JON KORNER

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To the Man in the Motorized Wheelchair

You have restored my faith in humanity.

Lamentably, I work in the Lloyd District, and the largest assortment of food offerings in one place is, in fact, that true testament to the Portland Ghetto zeitgeist, The Lloyd Centre Mall. As I was walking toward the down escalator near the cinemas, having procured my foodstuffs, I noted a group of kids in front of me that should, undoubtedly, have been sitting in class in their middle school and were probably reveling in their shared truancy. As they walked, you came zipping around into their path in a motorized wheelchair like the place was the Portland International Raceway.

The quartet of young punks either did not notice or did not care enough to cede the right of way. That did not seem to phase you. No—you plowed right into the middle of them slammed to a stop, and grouchily shouted something akin to, ‘Jesus Christ! Move, motherfucker!’ out of your toothless maw.

I assure you that the profanity was utterly delicious.

Then you shoved down on that chair’s joystick and took off at a speed that indicated that the world had damned well better move for you.

The kids looked on in disbelief. I think on some level they were too flabbergasted to be offended.

Is it wrong that the cockles of my dark little heart just warmed at you schooling those young punks? And is it wrong that I then thought of myself in my old age shouting at kids to get off my lawn? There is hope. There are young punks a-plenty, and it is my most fervent wish that I get to plow down as many as my heart desires when I’m flying around the mall, my colostomy bag blazing like a standard.

Sir, I salute you. Huzzah!