With that effort, the spazzo loses control. One arm and one leg jerk out, and the hand sends the soap flying off the bench. As the soap continues its trajectory across the wet tile floor, a counselor crouches down and catches it on the fly.

It is truly an elegant catch. A nude, perfect body crouches, knees and hips bending in perfect harmony, heels rising from the floor to touch her buttocks, weight shifting to the balls of her feet. At the same instant, her toes spread out and press the floor with unbearable loveliness, a slender arm instinctively reaches out, and perfect fingers scoop up the soap. Just as gracefully, she stands up, her feet firmly planted on the floor. She takes three long steps, then leans over in an arabesque and drops the soap on the bench from which it was shot.

The spazzo looks up and grins a silly grin of thanks. It is the same grin I always see in photographs of myself. The natural grin of a spazzo. And then I know: That absurd body is exactly like my own.

The rest of the room no longer exists in my consciousness. The familiar noises of the bathroom—human voices talking, laughing, hollering, showers running, johns flushing, the screen door slamming—merge into an indistinct din. My whole self concentrates on the image of the spazzo, wet and shiny under harsh fluorescent lights.

Whether it takes hours or seconds, I can’t say: The spazzo finishes her shower. The perfect girl counselor comes to help the spazzo from the shower to her chair. As the counselor supports her, the spazzo presses her feet onto the floor to stand up. The counselor wraps a beautiful arm around the spazzo’s back and walks with stately, measured steps.

I can’t take my eyes off their feet. The counselor’s feet caress the wet tile floor. Every movement asserts confidence, comfort, and control. Those feet are at home in the world. Beside them are two alien feet, strangers stomping against the tile. The parts of those feet don’t work together. The spazzo carries all her weight right on her heels. The ankles are completely rigid. The toes stick up. They are the feet of a fool.

Watching it in motion, I despise that spazzo’s body and my own. The normal girl’s body is made up of lovely curves, a perfection of balance and proportion. Her movements reflect the harmony of her physical composition. She produces arcs and waves as she moves. Separate movements flow elegantly into a whole action; it’s like music. She’d be a worthy subject for a great artist. The spazzo is nothing but straight lines and angles. Her pieces move separately and sequentially, when she can get them to move at all. For her portrait a stick figure would do.