The Broken Soldier

I got made fun of for the first time yesterday.  Jokes at my expense for riding in a motorized cart at Meijer Thrifty Acres.  It was such a strange feeling.  Given who I used to be - big, strong, smart - I’ve never really been the butt of anyone’s joke.  And while it did occur to me I could do something, at least say something about it, there were three of them and only one of me.  If I were healthy those three young fellas and I would have had a serious heart-to-heart.  But then again, if I were healthy I’d probably not have been the butt of their jokes to begin with.

This experience got me thinking about that meeting last week.  Specifically how for some of those present this matter was a forensics exercise of sorts.  An argument to have and to win, with all the usual rhetorical and jesuitical tricks of the trade, rather than a discussion of how various bureaucratic procedures and their poor execution have ruined my life.  And even in this the execution was weak - the kind of arguments a first year logic student could undo.  But that’s what my life and all the pain they’ve helped cause is worth to them.  Those who asked me to trust them.  Those who promised to help me.  My life is worth exactly one indefensible argument predicated upon a series of distortions and disclaimers.