Blind I have a problem with the hammer. I know there are blind carpenters but please don’t call me when you want to hang a picture. Meanwhile there’s always someone in the rain with a hammer.
I say cripples wave two hammers. I’ve always thought of my crippled friends as “Thor”—Thor’s hammer, which was made by the dwarves, according to Snorri, has lightning on the inside where it counts.
Anyway I’ve been in New York City for the past two days. The city is a hard place for the disabled. I must find strangers to hail cabs because taxi drivers won’t stop for guide dog users. You go into unfamiliar shops where the staff won’t speak to you. In other words the famous New York fuck you is doubly present if a cripple is around. The shopkeeper thinks: “I have to deal with assholes all day and now what, I have to deal with you too?” In Macy’s I asked a staff person to help me find the men’s section. When we got there she said to a salesman: “I had to bring him here. Now he’s yours.”
He’s yours all right. He’s your brother. He’s useful because he has Thor’s hammer. He can turn ordinary minutes into legends. He can see Snorri’s dwarves behind the mannequins.