mumbles, “Ok. I see. Here’s your friend back.” She passes the phone back as I give her a stern look. Dead in the eye. She tells everyone I’m fine and they slowly scurry off in bewilderment.

Sebastian: “Holy shit dude! How often does that happen?”

Me: “Much more than you think.”

Whilst speaking I watch the hot girl slowly disappear into the distance, knowing that she will never talk to a disabled person again. I’m alone once more.

In conclusion, although I do really appreciate people’s help and kindness, if you see a disabled person out on their own, assume they have the mental capabilities to look after themselves, and for them to ask for help if they need it. If they are perhaps mentally retarded and escaped from the mental institution, at least they had the intelligence to escape in the first place. While the staff are freaking out because they lost another one, and are now organising a search and rescue party, I think that retard deserves to run free for a bit. Don’t you?