Raging hangover. I was bad last night. Maggie invited me to her place for Canada Day and out of boredom I accepted. She had about fifteen people over, mostly co-workers. Randal had a friend or two. We sat around in the backyard talking and visiting. I sat under the tree in the corner. Not many people approached me. Maggie was hosting so she was too busy to introduce me around. I had to call out to people. It didn’t help. In fact, I think it alienated me even further.
I asked Randal to sneak me a few beers from the drinks table. I was buzzed after two, roaring after three, and grabbing Maggie’s friend’s ass after four. I happened to have bad tremors, too, so to an uninformed bystander, it didn’t look like I was merely grabbing her ass. The woman spun and stared at me with rank indignation. She drew back her fist. Ooh! Wait! Don’t you know it’s against the law to hit a cripple? She huffed. Her eyes were so rigid and beautiful. She clocked me on the temple, leaving me laughing and slumped over the side of my chair. Maggie pulled me from the crowd, to whom I said, How dare you people look down to me! How dare I look up to you! Can someone flip me upside down so we can get things right here? Maggie tucked me into the corner of her kitchen and scolded me. That’s my boss, she said. I told you not to do anything. You said not to say anything around her, I said. I said nothing. You sexually harassed her, Maggie said. I chortled. You see how she looks in those shorts? I said. Maggie glanced around the party and told me to stay where I was. I asked her for a glass of water. She told me to get it myself. I’m crippled and I’m drunk, I said. You can’t possibly be serious. She shook her head and got me a glass of warm water. What is this, I said, giraffe spit? Shut up and drink it, she said. I have to get back outside. Stay there and don’t say anything. She went out. Randal and his friends sat by me. Hey, I said to them. Have you heard the one about the retard and the electric fence? The few adults in the kitchen glanced over at me. Randal and his friends groaned and told me similar jokes; all of them were meant for cheap laughs; I laughed cheaply. After Randal had told a particularly blistering joke, one of the women put her drink on the counter and came over to me. Are you Maggie’s brother? she said. Indeed I am, I said. Can’t you tell by my deep voice? You’re the professor who won the prestigious prize? I certainly am. I studied her hair, which had been dyed a shimmering red. I wanted to rub my face in it. How can you tell jokes like that, and to young people? I looked at Randal and his friends. Well, how will the leaders of the future have any hope if they can’t tell a good joke? She grimaced. You’re being very offensive. You’re a professor, for crying out loud. You’re supposed to be cultured and accepting, not bigoted and ignorant. I laughed and shook my head. Enormous thoughts swelled through my brain. I wanted to tell her that she was bigoted in her view on professors, which was no doubt based on a romanticized, left-wing stereotype: the asshole with elbow patches and smooth voice who donated blood and held up signs protesting Big Business. I wanted to tell her that I refused to be fixed in my language and in my thoughts, that we are conditioned to be politically correct, that I saw the world much more clearly than she did and that I accepted people on my own terms, and that I was neither a bigot nor an ignoramus. But these thoughts popped and dissipated before reaching my mouth. Instead, I twisted my eyes up into hers, gave a little grin, and said, Have you heard the one about the quadriplegic deaf kid and what he got for Christmas? When she exhaled and stomped away, I said to Randal, I guess all redheads aren’t sexy, eh?
Eventually I rested my head on the table and dozed off. I swatted Randal’s hand away when it was time for the fireworks. Ended up missing them. As I snoozed I heard the pops and crackles in the distance. I opened an eye. The kitchen was empty. The walls were dry brown like leather. Fucking, I said. Then I dozed off again. Maggie drove me back to the Residence shortly after. Her admonitions—something about her boss and her good friend Adele—drifted past me as I rested my head against the window. When we arrived at the Residence she came around to the passenger side and opened my door. I drew a long breath. The air, laced with the scent of clumped mown grass, swept some of the bubbles out of my head. It left me both woozy and giddy. Maggie held my chair for me. I looked at her and said, Thank you, Maggie. I really needed that tonight. She raised an eyebrow and moved the chair up so I could drop myself into it. I’m serious, I said. I really needed to get out. I’m really grateful. You know how difficult it’ll be for me to deal with my boss now? she said. I was drunk, I said. She’ll forgive me. She hit you, Dexter. Well, then we’re even. She pushed me up to the entrance and stepped in front of me. It was after eleven at night. A single light, circular and white, dropped its beam upon us. As I sat beneath it, I stretched my arms. The light that singles out saints, I thought. I am Dexter, patron saint of cripples.
Maggie kneeled down and planted her hands on my armrests. What’re you doing? I said. I know it’s hard for you to open up and be civil, she said. I need to ask you this before you sober up, or you probably won’t answer. Answer what? I said, glancing past her at the windows to ensure no one was watching. My shoulders shook, and in my drunken state I couldn’t tell if it was a tremor or if I was anxious about what she might ask. I need to know, she said, do you still hate me? I scoffed and looked away. Dexter? Do you? No. I don’t know. I hated you when we were younger. Now you’ve worked your way up to bearable. Maggie stood. Then can you tell me why the hell you act like this? Like what? Like you’re unhappy, like you’re a miserable old man. Why don’t you get treatment for your disease? Most people with Charcot-Marie-Tooth get orthopedics. They can walk. Why do you think I’m unhappy? For god’s sakes, Dexter. No, why do you think I’m unhappy? Nobody’s happy who acts like you do. Nobody just tells horrific jokes to teenagers, or offends people just for the sake of it. They liked the jokes. That’s not the point. They were funny. That’s not the point, Dexter. Maggie, Maggie, are you feeling guilty? No, I’m not feeling guilty. Then why’re you doting on me like this? You keep coming after me and calling me and everything. Always checking up on me. Because you’re family, Dexter. Oh yeah. You’re family and I want you to be happy. I am happy. There’s no way that you’re happy. Don’t presume anything about me. I’m happy. I like it here. I’m happy happy happy. You wouldn’t act like this if you were happy. It’s impossible. No, I act like this because I’m happy. You just don’t see the difference. I don’t believe you. Well, I’m sorry.
Maggie folded her arms and bit her lip. Tears flashed in the white light, sharply framing her eyes. I don’t, she began, and then she said good night and walked back to her car. I sat there for a while muttering to myself. Then Stefan spotted me and brought me inside.
Slept late this morning. At breakfast there was little left but dried bagels and eggs like mouse turds. I decided to wait for lunch.
Old Scratch wasn’t around. His posse was there but dispersed, playing cribbage and watching the morning news. I steered my chair down the hall. As I neared his door I heard a soft, wet sshh-ka sshh-ka. I asked Stefan what the problem was. He’d had to be intubated during the night. His lungs were like crumpled paper bags. I leaned closer to the door. Sshh-ka sshh-ka. Not sure if he’ll last a week, Stefan said. We’re trying to get him transferred to hospice, but they’re all booked up so he’ll have to stay here. There are many hospices in Saskatoon, I said. Has the city suddenly been seized by the plague? Stefan shrugged. As I listened to Old Scratch’s breathing I conjured a disgusting picture: rats the size of Smart Cars galloping out of the city’s many potholes and taking bites out of every unfortunate Saskatonian who happened to encounter them. In my hungover state, such a thing seemed plausible; it could easily happen to me. In my chair, I’d have as much chance of getting away as a fat kid on a treadmill trying to run from a serial murderer. I shook away the thought. Whenever I thought about Saskatoon, I inevitably compared it to Toronto and Montreal, where I’d taken my degrees. Mordecai Richler (I think) dubbed Saskatoon “a good place to raise children,” which, in his caustic eyes, made it boring. Montreal and Toronto may be the asshole capitals of Canada, but I can’t deny their substance. Things happen in those cities. If a teaching position opened at McGill or U of T, I’d be there in an instant.
I looked at Old Scratch’s door. Someone had hung a white dry eraser board on his door and had written C. Myrtle and a medication schedule on it. He was to receive medicine every four hours. Sshh-ka sshh-ka. I wheeled away, unsure of whether to go back to my room and work or go outside and read or go into the living room and watch a DVD. I passed the living room and saw Mr. Scartoretti laying down his cribbage hand. He looked at me and adjusted his prescription glasses. I kept wheeling, unsettled, because I didn’t know if I was in a residence for persons with disabilities or in a home for old men.