There are many interesting experiences that I have had in connection with being in a wheelchair. One of them which is surprisingly common is this one – someone asks me, “Hwah don’t yew jest hook up a coupla jet engines to that bad boy and let ‘er gyo?”* What follows is my official reply to that question.
First of all, I understand the sheer pleasure that could easily be derived from watching me put miniature jet engines on my wheelchair and rocket off into the wild blue yonder (thus the title of my piece). I might even pay good money to see it. I am not even disputing the possibility that some in my condition have even tried it. I can only explain to you why I have not yet done it and have no intention of ever doing it.
I am a very conservative person by nature, and not just politically. I like to know the risks and rewards involved in something before in turn involving myself in it. Those who know me best know that I don’t do anything on the spur of the moment (except perhaps eat a plate of pasta, go to a bookstore, or accept money); they will also tell you that I don’t quickly do many things that depart from my tried and true habits. Let us examine the suggested mode of action and see if we can find its risks and rewards.
The rewards of becoming a human firework are pretty straightforward for those who witness the event – a rush of adrenaline, followed by a clap of hands, a loud whoop, and an exclamation (not unlike Baby Sinclair on “Dinosaurs”) of “Again!” The risk side of the ledger seems to be heavily weighted against the human firework (me in this particular proposition).
On a couple campouts in the beautiful hill country of Texas, I have experienced something akin to this rocket business. On these occasions, while descending a very steep hill, my ever-increasing speed has become quite unmanageable; all attempts to control my wheels have been met with burning rebukes to the skin on my palms. At this point, the only alternatives are to bail out of the chair itself, or to follow it wherever it may lead, most likely into the ditch at the bottom of the hill (at least it doesn’t take very long). This is without any artificial speed-boosters. Imagine the extent of my helplessness when strapped to a rocket-equipped wheelchair.
Nor is that all. I have witnessed how Rosharonites shoot their real fireworks, and believe me, it’s not a study in accuracy. Sure, you may point me down the road, but what if I suddenly veer off sharply toward that mobile home on the left? There are other obstructions in my neighborhood, and if I was to hit any one of them at such speeds, I would be a victim of injuries usually cured only with extensive casts and long bed-rest. Even if I emerged with only bruises from wherever I came to a stop, my wheelchair may not be so fortunate. Now, wheelchairs are surprisingly expensive things these days, and one happens to be my most important means of transportation when out and about. I doubt anyone has approached you and offered to put rocket boosters on your shoes to see if you could walk faster.
Call me stubborn; call me rigid. Call me a boring party-pooper. I can only say that if anyone ever asks me the question referred to above, this is the rationale behind my probable answer of “No, thanks, but I think I’d rather not.”
*Author’s Note: Three brief words of explanation are called for here. First, I am in no way implying that everyone who has ever asked me this question has had a Southern accent. I am one of those writers who believe that dialect spices up dialogue (forgive me if you don’t share that belief), and not having any particular accent myself, I enjoy mimicking and poking fun at many dialects, including Southern, Northeast, Midwest, Western, and sometimes foreign. My favorite dialect for humorous exploitation is the Texas accent, which I attempt to reproduce in this piece. Second, I am quite aware of the glaring gender discrepancy between “bad boy” and “her”. I am not quite sure that my fellow inhabitants of Rosharon wouldn’t be quite comfortable with such a discrepancy. While on a walk (though not walking) through my neighborhood one day, I greeted a little girl, who promptly replied “You’re welcome”. Given a discrepancy of that magnitude, a small inconsistency of grammar is not inconceivable in the least. Third, the word rendered “gyo” here is really the word “go”. It is not pronounced “jigh-oh”, but is instead taken all at one syllable with a hard g, as written. It is my weak attempt to reproduce in writing the manner in which some Texans pronounce the word “go”. I could convey it better through speech, but that isn’t possible here. If all this dialect nonsense is not appealing to you in the least, you may, if you like, email me for a copy of the “corrected” version of this piece. Carry on.
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