I usually don’t write about personal matters on this blog, but I felt compelled to write about my dealings with a certain state-run organization. So if you are looking for snarky comments about music, wrestling or popular culture, please read another article.
Before I left for the Ottobar last weekend, I noticed that I needed to get more business cards made. My friend, Cara, was coming over to hang out on Friday, so I asked her if she wanted to come with. No big deal.
I have a van with a lift, but my parents don’t like my friends to drive it. This is completely understandable, since the van is really expensive. I can’t drive because I have problems with spacial concepts (directions, knowing left from right, ECT.) So I called MTA Mobility to arrange a ride.
Mobility is a door to door van service funded by the state. It’s essentially a bus for handicapped people, except you have to arrange rides ahead of time. This sounds easy in theory, but as with all state-run organizations for handicapped people, it never quite works the way it’s supposed to.
I knew I was in trouble the moment the operator picked up.
“MTA Mobility, what is your ID number?”
This was totally new. When I called for a ride two weeks ago, they just asked for my address. I didn’t have my ID card on me, so I asked if I could give my name.
“*sigh* OK sir, but you need to know your ID number next time.”
This is the calling card of the Mobility office. Since they are completely incompetent, they need to make the consumer sound like a moron. It boosts their meager self-esteem.
After the woman explained the importance of ID numbers, she finally asked me where I was going.
“Staples on York Road.”
“What will you be doing there?”
I thought “I’m going to Staples,” was self-explanatory, but then I overestimated the intelligence of this woman. Perhaps there is a brothel behind the copier and she was waiting to hear the password.
“Will you have a PCA with you?”
PCA stands for “Personal Care Assistant,” because handicapped people aren’t allowed to have unpaid upright friends. If you are one of my upright friends, your check is in the mail.
“Yes.”
“What time do you need to be picked up?”
“10:00.”
“I’m sorry sir. We have no 10:00 vans on schedule for Friday. How about 9:15?”
Mobility has a several hundred vans roaming around the state, but they won’t pick you up at 10:00. An hour earlier is better though, because I want to hang out at Staples for an extra hour. It’s such a thrilling place.
In this era of political correctness, handicapped people can supposedly do whatever the uprights can do. There are dozens of Very Special Episodes where a handicapped kid moves to town and the precocious kid (Webster, Arnold Jackson, Michelle Tanner, Zack Morris), doesn’t know how to deal with him. There are some comical misunderstandings and then there is a game of wheelchair basketball, because sports are apparently the only way that the upright man can communicate with us. Everybody learns a Big Important Lesson and then Jessie overdoses on caffeine pills. I can supposedly do anything, but going on an errand is impossible. It makes no sense.
Mobility was founded upon the idea that handicapped people needed public transportation to get to a doctor’s appointment or their job at Walgreens. It might interest Mobility to know that I am a taxpayer. I have a job that doesn’t involve watering plants. I pay rent. I’ve made major purchases. When I take a pretty girl out to dinner, she’s not going out of pity. I’ve gotten drunk on purpose. I can discuss great works of literature. I am not Christopher Reeve, Geri Jewell, Corky or any other “inspirational” cripple that you say I should be inspired by. I am a man, and I am tired of being talked down to.