Drinks with Randy and Jim Tuckerman

Randy was always coming up with these crazy ideas. In this case, he wondered what it would be like to arm wrestle a prosthetic arm. Everybody stopped talking and started watching Randy, and Jim Tuckerman was looking as if he was regretting allowing Randy to try his arm out. When the awe of the moment had passed, what was left was anger, and all I wanted to do was embarrass Randy. “What purpose does arm wrestling Jim’s prostheses serve?” I said. He let go of it for a moment, and it fell off the side of the table. He picked up the arm and placed it back on the table. “I guess that depends on the type of motivation. It’s not about what others think, but that it fulfills a complex, intrinsic need within myself,” he said. “How do you know your intrinsic is your intrinsic? How do you know your needs are your needs? Have you found them? Where are they? Where is the here that may or may not be you? Think about how Jim must be feeling right now.” I said. Randy grabbed Jim’s arm by the shoulder joint with a baseball grip and raised it over his head as if to hit me with it. “Don’t you dare hit me with that,” I said. “Why not, got some prejudice against cripples?” He said. I pulled my Swiss army knife out of my pocket. “You come at me with that arm, and I’ll gut you,” I said. “Not if you’re knocked out on the floor with one of Jim’s fingers up your nose,” he said. I decided to use my environment to my advantage and ran behind a table. Randy gave chase and began to swing for my head across it. Over by the bar I could see Jim flying through the air like he’d been possessed by a demon.

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