Pop Goes the Wheelchair

By and large, the cripple's existence -- this one's, anyway -- is a quiet one. Not always, though.

Yesterday I was sitting in my wheelchair, writing something profound/reading obituaries/surfing porn (take your pick), when I heard an odd, soft little noise: Pop. Pop pop. Pop.

"What's that sound?" I asked Dan. He didn't hear it at first, but then it continued. Pop pop. Pop. Pop pop pop.

"It's coming from my chair," I said helpfully.

He did a quick scan, and when his eyes reached the wheel facing him, they bugged out of his head. He leapt backwards a split second before the tire exploded with a skull-shattering crack, spraying black flecks across the room and leaving the chair -- and me -- listing forlornly to starboard.

Dan later told me that a bloated stretch of inner tube "the size of a clementine" had somehow squeezed out between the rim and the tire. Not an orange or a tangerine, mind you, but a clementine. I think he might be gay.

The chair is now fixed, but my nerves are still a bit frayed. If there are any loud noises in my near future, I hope they come from the TV and not from under my butt. Looking back, though, I did find one point of pride: Neither of us shrieked.