A DAY OUT FROM ST TIMMY'S
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A DAY OUT FROM ST TIMMY'S
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I call Wednesdays to arrange a tardvan ride out of here to the
closest not-messed-up intercity commuter train station, part of
the Bay Area Rapid Transit system aka Bay Area Rancid Trapid,
BART, or when we are really pissed at it, FART.
The tardvan dispatcher who takes my call is usually snotty. I
figure she didn't get any dick last night, either, but why clue
me in on her frustration? I can't have nine o'clock pickups any
more. Nine to ten is reserved for medical appointments. I have
to be picked up at quarter til or after ten o'clock because my
privileges are non-essential and for pleasure. Therefore I pay
two dollars a trip instead of a quarter.
I like to get back to this area before darkness and the cold
winds off the Bay start up, so I arrange to be picked up at the
station at five o'clock. If I enter the BART system by four
o'clock, I should have no trouble getting my ass in place to be
picked up and carted back to the tardfarm where my delicious
evening meal of overcooked carrot medallions and whatever they
had left over from lunch will be the veg. The main item will
likely be a sandwich made out of something they had to grind up
to hide, and lubed with too much mayonnaise. There will be the
soup water which I never touch, and the canned diced fruit of
some sort. It never fails: If I get a sandwich, I will get a
piece of bread cut in half and wrapped in SaranStuff. I only get
one piece of toast at breakfast, so I often save the bread for
morning. It somehow makes more sense than what the kitchen
thinks -- if they think.
I woof breakfast and scream and bitch if I don't have wash water
and towels by eight o'clock. I have to have my pussy swooshed
and wiggled into my tardpants and have all my shit ready to roll
by half past eight. Then I go sign myself out if anyone is
around. If they aren't I just haul ass. I will get yelled at
later but I don't care. I made it clear on more than one
ocassion that when I come to the desk, I want something. I am
not there like Jack to just grin and look stoopid. bless his
Alzheimered old soul.
I push my way out the sally port and down the bumpy asphalt and
into the uneven and now pot holed parking lot/driveway.
Carefully avoiding tarmac fractured from the dual wrath of
puddles and pressure, I snake my way out to the street.
Today there is a new hole big enough to ruin a Monroematic let
alone pitch me ass over teakettle.
Here I sit on the sidewalk at the side of Tardfarm Road waiting
on the big white van. The driver comes on time, wonder of
wonders and pulls to the sidewalk, jumps out, and opens the back
door so the lift and be let down. I roll on and get partly
strapped in. With a great the lift carries my
Dignity and Throne up to the floor of the van. The driver wheels
me inside and ties me down so I won't roll around like a loose
marble. He's a sistah-girfren and we just camp it up. He got so
carried away with my Charming Presence last time that he forgot
to retrieve his gate belt from around my Queenly Corpulence. I
was in Sodom by the Sea (San Francisco) before I realized I
really did look like a tard. And, dammit, I forgot to drool for
the nice people!
Miss Kooky met me in the SF station this time. We waited around
for Mr Cheez who didn't show up and went to have lunch in
Wendy's. This was the first time in months I'd had Wendy's Chili
and so I had to eat two bowls. I had an honest-to-Glub unfucked-
with baked potato all to myself. Tardfarm potatoes come in two
varieties, out of a box and overcooked and out of a can and
overcooked.
We browsed all three floors of Virgin Records super mega store
and found their cafe on the third level and overlooking Market,
Stockton and Ellis Streets. If I move to the Royal Residence as
I plan, I can coast down the grade and into Virgin Records and
hold court in the cafe daily. The 85-cent house coffee will
definitely wake you up. Then I'll get one of the studly
employees to push my ass back to the palace. Ha.
Getting pushed may only be necessary if my batteries fail. Miss
Ralph, bless her soul, finally said the! right! exact! words! to
Cruella Cross to get them to come across with a wheelchair for
me. They won't buy out this Breezy I've been using and so it
will have to go back to the company who have been renting it to
me all this time (or who think they have but ERR didn't bother to
clarify this) (I thought state medicaid bought it for me). Miss
Ralph said to Cruella, she said, Tardfarms do not have to provide
wheelchairs for residents who require a chair over 18 inches
wide. Miss Ralph held Cruella down til she said we will buy the
Queen of Alt.Tasteless a fucking chair. It will be powered.
I'm not sure how well a powered chair will work in the house. I
was hoping to have both because a manual -- especially this one -
- is so maneuverable in tight spaces. Well, I had a nice time
with Kooky and so back to the tardfarm I head, none too soon
because the first train going my way after we got to the platform
came at quarter after four.
One nice thing about being a gimp and riding BART is that nobody
pays any attention to a wheelchair using the elevators to move
through the station. I always have a dollar ticket on my person
to be legal. If I got caught, I would say (and this is often the
truth) there was no one to put my ticket through the gate for me;
instead of being late I came on in. If they ask why I only have
a minimum ticket, I say because my friend is going to make up the
fare when I get there cuz I'se po' and not set up for gimpy
tickets yet.
The train pulls into my station at five minutes to five. I have
just enough time to haul ass down the elevator and over to the
place where the tardvan parks. I get ready at the doors so that
when they open I can back out onto the platform quickly
in order to keep my swiveling small front wheels straight and to
bring them across the gap between platform and car without my
getting hung up and requiring a bit of a lift.
The next thing I know, I have suddenly dropped about a
foot closer to the floor and I have simultaneously spilled my
bigass off onto said floor, landing on my face and with my leg
bent up under me. Instant pain from head to toe. I collect all
my marbles and take a quick inventory of my body parts, yes, one
leg still attached, let's see if I can move it. Can I roll over
onto my side? I find out I can roll over onto my side and that
everything seems to be present and accounted for.
By this time people are jumping out of their seats and asking
each other What happened. Some dude says, Can you get up? I
say, I don't think so. He says, Are you hurt? I say, I am not
sure. The train operator must have seen my chair blocking the
doors. I don't think the train can move with a door ajar but I
wouldn't want to bet my other leg on it.
Back doors on city buses have been known to drag people,
including me one time -- I never used a back door of a city bus
again and I told any bitchy driver exactly why.
The train operator called his equivalent of 911. I'm not sure if
the emergency people or other passengers or both did it, but four
people took hold of me as I directed them to do and put me back
in my chair with the so-called Airplane Lift. This is executed
by holding the victim by the upper arms and making sure to hold
his arms against his body in order not to cause shoulder
dislocation, thankyouGlub.
Somebody else steered my leg and I was once again on my portable
throne. By this time I realized I was going to have sore muscles
all over my royal body, but I had sustained no major damage. My
dignity was quite shattered. As I relaxed into my throne, I felt
the comforting cool nylon of the upholstery cradle my pearlescent
white ass that so excites Miss Ralph til I am going to have to
slap the bitch one of these times. Why does this fabric feel so
cold...? Omiglub! -- my pants are half off! I have given a free
show of the Royal Full Moon to an 80-passenger load of commuters!
And I didn't get one fucking phone number, either!
Now all collected and settled, I thanked one and all profusely
and got my embarrassed ass out of there. When I got to the
street, the station agent had forms to fill out so they can
expect the lawsuit or whatever they think. I missed my van ride.
I called the tardfarm and asked for Miss Ralph. Luckily she
hadn't left for the day.
They were having Open House to celebrate the completion of the
redecorating. We have tastefully buff corridors now and
wallpaper accents here and there. We have a rather pedestrian
mural in the dining room. I've seen better art on the side of
the tractor trailers parked at the state fair inviting the shills
in for a look at the lifelike wax figures of the Last Supper.
Miss Ralph said, Thank God you called, girl, cuz I want to get my
black ass out of here! These people all standin' around gigglin'
an' simperin' are about to drive me wild! Miss Ralph said she
went home earlier (lives across the street -- how
conveeeeenient!) and downed three shots of vodka to insure a Good
Mood and to be able to Take It.
She showed up in her jellybean car in a quick minute. We got my
ass slid into the front seat without too much problem. I was
rapidly getting sore as a motherfucker from the various yankings
and bendings my delicate self had been put through by Mean Mr
Gravity. I wasn't much help maneuvering myself.
Miss Ralph just grabbed hold of my pants and yanked. The bitch
started making suggestive comments again about how she likes that
white ass and wants to get up in that stuff. I am going to have
to beat her off with a stick cuz I ain't no lezbean. All two
queens can is bump pussies anyway. We got my ass hauled back to
the farm where my delicious supper yuck was waiting, dead cold.
I ignored it and got a Diet Pepsi and a bag of Fritos. That's
250 calories, so just shut the fuck up.
By the next morning I was sore from head to toe. As it write
this, it is three days later and I am over it, but the incident
has convinced me I am playing a risky game using this indoor,
tractionless chair for general transportation. Further trips out
are in abeyance until I get my new wheels, wheels which are
designed to be used on the street and in conveyances. I have
been lucky until now. Maybe Glub is upset because I cheat on the
fares...?
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