My Cane
By: George Feigley
Cofounder
Years ago in Fort Wayne, Indiana, a fellow named Carr worked
for me. Like many Hoosiers, he was intellectually challenged.
The poor guy didn't realize that he was as dumb as a porcelain
doorknob. He imagined he was normal, even clever. Young Carr
fantasized himself an authority. Sadly, I was compelled to fire
him. He failed at restocking store shelves.
Perhaps the Indiana Carr is related to a guard of similar acumen at the punctilious Frackville state prison amid the defunct coal fields of East-Central Pennsylvania. The Pennsylvania relative isn't worth quite as much as the stockboy so I'll call him "Used-Carr." It turns out that "Used" is a rare expert in just about everything, a paragon, (albeit pedantic perspicacity) especially of the salubrious. The pugnaciously dismal jail, toxic with unnatural humors from derelict anthracite cankers, must be ecstatic to employ such an example of Johns Hopkins stature with encyclopedic physic. Like his putative Indiana kinsman, "Used-Carr" emanates the unfortunate redolence of ripe Brie, perhaps a consequence of the overly sebaceous diet fed to him free-of-charge at the prison. Both gentlemen share the elephantine physique of Iricsus, the Norse god of walrus cellulite. While expert in many specialities, the acme of "Used's" genius is with canes, you know, walking sticks, the props old folks use to hobble thither and occasionally yon. "Used-Carr" is, perhaps, the world's authority on canes! He'd be the first to tell you so. Like so many others, as I've sunk toward the end of my sixties, gout and arthritis have progressed. Often gout makes walking tentative, even treacherous. Arthritis sometimes makes knees and ankles recalcitrant. I've fallen several times. The doctor ordered a cane for me. Unwisely, the doctor prescribed my cane without first consulting with the esteemed Mister "Used," the recognized resident oracle on all things walking stick. Espying me limping to breakfast, the expert expressed his incredulity. First he pronounced a hardy snicker of disdain. Then he guffawed. Lastly, the cane-maestro muttered and sneered. Doubtless, he dismayed that a mere doctor had neglected to consult him before ordering a cane for a cripple like me. His manifest indignation motivated a chagrined complaint to the nearby guard sergeant; he carped loudly. I surmised that "Used" didn't like that I had an unapproved cane for nothing but painful gout and arthritis. He even criticized the way I was handling my stick. Didn't I respect sanctioned techniques of cane manipulation? For me, the cane was way too long. Holding it by the crook compressed my shoulder aggravating circulation problems of heart disease. "Used-Carr" cared only to scoff at my faulty cane-handling - and, without his prior-approval, the very idea! The sage Mister "Used" has been constrained to take umbrage with me in the past. He's an especially intimate friend of Ringtown Mike. That's enough to make me anathema. Most recently Ringtown Mike told me to "get your eyes torn out and get slow fucked." That's the way Ringtown and his intimate friends express their professional expertise. Formerly, to dramatize his righteous hostility, "Used" had undertaken to repeatedly stand in my path. Yes, it may sound petty, even silly, but the capacious paradigm decided that obstructing my way so that I had to walk around him, would impress upon me how great, grand, good and glorious he is. It's important to him that I know how inferior I am to him. Since he's so important, I can't imagine why he'd care what I think. I'm the first to admit his lofty status; "Used-Carr" is ever so much more important that me. I'm just delighted to walk around him a few times and appreciate his Olympian radiance. "Thank you for allowing me the privilege of squeezing around you. I'm humbly honored." But I think I'll forego the eyes ripped out thing. "Used-Carr" was by no means the only Frackville prison guard who was infuriated that I'd been prescribed a cane. Others were equally abashed. "Look at this motherfucker with the cane!" one professional guard bellowed. (There's a lot of "fuck" and "motherfuck" in the banter of the Frackville prison staff; vocabulary seems to be stunted by noxious humors.) Other guards also expressed ire. I couldn't figure out why anybody would care about my cane. After all, it's my gout, my pain. Not until much later did it dawn on me, they were scared! The Frackville prison staff is replete with pussies! A cane frightens them. It's a stick. I'll try to perfect my fumbling cane-handling. When I see the remiss doctor, I'll venture to educate him about obtaining approval for canes from the true master before presuming to issue one to anybody like me. I thank the maestro and his colleagues for noticing my humble walking stick. If I were half the man that "Used" is, I'd do without the crutch and just guffaw down the hill.
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