I’m not proud of it, but I have a confession to make: I got in a fight with a garbage can.
It was garbage pick-up day, and as a surfed the sidewalk in my powerchair on my way home from work, I went around a garbage can on its side, blocking much of my path.
Thump, thump, thump.
I look down the side of my powerchair, and the garbage can is somehow stuck on my powerchair, my drive wheel in its opening as if specially fitted.
I spin left, and the garbage can turns with me. I spin right, and the garbage can follows. I use my one hand to push away the garbage hand, while operating my powerchair with my other hand, and the spinning garbage can about rips my hand off as it continues rolling with my wheel.
“Alright, you piece of garbage,” I yell at the can, “let’s go for a little ride.”
I shoot out onto the empty street, the garbage can’s handles thumping in cadence as they hit the ground in rotation. I spin crazy doughnuts, and the garbage can stays on. I make reverse U-turns, crazy forward S-turns, and the garbage can still maintains its seeming suction to my wheel. I slam the garbage can off a curb a few times, trying to trash the trash can, smashing the bottom section into its own eccentric shape – all to no avail, with it remaining an unforgiving appendage of my powerchair.
So, I head home. I cruise down the street, full throttle, garbage can jetting from my side, beating like a drum as the handles bounce off the asphalt at an 8.5mph rotation. I don’t know how I’m getting in my house, like a dog with a stick in its mouth too wide for the doorway, but I can’t spend all evening zigzagging down the street like pinball, trying to shake the garbage can off of me.
Two blocks into my high-speed pace, the garbage can finally gives up, flying off of my wheel, rolling beside me for a few feet, then spinning off to the side. I turn my powerchair around, get a good, running start, and slam the garbage can with the front of my powerchair, punting it onto the sidewalk.
“I hope you never find your way back home, you rotten piece of garbage,” I yell
“Are you OK?” a woman asks from a porch, startling me.
“Yea – but that stinking trash can might need some help,” I say, spinning around, heading home.
PowerchairDiaries 