When I'm eight, I pose for a full-page magazine ad "standing" in uncomfortable leg braces under the caption, "If I grow up I want to be a fireman." If? My life expectancy is normal. Mom and Dad and Dr. Spiro have told me so. Sure, I want to be famous but don't spread lies about me! Besides, I don't want to be a fireman. It's someone else's boyhood fantasy, someone who can walk and climb, perhaps, but not mine. I want to be a superhero, a police detective, a starship captain, a brilliant scientist like Dr. Quest on Jonny Quest, but never a fireman. I keep my fingers crossed behind my back as the camera clicks. I visualize a secret laboratory and computerized panels in an attempt to communicate by E.S.P. my true desires. Afterward I tell Mom I want to quit being a poster child. She asks if I'm sure but offers no further objection.
The truth is, I'm beginning to recognize that I'm not particularly interested in being able to walk.