Sometimes when I clean out my computer and get organized, I find stuff I’ve written that I didn’t even know I wrote. Yesterday I threw everything that appeared like it might be writing into a “writing” file (Maybe there’s hope for me yet.) Tonight I went in there to try to figure out what it all was and found this. As usual, nothing is ever edited. I write. I forget it. This one touched me and was based on a real person, although he didn’t have Parkinson’s, he had ALS.

Enjoy.

Collision

(I can’t do this by myself much longer.) He had struggled to get onto the motorized cart at the entrance to the Safeway. The cab driver was not Eddie this time. (I need to make sure to he’s working on grocery days. ) Getting into the taxi Bob had bumped the crown of his head as he dropped into the seat. Eddie always made sure to shield his head with his massive hand and guide him down to the seat, then gently pick up his legs to swivel them into the car. Eddie would help him into the store and make sure he was safely on the cart, and would take his lunch at the deli counter so that he could take Bob home when the shopping was finished.
Bob’s hands tremble now as they rest on the handlebars of the cart, his beige windbreaker partially unzipped reveals the red and blue plaid wool shirt beneath. (Damn, I’m overdressed). In the morning his house still held the chill of an October night and the wool shirt slipped on easily. He hadn’t even needed to turn up the thermostat. Now, with the deliberate effort of getting to the store, he was too warm. Taking off the windbreaker would reveal the remaining buttons that his fingers had been unable to cajole into the buttonholes. He had only been successful with the top two before giving up. The windbreaker would stay on. (I’ll need it anyway when I get to frozen foods.)
His hands stop trembling as he pushes the “forward” lever on the scooter, but as he approaches the end of the aisle his hands are unable to discern between squeezing the lever and turning the handlebars. The cart swerves around the corner too quickly and he lets go of the lever just in time to avoid a head on collision with a mother wearing a green fleece sweat suit, her hair tucked into a sports cap, her athletic shoes in overdrive, and who is also speeding. Her vehicle is equipped with a big orange plastic car on the front, “driven” by a red headed toddler girl and a passenger who appears to be her twin brother. They are in the process of digging through their boxes of animal crackers when their mother activates the emergency brake. Once their heads complete their inevitable forward movement and come back to a stop, in they gaze in unison at the man in the cart, their hands still buried in the cracker boxes, innocently staring him down.
Bob reaches up to remove his St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap and begins to apologize but the woman’s lips are clamped together in anger. She takes a deep breath in preparation to scold him but then she sees. His face has no expression at all, his eyes wide open, rarely blinking. His hands are trembling on the handlebars. She knows what she is seeing. Her father looked just like this. Parkinsons.
Bob’s eyes now reflect fear and apology as he wait for her angry words. (I’ll never be able to come here alone again). “So sorry” he whispers quietly, his lips not moving. The woman sees him glance at her children, who are still staring at this gnome of a man in wonderment, and she notices the slightest bit of dimple appear on his left cheek. Without moving his face, his eyes begin to sparkle as he looks at the twins. When he widens his eyes further they yield the staring contest to the old man, and they begin to giggle.
The woman’s shoulders soften as she laughs “you need a driver’s test!” He looks away from the children who are getting antsy to get the car moving – they beep the horn and grasp their fingers firmly around the steering wheel and shake it to make the care move again. “How old?” She leans down so she can look at his eyes to tell him they just turned three. “Have a grandson who’s three – lives in New York, don’t get to see him.” (I’ll probably die before I see him again).
The woman feels her eyes aching, her shoulders sink deeper, as she thinks of her twin’s grandpa, dead just six months ago. He was their only grandfather, she still grieves that her babies will grow and not remember him. She squints and tightens her throat to abort the rising sob. She asks Bob if she and her little ones can help him shop, but only on the condition that he will be a little more careful of his driving. She points to the children and recommends he watch them for tips. As he looks back at the children his trunk begins a gentle shaking as he laughs.
“My name is Andrea, and this is Jesse and Jaron.” “Bob” he whispers as he turns the cart around and they head down the cereal aisle, the twins giggling as he pretends to almost run into the side of their car over and over again.