Ever since I lost my left leg during an intense firefight in Vietnam, things haven't quite been the same for me. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and the world just feels odd and distorted, like a child with down syndrome. I just want to get out of bed and run into my parent's arms to keep from crying, but Daddy beat me last night and I'm still bitter about that. Sulking doesn't help -- that just gets me more pissed off. So, I tried the whole emo/alternative thing, thinking it would help me cope with my depression, but I realized that those people are freaks and I hate dressing like an idiot. So, I did what any robust, young male with nothing to lose would do: I joined the Special Olympics. You want to talk about an empowering feeling? I could win at almost every event I competed in, even if I never tried it before. I was raking in gold medals left and right, an unstoppable Olympic force. About my only real competition was #413 whose specialty was shotput. That guy could really launch those things. Of course, he would fall flat on his face every single time but he got the job done so I could only really laugh behind his back. Still, it didn't take more more than a few rounds before I was able to figure out a strategy to beat him: I actually showed up for the event. Another gold medal for me. I had the whole wheelchair section giving me standing ovations. I was a superstar. I was somebody.
Then it all came crashing down. My pyramid of respect, my tower of self-adornment, toppled. Not since the fall of the Roman Empire has the world witnessed such an undertaking. The problem? Apparently, you have to actually have something wrong with you in order to compete in the Special Olympics. I learned later that's what the "special" part meant. I cried foul, yelled discrimination, but to no avail. The judges remained absolute in their findings. I tried to bribe the old one, figuring he was on a pension and could use the money, but he slapped my hand with a fury that did nothing more than sting. He must have been on viagra or something. They stripped me of everything, both my medals and my dignity. To be at one moment a national hero and then a disgrace the next is not something easily dealt with. Most mortal men would have collapsed. But not me. I wasn't going to let them spin me back into a whining, one-legged hobo who lived at home so that his father could beat him because he couldn't run away so fast. Oh yes, I'd show them.
So, I turned to the only person I thought could help me in this matter: The Reverend Jesse Jackson. Jesse and I go way back, hanging with MLK Jr. at his post-rally parties and getting all non-violent. Those were great times. We kept in touch over the years, mostly with him writing me letters and referring to himself in the third person. I once told him that i was worried about him but I didn't really listen to how he answered. I think I was about to beat Super Mario Bros. or something equally important. After a brief phone call, he agrees to meet up with me. We have lunch together and Jesse looks distraught, more so than usual. Maybe one of his schizophrenic identities was acting up again. They do that from time to time. I asked him what was bothering him, content that I didn't really have to listen since lunch just arrived.
"Randy," he says, "I really hate white noise. You know why? White noise is busy trying to keep the other colored noise minorities down. What about black noise? Or yellow noise? Never hear much about them, do you? Nope, always with the damn white noise. Goddamned crackers. They got to take over and run noise, too. Can't leave nothing for the rest of us."
He pretty much lost me at "Randy." After he was done talking feverishly and breaking into a mean sweat at the table, I told him of my problem and asked for his help. He said that he knew a few people on the board and was friends with many of the athletes in the Special Olympics. We both had a good laugh at that last part. Like he gave a damn, I told him. We spent more at lunch than most of those athletes make a year. Hey, that's life though. Living the life of a Special Olympian was a dream come true. It helped me make sense of the life I wasn't sure I wanted. For once, I was putting the food on the table. I was the one handing out the beatings around the house. If I didn't get my medals back, that was all going to change. I wasn't sure I could handle that again. I'd have to get one of those "War Vet" signs and hang out on the street corners and play in traffic for cash. I'll admit that I was pretty good at the wheelchair dash but I didn't want to spend my life doing it for small change. I was an athlete, dammit.
It took Jesse a few days but he finally got back to me. He began explaining to me what happened and what he went through but, as usual, I tuned him out. He said the word "medal" a few times I think but he had just eaten something and crumbs kept flying out of his mouth. One hit me in the eye and made it water. Jesse took this as a cue that I was crying and pushed me over. That's really funny to do to a guy with one leg. It took me an hour or so to get up but Jesse was long gone. I never did find out what happened to my case or my medals. I've heard scattered reports of them appearing on eBay but I never seem to find them. They're just out of reach like a cupboard to a midget. Maybe someday I will be able to restore my former glory, to clear my record of charges like Michael Jackson did. Until then, I'll just suffer the beatings and ask nicely for change at 5th and G St.
Then it all came crashing down. My pyramid of respect, my tower of self-adornment, toppled. Not since the fall of the Roman Empire has the world witnessed such an undertaking. The problem? Apparently, you have to actually have something wrong with you in order to compete in the Special Olympics. I learned later that's what the "special" part meant. I cried foul, yelled discrimination, but to no avail. The judges remained absolute in their findings. I tried to bribe the old one, figuring he was on a pension and could use the money, but he slapped my hand with a fury that did nothing more than sting. He must have been on viagra or something. They stripped me of everything, both my medals and my dignity. To be at one moment a national hero and then a disgrace the next is not something easily dealt with. Most mortal men would have collapsed. But not me. I wasn't going to let them spin me back into a whining, one-legged hobo who lived at home so that his father could beat him because he couldn't run away so fast. Oh yes, I'd show them.
So, I turned to the only person I thought could help me in this matter: The Reverend Jesse Jackson. Jesse and I go way back, hanging with MLK Jr. at his post-rally parties and getting all non-violent. Those were great times. We kept in touch over the years, mostly with him writing me letters and referring to himself in the third person. I once told him that i was worried about him but I didn't really listen to how he answered. I think I was about to beat Super Mario Bros. or something equally important. After a brief phone call, he agrees to meet up with me. We have lunch together and Jesse looks distraught, more so than usual. Maybe one of his schizophrenic identities was acting up again. They do that from time to time. I asked him what was bothering him, content that I didn't really have to listen since lunch just arrived.
"Randy," he says, "I really hate white noise. You know why? White noise is busy trying to keep the other colored noise minorities down. What about black noise? Or yellow noise? Never hear much about them, do you? Nope, always with the damn white noise. Goddamned crackers. They got to take over and run noise, too. Can't leave nothing for the rest of us."
He pretty much lost me at "Randy." After he was done talking feverishly and breaking into a mean sweat at the table, I told him of my problem and asked for his help. He said that he knew a few people on the board and was friends with many of the athletes in the Special Olympics. We both had a good laugh at that last part. Like he gave a damn, I told him. We spent more at lunch than most of those athletes make a year. Hey, that's life though. Living the life of a Special Olympian was a dream come true. It helped me make sense of the life I wasn't sure I wanted. For once, I was putting the food on the table. I was the one handing out the beatings around the house. If I didn't get my medals back, that was all going to change. I wasn't sure I could handle that again. I'd have to get one of those "War Vet" signs and hang out on the street corners and play in traffic for cash. I'll admit that I was pretty good at the wheelchair dash but I didn't want to spend my life doing it for small change. I was an athlete, dammit.
It took Jesse a few days but he finally got back to me. He began explaining to me what happened and what he went through but, as usual, I tuned him out. He said the word "medal" a few times I think but he had just eaten something and crumbs kept flying out of his mouth. One hit me in the eye and made it water. Jesse took this as a cue that I was crying and pushed me over. That's really funny to do to a guy with one leg. It took me an hour or so to get up but Jesse was long gone. I never did find out what happened to my case or my medals. I've heard scattered reports of them appearing on eBay but I never seem to find them. They're just out of reach like a cupboard to a midget. Maybe someday I will be able to restore my former glory, to clear my record of charges like Michael Jackson did. Until then, I'll just suffer the beatings and ask nicely for change at 5th and G St.