View From a Wheel Chair- A Fiction Piece

Sitting here in my wheelchair, I barely recognize my own neighborhood. Living here for the past twenty years, I thought I knew every detail about it. Every pot hole on the sidewalk, every tree, every bush, now looks different for some reason. The legs that once pounded the pavement in front of my house now sit lifelessly below my waist. The familiar trees that used to scoop me up with their branches now hang their heads in pity. Their branches droop down towards the dead grass as if trying to say they are sorry for what I’ve been through. The birds perched on my window ledge whistle to one another. They are gossiping about me; about how I’m always alone. Perhaps they are asking where the bird seed is that I always used to leave out. I feel worthless as I look at my overgrown flower beds and dried up plants. I took walking for granted. I would give anything just to run down my drive way and pick up the mail. The doctor says there is a chance that my legs may get better. I keep waiting for the day that I can feel them again.
The comforting scents of fresh fruit and cinnamon in my house have been replaced with a stench of decaying wood. I look around my bedroom and notice white paint chipping off the wall. A beige coat of paint shows underneath it, and it makes the walls look dirty. I feel dirty. My house is dirty. How the hell am I supposed to clean when I can’t leave this damn wheelchair? The thought of making a ramp down my front porch crosses my mind. Crawling down the stairs and back into the chair is getting a little tedious. As I glance at the calendar on my wall, I realize I haven’t left my house in over a month. I’m ashamed by the fact that my own reckless driving has led me to where I am now. I watch people slow down as they pass my house. They’re probably thinking, “What a sad old man, just couldn’t put that bottle down.”
No way I’m letting them see me like this. Sometimes at night, the kids knock on my door. I can hear them giggling as my wheels squeak down the front hall. When I finally manage to open the door, no one is there. In the distance I can see small figures running and laughing at the prank they have just pulled. I hate kids. I remember when there were only 5 or 6 houses in this neighborhood. Everybody knew everybody. Neighbors were kind to one another. Just last week I had to buy a security alarm because of all the recent robberies around the block. Not once has anyone offered to cook me dinner or take me to the grocery store. Isn’t that what neighbors are supposed to do? Granted, I never did anything for anybody before my accident. I was always cordial though; probably because I was too drunk to care.
Today is Saturday. The last time I showered was four days ago when my sister came by and helped me. Before the accident, we hadn’t spoken in almost 15 years. She is the only one in my family who will talk to me now. She says she feels sorry for me. I bet she never thought she’d end up with a drunken, paraplegic brother. Hell, I never thought I would end up like this. Having to let someone help my old, wrinkly body get in and out of the bath tub is pathetic. Sitting here, I contemplate showering on my own. I smell like rotten onions mixed with Bourbon. The smell reminds me that I’m out of alcohol too. The whole “being sober” thing gives me way too much time to reflect on things. I’m not ready to reflect yet. Finding someone to buy me liquor has become such a pain. I have a hard time getting anyone who knows me to buy it. I guess they feel guilty contributing to the habits of an alcoholic.
Looking out my window I see a barbecue going on across the street. I bet they have alcohol. I open my window and the aroma of grilled meat flows into my room. My stomach gurgles. I’ve been living on spam and rice for the past month. How much effort would it take to get across the street? The reward would surely be worth it. I think of what I’ll say when I finally get there. I picture a crowd of people standing around making small talk about meaningless shit. Maybe they won’t even notice the smelly, old man in the wheelchair. Who the hell am I kidding?

-Lauren Rowe