I had just come from the dentist and stopped by the library to find a book.
Sitting at a table was James who smiled warmly as I approached. James was a young man with a slight mental disability which affected his speech and coordination. Always friendly, we spoke occasionally as we would meet around town. Now we spoke in hushed tones, after all, this was a library. In those days you dare not drop a book lest you receive an over-the-glasses stare from a matronly bun-haired librarian. Nowadays librarians seem to be the biggest offenders of the quiet rule.
James accompanied me to the front desk where I asked the librarian, "Um loookin' fur uh buhhhk." My tongue, upper lip and right cheek were deadened from the Novacaine! And that was the best I could muster. She looked at James, and then at me, and said to her co-worker, in a voice not quite soft enough, "This one's yours."
I was speechless, and not because of the drug. She had treated me with disrespect because of my impaired speech. (My hearing was not affected, Ma'am.)
"Les go, James," I said.
For a brief moment I entered James' world, a lonely place, an arena of second-class treatment with cruel and subtle mockery. I wondered, "Have I ever treated the less fortunate so?"
I'm thankful for James and the life lesson he taught me that day.
