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<\/p>\nBy Harris Lahti.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Russell told me repeatedly\u2014he had a wife, June, and June lived in one of the other half-way homes, and the only reason she did not live with us was because a bed had not opened\u2014yet I do not believe him.<\/p>\n
For weeks, I chalk this union up to make believe, even after June moves in with us, even after they commence living the lives of a middle-aged married couple, bickering softly and drinking down their morning meds with watery half-caff on the couch, taking weekly \u201cdate nights\u201d to Walmart.<\/p>\n
Then the condoms show up.<\/p>\n
The condoms show up with the Medi-pack delivery and written instructions from the Powers-That-Be that read: If Russell and June choose to engage in sexual activity, they should be encouraged to practice safe sex. And since as rule, all sex is stifled at Lexington Home (there will be no privacy to stash pornography, no bumping and grinding at the monthly dance) this tacit acknowledgment leaves little doubt of my bias:<\/p>\n
Deep inside of me I must not consider the developmentally disabled capable of marriage!<\/p>\n
Have I spoken too loudly to the hard-of-hearing waitress at Mexican Radio whenever I ordered nachos? Do I mistrust ethnic groups such as Italians? Insult the elderly when I offered them my seat on the bus? Suddenly I do not know myself and anything is possible, despite all the years I have spent wrenching the blood from my heart.<\/p>\n
I call Russell and June into the kitchen. They stand there\u2014now husband and wife\u2014waiting for me to open the lockbox, for me to dole out the petty cash they require to purchase their usual carton of Neapolitan on their date night.<\/p>\n
They keep waiting, begin examining the faux flowers on the windowsill, the green lamp that hangs above the table like a saucer, the sofa art of a snowy meadow and cabin I hung on the garish beige walls to add some life. Finally, they notice the condoms.<\/p>\n
Their eyes dart away as if singed by their suggestion\u2014back to the faux flowers, the sofa art, the shadowy ceiling with a water stain like a bean-shaped cloud, anywhere else, the anxiety surfacing on them via red cheeks and small fidgets (as it might on anyone else, except with a little more pigment and frenzy). And as their knuckles continue to whiten on the backs of the chairs, I suffer one of my sudden visions:<\/p>\n
The slats that frame their underwear zones morph into jailhouse bars!<\/p>\n
I hurry to pick up the condoms, to read from and destigmatize the package before any more discomfort could register on either of their faces: \u201cA three-pack. Un-loved,\u201d I say, before correcting myself: \u201cUn-lubed, un-lubed, un-lubed, I meant.\u201d<\/p>\n
But the damage has been done. Russell coughs into the collar of his nicest shirt, adjusts the tie I tied for him not ten minutes prior. \u201cNo offense,\u201d he says. \u201cBut can we forget about the condoms?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI second that,\u201d June says, wringing a small frill at the hem of her dress. \u201cWith the demands of the other residents\u2026\u201d she continues in the slow piecemeal way she talks. \u201cWe\u2019re so rarely granted usage of the passenger van\u2026 We\u2019d really just like to go\u2026 To Walmart.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe can forget the condoms,\u201d I say. \u201cFor now.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In the Walmart parking lot, the oil-slick pavement radiates with a late summer night\u2019s heat that refuses to simmer. The automatic doors swing open and swallow us. The artificial air brings an immediate chill to my skin as the bright aisles slam up all around us, blindingly and confused.<\/p>\n
Shuffling down these aisles, Russell and June proceed to stick fingers into baby shoes, they laugh at the jokes read from plucked greeting cards, take turns shoving their flared noses into glass candles. Their usual routine, more or less\u2014<\/p>\n
Except now very different. Because tonight, as I observe them, Russell and June are no longer two developmentally disabled people playing at romance. They are a husband and wife forced into chastity belts by the institution that has been tasked with caring for them for most of their adult lives.<\/p>\n
I search their interactions for signs, hoping to disprove this hypothesis\u2014a hand on the small of the back, a closer-than-average proximity, a groped ass. And as I search, I begin to fill with a buzzing dread. I had missed a critical moment back there.<\/p>\n
After all the years you have witnessed the frequent romantic offenders of this place being labeled by the other aids as miscreants, perverts, lover boys<\/em>, I tell myself, you should have known! You should have recognized the rare opportunity to insert myself in a way that encouraged them to express physical love!<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re shitting me!\u201d But June\u2019s words are not meant for me, they are for Russell.<\/p>\n Stopped before a looming endcap display of dented canned good items, Russell pats at his shirt pockets, his jean pockets\u2014front, back, side-to-side\u2014then his shirt pockets again. He repeats this process until he looks like he is doing the Macarena<\/em> at the Lexington Home dance. \u201cAh crap,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n Turns out, Russell had forgotten his wallet.<\/p>\n \u201cOh no,\u201d June says. \u201cWhat will we snack while watching Dancing with the Stars<\/em>?\u201d They turn to look at me, their flat expressions asking me without asking if I had the petty cash they had forgotten in Russell\u2019s wallet or, perhaps, the money to spot them.<\/p>\n I shrug. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. Really. But I can\u2019t afford the overdraft fees.\u201d<\/p>\n Nevertheless, they decide to keep shopping.<\/p>\n In the pharmacy aisle, they take turns sliding into the cuff of the blood pressure machine. In the sporting goods aisle, they bounce basketballs. In the pet aisle, they watch the small fish flounder around their grimy overpopulated tanks before moving on to peruse sporting goods for potential presents for birthdays, Christmas, Valentine\u2019s Day. Throughout which I follow and watch them, my hypothesis about the institutional deadening of their sexuality hardening into cold, hard fact. Meanwhile, the guilt of my own bias follows and watches me, berating me for all the good I could have done in the moment with the condoms back at the house.<\/p>\n They are shaking pill bottles like maracas in the health aisle when, at last, my redemption finds me. I point at a large rack of square and rectangular boxes, and say: \u201cHey now, here are some better options.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, thank you,\u201d Russell says, without glancing at the condoms.<\/p>\n \u201cThey have ribbed. They have Pure Ecstasy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo\u2026 Really\u2026 Thank you,\u201d June says.<\/p>\n \u201cHeat activated? For her pleasure?\u201d I shake the box at them, trying to force their eyes to grab them, to take our first step toward destigmatizing the essential marital act.<\/p>\n But they are already shuffling away from me, toward the frozen food aisle, where they proceed with their date night: opening and closing doors, they bask in the refreshing breath of frozen vegetables and TV dinners, stuffed-crust pizzas. Already, they appear to have forgotten the condoms. Already, they appear to have returned to the same old sexless trajectory of their lives, they themselves steeped in that same malignant bias.<\/p>\n \u201cAh, the Neapolitan,\u201d Russell says. Then, after removing the smoking carton from the refrigerator, he shuffles off toward the registers with the Neapolitan under his arm.<\/p>\n \u201cYou forgot your wallet,\u201d I almost say, then catch myself, not knowing if I had missed something. The not-knowing being the hardest part of this job\u2014knowing what Russell knew and what he did not, what he required from me to lead his best life.<\/p>\n You have been wrong before, I think. About so much. There is no reason he could not have located a crumpled bill in his trouser pocket just as easily as Russell and June could have been having condom-less sex all along. They could have been trying to conceive a child for all you know. And all night, you could have been sounding off all night like some eugenicist, attempting to prevent them from mixing their DNA with love.<\/p>\n \u201cAh crap,\u201d Russell says at the register now. The red-headed teenage cashier scans the Neapolitan, and Russell pats his pockets.<\/p>\n \u201cFive-sixty-three,\u201d this cashier says in a quivering voice and watches us with hyper-focus, seemingly unable to wait to complete the job for which he has been newly trained. Or, perhaps, worried we might flee without paying.<\/p>\n \u201cAh crap,\u201d Russell says, and repeats this. \u201cAh crap, ah crap.\u201d And with each repetition, the scuzz of the cashier\u2019s red upper lip widens with another kind of anticipation, one I recognize\u2014the beginning of a bias I have noted on the faces of so many others, one that, even after all the years, I still wear myself: \u201cI cannot kick the feeling that these people are different than me somehow.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFive-sixty-three,\u201d the cashier repeats.<\/p>\n When no money is produced, he looks from Russell to June then, finally, to me, as if I am responsible for the petty cash after I had doled it out to them. And he keeps looking at me, as if I alone can help them, his cracked and braced mouth smiling wider, wider, wider\u2026 Yet Russell only continues to pat and repeat himself, a little sadder with each repetition, working his way toward the realization that twice now he had forgotten his wallet. \u201cAh crap,\u201d he says, and says, until I realize that I have no other option.<\/p>\n Removing my wallet, I shuck out my emptied debit card. I ready the card but stop before slipping the chip into the machine. \u201cYou know what\u2019d make tonight really special?\u201d I say, and before they can say, \u201cNo, thank you,\u201d I begin to grab anything within reach\u2014gum and candy bars and the magazines covered in beautiful people, Tic-Tacs, a package of two round, silver watch batteries\u2014 bleep, bleep, bleep<\/em>, I keep the items coming.<\/p>\n \u201cHere,\u201d I say, waiting for Russell and June to join in on the fun. \u201cGo on. What else? Anything you want anything else. Let\u2019s make this date night one to remember.\u201d<\/p>\n Now Russell looks at June, and June looks at Russell. Then Russell and June look at me. And the cashier, whose eyes seem to be bugging out of his head with the responsibility of serving us, looks at me also. They all stare at me, into me, straight into the pulsing guilt of my heart.<\/p>\n \u201cJust the Neapolitan please,\u201d Russell says.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd we\u2019re paying you back tomorrow,\u201d June says.<\/p>\n Then the cashier\u2019s finger mashes some button and a receipt scrolls out.<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/05\/IMG_0219.jpg\")
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