Their voices are getting louder out there, but right now I can’t do anything to help Khalid.
Khalid is my best friend. When my mom is working the night shift at the hospital, she drops me off here to keep Khalid company. Or for Khalid to keep me company, whichever. She doesn’t have to worry about me when I’m hanging out here at the Gas ’n’ Snak. There isn’t much trouble I can get into here, she figures. Still, between the sporadic bursts of customers buying premium gasoline for their cars and two-for-one microwaved burritos for their children, Khalid and I manage to keep ourselves entertained:
We drink “complimentary” cherry cola Slushees. Khalid says it’s okay to have a free one now and then, since there’s really no way to track how much of the syrupy guck is actually consumed by humans and how much gets spilled and drained away into the sewers, probably creating hyperactive, high-fructose-corn-syrup-mutated frogs and catfish down there in that fertile water.
We peruse the restricted magazines with titles like Penthouse Letters, Juggs, Biker Mamas, and MILF International from the top shelf of the rack. We find most of the content hilarious rather than titillating. “Hey, look at Bunny McBoobs, who is washing a sports car with her ridiculous artificial breasts!” or “Miss Sex Ed Teacher is going to teach those thirty-year-old ‘boys’ in her classroom a thing or two about discipline!”
We laugh at the customers who scramble back to their cars with the magazines they’ve purchased from the top shelf. It’s usually older men; I guess they’ve never used the Internet for anything but email and the Weather Network. It tends to be guys who wear glasses and/or cardigan sweaters who buy Penthouse Letters, while Juggs seems to be the favourite of guys who’ve got, um, “juggs” themselves. Biker Mamas generally go home with Biker Papas, and MILF International is favoured by guys around our own age, guys whose moms must be regulating their Internet usage, guys who are probably really into our English teacher, Ms. Womansfield (who changed her name from “Mansfield” after her divorce).
We talk about whatever happened at school that day, which usually takes about five minutes. If you’re not on the football team, or a cheerleader, or in the school band, or in the photography or yearbook or Bible Study clubs, not much happens at Faireville District High School, except for when the occasional kid falls asleep at his desk and then gets laughed at by the other kids.
Nobody at school calls Khalid by his actual name; when he and his mom immigrated to our little town a few years ago, he was immediately nicknamed “the Sheik.” Nobody was being nasty, or racist, or anything like that, though. Faireville is made up of ninety-nine percent white people, so Khalid seemed kind of exotic to them, I guess. When one of the girls noticed that Khalid looks sort of like that old black-and-white movie star Rudolph Valentino, who was nicknamed “the Sheik,” well, the name just kind of stuck, I guess.
Khalid doesn’t mind the nickname, anyway. He says that in Pakistan, the term “sheikh” is used to signify Arab descent and is reserved for people with great wealth and status. Khalid isn’t Arab, and if he had any money or power he wouldn’t be working at the Gas ’n’ Snak every night after school to help his mom pay the rent on their one-bedroom apartment. So, I suppose the nickname is really kind of a compliment, right?
“The Sheik” is better than anyone else’s nickname, anyway. The kids at Faireville District High School aren’t very imaginative. They call Jimmy Rogers “Zig-Zag,” because that’s the brand of papers he uses to roll his joints. They call Marty Apostrophes “Farty Marty,” not because Marty is any more or less flatulent than anyone else, but simply because “Farty” rhymes with “Marty,” I suppose.
My own nickname is “Wheelie.” Because I’m in a wheelchair. Ha ha! Get it? Pretty creative, huh?
At the moment, my wheelchair is being a bigger pain in the butt than usual. Somebody is out there hollering at my best friend, and there is nothing I can do to help him, because my rear wheel is jammed underneath the washroom’s sink. Again.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Khalid says, “but this is the third time this week that you have parked in the spot reserved for people with disabilities. I will not serve you until you move your car to another space.”
“Look,” the other voice says, “don’t play the ‘poor handicapped people’ card on me, okay? It isn’t fair that the best spot in the lot is reserved for the retards. Most of ’em can’t drive, anyway, and I guarantee you, I pay more taxes than any of them do. So just gimme my smokes, my lottery tickets, and my burritos, and I’ll move my car to my nice, heated garage at home. Mmm-kay, Gandhi?”
Khalid persists, ignoring the Gandhi comment. “As soon as you move your car to an appropriate parking spot, we can complete your transaction.”
“What the hell difference does it make?” the other voice moans. “I don’t see any handicapped people around, do you?”
This would be an ideal moment for me to burst out of the back room and roll out into the fluorescent light.
I rock my chair back and forth to get myself unstuck, but this just lodges the wheel in even deeper. If somebody at Gas ’n’ Snak corporate headquarters had issued a directive requiring wheelchair-accessible washrooms in all of their stores, I would already be out there helping their employee, my friend.
I stretch my arms as far as they’ll go, hyperextending my joints to reach the liquid soap dispenser that is nailed loosely to the wall. I’ll use some soap to lubricate my jammed wheel and get myself unstuck.
I grip both rear wheels in my hands, and I wrench them back and forth as hard as I can, until the soap-lubricated tire finally springs free from underneath the sink.
I ram my chair’s footrests against the door, over and over again, until it springs open with a dramatic crack.
I wheel myself out into the fluorescent glare of the store, where Khalid is standing face to face with a barrel-bellied man in a business suit, with only the cash counter between them.
They don’t notice my dramatic entrance, though, because I’m mostly hidden behind a tall cardboard display for spicy beef jerky.
Khalid leans forward on the counter, his lean biceps and triceps twitching beneath his shining brown skin, his wiry frame towering over his opponent, and he says, “I’m not serving you until you move your car to another spot, sir.” He spits out a particularly sarcastic “sir.”
“You’ve seen my car, right?” the Suit Man says. “It’s a fucking Maserati. If I park in one of the regular narrow parking spots, some yahoo in a shitty old truck will swing his door open and dent my car.”
Looking very much like a sheik, Khalid stares coolly at his nemesis.
“The yahoos in this town, as you so eloquently put it, have the decency to refrain from parking in the handicapped spot.”
I glance out into the parking lot, and my eyes narrow. This suit-wearing, Maserati-driving, ambulatory jerk is indeed parked on top of the blue-and-white symbol of a wheelchair, the spot reserved for people with physical disabilities; the spot reserved for me.
My pulse begins to throb in my neck. I wheel myself around the beef jerky display, and I clear my throat loudly
When he sees me, Mr. Maserati stammers, “Oh, well, okay, I see. I didn’t know there was one in here.”
And then, as if he is speaking to a toddler, as if I’ve got a mental handicap to go with my spina bifida, he crouches down and says to me, in this singsong kindergarten teacher’s voice, “I’ll move my car when your bus shows up, okay, buddy? Attaboy.”
Attaboy. As if I’m a puppy.
I tell him, “You need to move your fucking car.”
“Whoa, buddy!” Mr. Maserati says. “You got Tourette’s or something?”
I repeat, “Move your fucking car.”
“I’ll only be a minute,” he says, in that same pitchy voice. “Sorry about the inconvenience, buddy.”
Sometimes it is inconvenient when the parking spot isn’t ava
ilable; in the winter, wheeling my way to the Gas ’n’ Snak through the ice and slush is a tough slog, and the spokes of my wheels toss mucky water up all over my legs, and the wheel brakes get crusted with ice and won’t work properly. It’s not the inconvenience that bothers me so much, though. It’s the disrespect.
I tell Mr. Maserati, “Being unable to walk is more than an inconvenience.”
“Hey, buddy, I understand,” he says, in that same patronizing tone of voice. “It’s tough. I get it. I had my leg in a cast for a month after a football injury, so I get it. I sympathize. Mmm-kay, buddy? Attaboy.”
He makes a move like he is going to pat me on the head. I swing a fist at him.
“Whoa!” he chuckles, stepping easily out of the radius of my punch. “You’re a feisty one!”
Then he waves a dismissive hand at me and turns back to Khalid. “So, what’s it gonna be, Gandhi? I’m not moving until you give me my stuff. I can stand here all night if I have to.”
Khalid folds his arms across his chest. “So can I.”
“You’re not gonna win this, kid.”
“It is you who is not going to win this, sir.”
“Do you know who I am?” Mr. Maserati says.
“Do you know who I am?” the Sheik counters.
It looks like this standoff is going to last for a while.
I wheel myself back through the stockroom of the Gas ’n’ Snak, past the now-broken “Employees Only” washroom door, to the utility closet where they keep the tools. It’s a bit of a stretch from down here, but I manage to reach up high and pull free a narrow-tipped screwdriver from its clip on the tool board. This ought to do the trick.
I push my chair through the steel-plated “Deliveries Only” entrance and out into the parking lot. The narrow tires of my wheelchair hum against the asphalt as I speed toward the gleaming, midnight-blue Maserati. It is a beautiful car; too bad it’s owned by such an asshole.
I reach down and twist off the black rubber cap from the valve on the Maserati’s front passenger-side tire. There is a satisfying HISSSSSSSSSSSSSS as I jam the tip of the screwdriver into the valve. It doesn’t take long for the low-profile, rubber band tire to deflate.
I wheel backward and give the rear tire the same treatment, then I roll around to the back of the car; I’m contemplating carving the word asshole into the gleaming paint above the licence plate frame that reads “Gasberg Exotic Sports Cars,” when Mr. Maserati barrels out from the Gas ’n’ Snak, his belly wobbling as he runs. A plastic Gas ’n’ Snak bag dangles from his right fist.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Khalid screams, sprinting after him. “You can’t leave without paying! Get back here!”
“Take it out of your pay, Gandhi!” Mr. Maserati cackles. “And don’t start fights with winners, loser!”
My tires squawk on the pavement as I race away from the Maserati as fast as my burning arms will move me. I almost dump my chair over as I turn the sharp corner to hide behind the Dumpster. I hear the car door slamming, the roar of the Maserati’s engine revving, the shriek of tires, Khalid’s voice hollering, “I’ve got you on video! I’ve got you on video!”
I peek around the corner of the Dumpster, just in time to see the speeding Maserati cut a corner too sharply; its door screeches against the side of a telephone pole.
“Attaboy,” I grumble.
Perhaps the driver oversteered because his tires were under-inflated. Too bad. Such a beautiful car.
Sorry about the inconvenience, buddy.
Property of Riskey and Gamble
From inside his cramped, putty-grey office cubicle, James Yeo is cold-calling a potential new client.
“No, Sheila — may I call you Sheila? — this isn’t a joke,” he says, repeating the target’s name over and over again to create a false sense of intimacy, as he has been trained to do. “Yes, Sheila, the name of our brokerage really is Riskey and Gamble Insurance.”
The company, of course, is named after James’s father-in-law, Harrison Riskey, and Baldric Gamble, Riskey’s best friend since their business school fraternity days. Among the expense-account raconteurs at their old boys’ club, they are known as Harry and Baldy, and much fun is made of the fact that Baldy sports a thick mane of silver-grey hair, while Harry’s dome is as smooth and polished as an infant’s baby-oiled bottom. As a pair, their “street names” remind James of the kinda gangsta boyz who’d mess ya up real bad fer missin’ a payment, but their five-thousand-dollar suits, hundred-thousand-dollar cars, and multi-million dollar homes put them in the exclusive category of privileged men who can afford to have others throw the punches for them.
“I assure you, Sheila,” James continues, reading from the script on the computer screen, “signing on with Riskey and Gamble is neither risky nor a gamble. However, insuring with our competition could be either, or both. Our company slogan is, and always has been, ‘Riskey and Gamble: Safe and Sound.’ ”
The slogan reminds James of Big Brother’s Doublespeak in George Orwell’s 1984: “War Is Peace,” “Freedom Is Slavery,” “Ignorance Is Strength,” “Risky Is Safe,” “A Gamble Is Sound.” He has never shared this observation with Harry or Baldy, though.
Once, when James joked that the cold calls would be a lot easier if they had just named the company Safe and Sound Insurance in the first place, Harry Riskey raged that “Real men put their real names on their accomplishments! That’s what real men do, Jimmy! Real men don’t hide behind fake names!”
Harry and Baldy roared with laughter, knowing that James used to play guitar and sing his original songs in pubs under the stage name James Why. (Incidentally, since coming to work at Riskey and Gamble, James has not performed live once. He has not written a single new song. He hardly even sings in the shower anymore.)
Harry and Baldy speed-walk through the office, neither interacting with any of their inferiors. Both men would rather be out on a members-only golf course or at the club drinking premium Scotch with other men in five-thousand-dollar suits. When they actually show up at their twenty-seventh-floor business, they prefer the sunlit, polished-wood panelling of their adjacent corner offices to the fluorescent glare and putty-grey of their minions’ cubicles. Also, Harry and Baldy’s offices have well-stocked mini-bars, while the proles make do with a coin-operated coffee machine (currently out of order).
As Harry Riskey passes James’s cubicle, he grunts, “Gawd-dammit, Jimmy, I’m not paying you to daydream.”
James hates it when Harry calls him “Jimmy.” It makes him feel like some subservient pup, nipping hopefully at the Big Boss’s heels (which is exactly how Harry Riskey wants his son-in-law to feel). It is never wise to correct Harry, though, so James once again allows himself to be called “Jimmy.”
“Well, actually,” James says, “I just got off a call with a client who agreed to —”
“Then get on another call!” Riskey barks. “Selling insurance policies pays the bills around here, and your salary is one of the bills. So sell some more gawd-damned insurance policies, Jimmy!”
James assumes that Harry’s aggression is just alpha-male posturing meant to impress Baldy, but he still finds the bile difficult to swallow. Thanks to his friend Ranjeev in Accounting, James knows that he is the top salesperson in his division, yet he takes home the lowest salary. But he also knows better than to complain. Riskey and Gamble Insurance has a closed compensation system, meaning that nobody is allowed to know how much money anyone else makes. The theory is that removing wage competition between employees creates a more “trusting” work environment. This “trust” is well enforced, contractually: Any employee of Riskey and Gamble can and will be terminated without severance for revealing their financial compensation to another employee.
“Well, don’t just sit there with your mouth open, Jimmy,” Harry huffs over his shoulder as he struts away from James’s cubicle, “get on another call, for Chrissakes! Winners wi
n, and losers lose. You have to decide which one you’re going to be, and be it. Have you even started reading the Book yet?”
Of course, “the Book” that Harry is referring to is:
YOU DESERVE BETTER!
YOU DESERVE MORE!
Rule the Boardroom! Rule the Bedroom! Rule the World!
Harry was overjoyed when he discovered that there was already a copy in James and Sidney’s house; he and Baldy both have signed copies displayed prominently atop the desks in their respective corner offices.
James ignores the question about the Book, and says, “Actually, Harry, I’m just wrapping up my cold-calling docket, so I can —”
Harry stops in his tracks, and, without turning around, says, “Don’t call me Harry when we’re in the office, Jimmy.”
“Um, sorry, Mr. Riskey,” James rephrases, “but what I was trying to say earlier was that I’m wrapping up my calls for the day because I’ve got the afternoon off. I cleared it with Sanchez last week. If I don’t leave right now, I’ll be late for my appointment.”
“You can reschedule your manicure for the weekend, Jimmy,” Harry says.
From inside his office, Baldy guffaws and then breaks into one of his frequent coughing fits. His daily lunchtime cigar-and-cognac habit isn’t doing his aging body any favours.
“Well, actually, Mr. Riskey,” James says, “it’s a medical appointment. Um, you know, a follow-up medical appointment.”
Harry Riskey spins around, strides back over to James’s cubicle. He towers over his son-in-law, raising his chin so that the point on his impeccably trimmed beard is aimed right between James’s eyes, like an ancient king staring down an inept serf. Twice a week, Harry pays more than James earns in a day to have his grey facial hair groomed like the putting greens at his members-only club.
“Jimmy,” he says in a stage whisper, “is this about your sperm count?”
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