Door Divers

There is a unique breed of the able-bodied among us that delight in the samaritan sport of Door Diving.  One does not have to inhabit the world of the wheeled for long to encounter one of these morons.

The Door Divers are those who simply must open the door for us.  It jumps straight to the top of their priority list.  They will actually inconvenience themselves to do it - setting packages down, waiting, splitting up the group they're with - it matters not.  Their response is purely Pavlovian.

Apparently, these people's preconception of paraplegics is such that every door must look to us like that of a bank vault.  Every bit as big, heavy and immobile as Rosie O'Donnell's post-holiday ass.  Now, I want nothing to do with that particular backside, but doors I can handle.

In fact, I like to open my own damn doors, and I love to hold a door open for a lady (chivalry, despite modern feminism's greatest efforts, is not yet dead).  But the Door Divers dare to deprive me of my gallantry.

Some of them will actually sprint past me to get to the door first.  Nothing like showing off those fully-functioning legs you got there, braggart.  No, really, I love being reminded of my former mobility.  Perhaps you could do some jumping jacks and squat thrusts in front of me before shopping from only the top shelf on the second floor of a store with no fucking elevator.  Dick.

I hate to get bitter (aw, who am I kidding - I love being pissy), but somehow I doubt that their motivations are entirely pure.  If it was, they wouldn't be so relentless about it.  They insist.

From afar I'm sure it looks ridiculous.  Especially the London Bridgers - my favorite subset of this particular strain of jagoff.  These people stretch, contort and go on their very tippy-toes to hold the door with a fingertip, ushering me underneath their outstretched arm between them and the door.  While I enjoy picturesque covered bridges as much as the next guy, I'm sure Madison County isn't rife with armpit hair and body odor.

So what to do about it?  If it's a lady I usually take the door from her, perform a sweeping gesture with my free hand, make eye contact and smile and that's that.  If it's a guy it depends on how he went about it and the vibe I'm getting from him.  Sometimes it's appropriate or conducive to good traffic flow and I just go right through with a little nod and a "thanks, bud". 

Most times it's not, and my ego demands I call them out (hey, my spinal cord wasn't the only thing bruised way back when).  It seems Loud Pissed-Off Paraplegic is a character most people, even dipshit door divers, don't care to engage, and they usually go away quickly, muttering about how ungrateful I am.  I giggle.

Sometimes (usually when I'm high) I go through the doorway with a Royal Flourish! - pretending he's merely my subject who I have not yet fed to the lions for my own amusement.  I'll kill him in a daydream while sipping on a slushee in the food court later.

My favorite thing to do, though, is to exploit them.  Oh, you want to inconvenience yourself out of pity for the poor paraplegic?  Fine, Fucker, I'll indulge you.  "Gee I sure could use a hand carrying this out to my car."  "You got a cell phone on you?  I really need to make a call."  "Damn, my battery's dead - you got any jumper cables?"  "Can you spot me a twenty?"

Unfortunately, the Door Divers are here to stay.  But really, I'd rather they just went about their business and left me to mine.  I've got shit to do on the other side of that door.