Read Online Rockets Versus Gravity by Richard Scarsbrook - Free Book Online Page B

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.”
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œWhoa, buddy!” Mr. Maserati says. “You got Tourette’s or something?”
    I repeat, “Move your fucking car.”
    â€œI’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 available; 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. ”
    â€œHey, 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.
    â€œWhoa!” 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.”
    â€œYou’re not gonna win this, kid.”
    â€œIt is you who is not going to win this, sir .”
    â€œDo you know who I am?” Mr. Maserati says.
    â€œDo 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