The Crosswalk

Last week, after failing to find a pool hall, I passed a man standing proudly on his knees on the corner of Broad St. 

"Will, what's happening?"
"He's crossing the street."
"On his knees?"
"His legs are damaged."
"Why isn't he in a wheelchair?"
"I guess he prefers to walk."

I couldn't believe it: the streets are unnavigable enough on foot or by car. Under the same circumstances, I'm pretty sure I'd go the Homer Simpson route ("They have chairs with wheels? And here I am using my legs like a sucker").

I ran through all the reasons someone would make a difficult life more difficult. Then I thought of a friend who once confessed that his greatest fear was paralysis. (This had never even occurred to me as an option: my own recurring nightmares involve free fall and silent assailants.)

Could it be that some people, above all, simply want to carry their own bodies across this earth?

I didn't dare ask the man anything; I knew how it would go.

"Sir, why are you walking?"
"I'm too tired to jog."

"Sir, do you need help?"
"Yes. I've been waiting on this corner for you for twenty years."

"Sir, is your wheelchair nearby?"
"No. It's in the shop, along with my Mercedes."

Instead I went home, where I sat on a chair and talked myself out of a run.