Fire Crutch

When I saw Sedaris last week, the self-announced House Manager ("Well," he said, "technically Assistant House Manager") took away my crutches.

"Because they're a fire hazard," he explained. And I assume he meant they would inhibit egress, not that they would, in fact, spontaneously combust.

"Plus," he added, "I imagine you'll be more comfortable without them in your lap."

"Probably," I conceded, "but what if I have to pee?" In my defense, I labored to make the question sound so meek and ladylike.

"She'll fetch them for you," he answered, indicating my date for the evening. Which was not Johnny, as I'm sure you could intuit from the pronoun. Johnny doesn't like people well enough to spend an evening in a room full of them if there's no music-playing, or drinking, on the docket.

"Okay," I complied, more meekly than is usually my wont.

Marie, my date, piped up at this point. "Where will they be?" she asked. He told her. "And what is your name?" Here's where he volunteered, then qualified, his title.

I was in an end seat, and after he left I fretted about having to get up and down for people, but somehow they intuited my temporary disability and went the long way round. Perhaps it was my big-ass sock-foot sticking out into the aisle.

At any rate, there was no fire. And when the show was done, Marie did fetch my crutch.

But it is just now occurring to me: If there (god forbid) had been a fire, how was I expected to get out? Did Mister House Manager imagine I would run and leave my crutches there for others to trip over? Is David Sedaris, in addition to being a Thurber-prize winning humorist, also a faith-healer? Or was the (ahem) Assistant House Manager going to fight the fleeing crowd to bring my walking-aids to me?

I understand he was just doing his job. Or his boss's job. And probably even following the law or some such thing. But I'm just saying.

What the crutch?