Normal

Normal

By James S. Offenhartz

It hurts. Constantly hurts and it’s everywhere. I turn on the TV and see TLC’s show about planning a wedding. I go out to a restaurant to relax and I see the nuclear family. I can never have that, but feel the blood in my body longing for it. I go on Facebook and someone has made a birth announcement. I look at the comments: “Congratulations!” “Mozel Tov!” “We’re so happy. We’re finally going to be grandparents”. Birth announcements, wedding invitations, even going to the park and seeing couples making out pisses me off.  

***

“As an adult child, the government does not feel you have the mental, psychological, or financial resources to take on parenthood or to belong to a long term relationship. In fact, we, the U.S. Government, do not even recognize you as humans. We feel you are subhumans. Think of it this way. After the freedom of African Americans, African Americans wanted the right to vote and we told the African Americans that they were 3/5th of a person. Therefore, as 3/5ths of a person, they could not make a full vote. We recognize that you feel you are entitled to the UDHR (Universal Declaration of Human Rights), but here’s what you don’t understand: We, the government, do not feel you, or certain others with disabilities, are human. We feel you are subhumans. And being, hmm, let’s think, 1/5th of a person, you do not have the right to get married, have children, or adopt children.”

***

I took out my Bar Mitzvah VHS tape and I saw myself reading the half-Torah which my mom had color coordinated so I could remember where to sing what. I saw myself reading from the holy Torah with a yod. Then, I saw the part which disturbs me. I saw the president of the men’s society of the Synogogue come up with a gift. It was a Kiddish Cup, to be used at Friday Night Sabbaths. It was actually a nice cup. Then he said the words which always make my adrenaline run.

“Someday we hope you’ll use this at your wedding.”

So much for that, huh?

I remember, I had a relative who killed himself since he saw everyone else with a permanent home, two cars, a wife, and children and I’ve often thought about following in his footsteps. 

   In an improv game called, “Mr. know it all” where three people are on stage and they only answer one word at a time.  One person says one word to the answer, then the next person gives the next word, etc. I asked what was the meaning of life. Mr. know it all wisely said, “The meaning of life is to reproduce.”  

Uncle Sam still has me living at the psych ward, though, where I am not allowed to touch anyone or else I’m put in “solitary confinement”. But I’m allowed to go to Starbucks unaccompanied once a week on Sundays for two hours for “socialization,” whatever that means. I was not there (the psych ward) because I am suicidal or insane, I am there because Social Security could only afford the rent at this bleeping rat hole.   

I no longer stand for the pledge of allegiance since liberty and justice do not apply to me. I’ve been told, if you don’t like America, why don’t you just leave? It’s because the government won’t allow people with disabilities to travel. Then we might go somewhere Uncle Sam doesn’t approve of. 

I am physically able to have my own children. I can feel in my heart that God wants me to reproduce and my DNA is begging me to keep my genes alive, but Uncle Sam is a bastard and thinks he knows better. No one likes to look at the disabled. When kids stare at me, their parents tell them not to be rude. Sometimes on the news I see people in wheelchairs getting married. My aunts and uncles always told me that some day I’d find a nice young woman who would marry me. Those were all lies. Forget it.  

It just really hurts in my heart sometimes, you know? I’m sitting at this. Starbucks thinking that all my friends from high school are married and having kids and I’m not, you know? Oh, right. You wouldn’t know. You would never know. So, okay. Just keep staring at me. Drink your bleeping cup of coffee and stare it me. Keep staring. Just keep staring at me in this bleeping Starbucks while I drink coffee. Really interesting, me drinking coffee. Astonishing. Me drinking coffee. So, just keep staring. Keep . . . 

Wait, that’s unusual. Forget unusual, it’s either a mistake or an inconvenient coincidence. A young woman in beige shorts and a blue blouse is walking to my table from the table where it looks like her parents are and she’s smiling. She’s smiling at me? I must have said something to offend her or her parents ‘cause why else would she be coming over to my table instead of just staring at me like everyone else?  Then she comes right beside my table and with a smile and says, “Hi, my name is Lisa,” and she extends her hand like I’m a normal person. At first I’m dumbfounded. Is she trying to make fun of me or just being polite in order to make the next rude thing she says easier?

“Bill. My name is Bill,” I say.

We shake hands and everything feels like I’m normal, which is weird.  

“Me and my parents noticed you were sitting here alone and wanted to know if you’d like to come to our table?”

This must be a family bet. Bet you $20 you can’t get the weird looking guy to sit next to us at the table. So, I look into her hazel eyes. I can always tell if someone’s lying by looking in their eyes. Now, I can’t tell you how, but when I look into her hazel eyes, I can see she’s being real and really does want to be friends, so I go to her table. It doesn’t even look like pity in her eyes, it looks genuine.  

I stare at her eyes for a beat, and forgive me, but I take a brief glance at her cleavage, but then I look back at her eyes. I smile, which for me is unusual.

“Yes. Thank you,” I say.  

I walk over and she holds my hand, not like a mother holds her son’s, but like a couple holds hands. But, maybe she just thinks I’ll fall down because I’m handicapped.  

“Mom, Dad, this is Bill. He says he’d love to have coffee with us.”

I put my coffee on the table. I must be dreaming, but I pinch myself and I don’t wake up. Oh veh, this could be real. Then there’s that awkward silence. Her parents introduce themselves. Her mother’s name is Susan and her father’s name is Bob. And then I notice, we actually look like a nuclear family or at least a pretend nuclear family.

We start to talk about the things normal people talk about. We talk about the weather, sports teams, current events, sales in the area, normal stuff. I start to smile and again have an “accidental” look at Lisa’s cleavage, but thankfully no one notices. Then, it comes into my head that maybe I should ask for Lisa’s number. I finished my cup of coffee then, trying not to give off chuspa, I say, “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you. I’d like to talk more sometime. Could I get your number? I mean, could I please get your phone number? There was another awkward pause, then Susan said, “Not yet, but maybe me and my family could meet you here next week the same time and when I get to know you better, then I’ll give you my number.”

I said that sounded ok and excused myself to get a refill. I came back and a white man in a white coat told me my two hours were up. The bleeping psyche ward needed to take me back “home”. I sighed and told Susan and her family I had to go home.  

Then, I looked into Susan’s eyes. I didn’t know whether it was too soon to hug Susan, so waited for her to either put her hand out or put her arms out. She just looked at me with her sincere smile. Maybe she was wondering the same thing., So, I put my arms out and gave her a hug. She hugged me back. I also wound up giving her mom and dad hugs.

Lisa smiled and said, “We’ll see you next week.”

“Yes, I’ll be here,”I said.

Then, for once, I noticed no one in the Starbucks was staring at me. They’d lost all interest in looking at me as a weirdo once I’d become part of a nuclear family. Wow. 

That was the first time in three years I walked out of Starbucks with a smile on my face. The coffee was great every time, but for once, customers made me happy. Customers. I headed back to the ambulance and opened the passenger door. Maybe I should have given her my phone number instead.