Have you seen those electric scooters that handicapped people drive around in? I’m not talking about those slow cruisers that you see offered to customers at larger food stores. The one I want is the big Sportster. You’ve seen them. They’re usually painted candy apple red. The best models have a big battery storage box on the back along with a tall, flagged, whip antenna.

They were the first electric cars, I think.  I’ve seen an ad on TV for a company that sells these babies. They claim that the Government will pay for it, and they’ll handle all the paperwork that could become necessary for them to get their money. “We’ll take care of the Medicaid requirements,” they say. Can you beat that?

There are some unfair stereotypical attributes associated with Scooter Riders. Sure, most of them are overweight. Well, I say: You would be too if you could hardly animate your own mass, and had to just sit in a chair most of the time.  It’s true that we’ve all probably seen a lot of the scooter owners smoking cigarettes, but why shouldn’t they when they’re outdoors most of the day. I guess a person could complain about secondhand smoke, but the scooters ride low inside the exhaust fumes of cars, buses and trucks. No wonder you see so many of those scooters equipped with oxygen tanks. I say give them a break. It may look easy, fun even, to drive single-handed from one fast food restaurant to the next, but it takes time. It can be very boring for the Scooterist, even on the higher-powered models. Let ‘em smoke if they want to. These cancerous, coughing scooter owners’ turnover their machines more frequently, and that keeps the price for used, bargain machines, attractive. Although trade-in costs are lower as well.

I’m almost 70 and have been diagnosed with leukemia. I’ll probably need my doctor to okay my scooter request, but why wouldn’t he? Surely I should qualify for a government-funded scooter. I’m hoping to locate that manufacturer who runs the TV ad. The one who gets Medicare to pay. Maybe I can add a few dollars to the sale price and either up the horsepower or add some special features and extras. I won’t go nuts. Maybe change the original red flag to a Jolly Roger. I would add chrome spoke wheels, and mud flaps on the back for sure. A disc player is a must. Or should I get a MP3 player? I wonder if four speakers would be too much.

I pass several of these Scooterists almost daily on my way to the mall. They usually travel in a group of maybe five or six. I can tell who’s the fastest. A couple of the guys have their baseball caps on backwards and they slouch closer to one side. They squint at me with their cigarettes clenched in their lips. I whisper as I pass them, “You da’ man.”

I’ve seen this same gang parked in front of the gym under the big window banner that reads: Women’s Yoga Today. They’re probably wishing that they could be healthy enough to work out like the other guys who are members there. It’s sad to observe them sitting on their parked scooters, looking into the window, smoking cigarettes while passing their large sodas back and forth longing to be fit.

The Scooterists aren’t always sad. In fact, most times I see them, they look happy. Happier than I ever looked or felt while working at my job. The gang of them that I’m most familiar with enjoy racing across intersections. They hit the carved-out divots in the curb at full speed. Even with my car’s windows closed, I can hear them shout and laugh as their scooter’s front wheels lift off the concrete. These people are the kind of thrill seekers that I’d love to hang out with.

Recently I had my usual blood draw and meeting with my doctor. More bad news. My request for a government-subsidized scooter has been rejected. The doctor told me that walking would help my physical condition. “Exercise. Get on a treadmill. Take walks around your neighborhood.” He said. He told me to eat moderately, sensibly, and watch my diet, too.

“But what about the government scooter?” I asked. “You’re forcing me to take up smoking, sit on my couch with large pizzas and quart bottles of Pepsi until I qualify for my new red scooter. Jeepers. I don’t want to march around town under orders from my Oncologist while the Scooterists frolic on the sidewalks and buzz their horns to warn me of their approach.” I scowled at the doctor and growled, “This isn’t fair. I’ve paid government taxes all my life. Now I’m dying and you won’t let me get my scooter!”

The doctor smiled, sat at his desk and spoke while writing. “I understand your disappointment, but you’re already underweight and the chemotherapy I’ve ordered will most likely cause you to get thinner. You’ll never fit-in with those Scooter guys.” He put down the pen and handed me an official looking form.

I left the hospital with my official Handicapped Parking Certificate and a plastic badge to hang on my car’s rearview mirror. I guess that made me happier, but I’ll always long to turn my baseball cap around and crawl onto a bright red scooter.