Writing prompt

 I mentioned last week we were going to try a monthly writing prompt.  Basically, post a sentence and readers could post comments with 200-400 word "stories" inspired by the prompts.  Here is this month's prompt:

I'm not a goddamn walker.

OR

I'm not a goddamn stroller.

Use whichever one inspires you more.  There are NO RULES... use the prompt as your first line, within the story, or just as inspiration.  Since the comments are wonky, we would recommend writing it in another editor first.  If you have trouble posting, email it to me at razberripie@gmail.com and I'll take care of it for you.  And if you go crazy and can't stay within the 400 word limit (I couldn't quite make it), we can post it as a separate entry.

My own attempt is under the jump break...

“Do you want a push, Caleb?”

The question comes from my father-in-law, Bert. The three of us—me, my wife Carly, and Bert—are heading from the car into the park to the picnic tables to enjoy an outdoor lunch this beautiful spring afternoon.  Only problem is that it’s a 10 minute walk to the picnic tables, and about 50 feet into the journey, Bert started limping. It’s his bum hip.  

“You look tired,” Bert notes.  “It’s got to be hard pushing yourself around all day.”

He looks pointedly at my hands gripping the cushions of my chair. I’m not tired. And I don’t want a push.  I never want to push. When I chose this wheelchair three years ago, selecting from what seemed like a countless number of designs and specifications, my occupational therapist recommended the handles on the back of my chair. And I admit, there are times when they come in handy.  There are times when I need a push. I don’t need it now. I don’t want it now. And the only reason Bert wants to push my chair is to take the pressure off of his aching hip.

But I’m not a goddamn walker.

I open my mouth, about to tell him that I’m fine, thank you very much.  But then Carly‘s hand drops onto my shoulder. Applying just enough pressure to be uncomfortable. Enough for me to get the point.

“That’s so nice of you to offer, Dad,” Carly speaks up.  “Right, Caleb?”

“Yeah,” I mutter.  “Sure.  Thanks, Bert.”

And just like that, I lose control of my mobility as my father-in-law seizes the handles of my chair and pushes me the rest of the distance to the picnic tables. At least he asked permission though. Plenty of people don’t. You’d be shocked.

“You know, Bert,” I say, as we enter the park.  “They’ve got canes you can buy at the drugstore.  All kinds.  Even ones you can fold up.”

My father in law freezes, and we come to such an abrupt halt, that for a second, I’m scared I could lose my balance and get thrown from my chair. That’s happened before, by the way. I can get back up—my therapists taught me how—but it’s never fun.  

“I don’t need a cane,” Bert says.

Carly‘s hand is on my shoulder again. Squeezing.  “Caleb, Dad is fine.”

Except he’s not fine. We had to drive over there last month because he fell and was having trouble getting up. That’s when I started looking at the canes at the drugstore. I don’t know why Carly is so willing to enable him.  Maybe it’s just too much for her to have a disabled husband and a disabled father.

“I’m fine, Caleb,” Bert says.  “I don’t need a cane.  I’m not a cripple.”  And then he adds, “No offense.”

Yeah, none taken. Doesn’t he understand that I would give all I’ve got to be able to walk with a cane? Hell, a walker would be fine. But that’s even less likely than my father-in-law cracking and finally getting that cane.