But Richard was in gear and there was no stopping his racecar.
Over the next two days, they visited an aquarium in nearby Murfreesboro, had their big Thanksgiving meal with Della’s family, and spent a lot of time getting to know each other better.
Then it was time for phase two of Richard’s Master Plan.
Unbeknownst to Della, Richard had bought tickets for the two of them for a dinner cruise on the General Jackson Showboat in Nashville. It was one of the largest historically recreated paddle-wheel boats in the country. The cruise lasted four hours down Cumberland River, with authentic southern cuisine and live acts, and Richard had arranged for the manager of the restaurant to play a role in his plan.
Richard wasn’t the greatest at keeping secrets. He was like a little kid who’d crammed a bunch of candy in his mouth. Halfway to Nashville, his grinning and giggling were too much for both Della and him to stand, so he confessed their destination. Della was elated to learn they were dining on a cruise, which made Richard ecstatic. All was proceeding fairly smoothly with phase two.
However, when they got on the boat, they were seated for dinner behind a pole with an obstructed view of the act, which did not please Richard. This was simply unacceptable. Did they understand what was happening here tonight? Phase two was in motion! Hadn’t they been briefed on the Master Plan? Heads would roll.
Richard sprang into action. He and Troy weaved their way through the tables, as Della looked out at the river enjoying the view. The next thing she knew, four waiters were collecting their place settings and drinks and moving them to a table beside the stage. She saw Richard with the manager in the back of the room overseeing the operation. Troy was all business, too—no licking.
Their meal was lovely, and as far as Richard could tell, Della didn’t suspect a thing. Though, he knew she was smart and it wouldn’t have shocked him if she’d pieced it together. In reality, Della had her suspicions he was going to propose, but she wasn’t certain. To her, it seemed like the perfect setting for such a grand moment, yet it was still early in their relationship and he might have wanted to wait until the following year.
Richard wait? Really? Until next year?! That was definitely not happening.
After dessert, it was time for phase three of the Master Plan. This was the terrifying part, more for me than for Richard. Even though I was back in Fort Worth, I knew what time the boat left, when they were going to eat, and when he was going to propose. I’d helped him set up the cruise. So I was nervously watching the clock while praying I didn’t see anything on the national news that night about a man in a wheelchair zooming off the General Jackson Showboat into Cumberland River.
Richard signaled the manager, who brought a stuffed panda bear with an engagement ring tied to him. She placed the bear with the ring on the table in front of Della. Richard could hardly contain himself. He was bursting at the seams, smiling, laughing, shaking, drooling, and clapping all at once. Before Della could even reach for the bear, he blurted out a proposal.
Now came the hard part, the fourth and final phase: her response.
I was practically on my knees in my bedroom cheering them on like I was watching the whole event live on The Truman Show with the rest of the world. Of course, I later learned that hardly anyone dining nearby Richard and Della even noticed what was happening. They were all simply enjoying their meals and the wonderful view and had no idea that the man in the wheelchair was about to have his dream come true.
Della said yes.
Mission accomplished! The Master Plan was a success. I would’ve jumped up and down had I known the moment it happened, but when they called and told me, I did a few fist pumps to celebrate. I congratulated them, and told Della I couldn’t wait to meet her in person. Richard yelled into the phone, “See, I told you it’d work! You gotta trust me.” Then he started laughing and coughing for twenty seconds.
After their meal, the scheduled act began, which must’ve felt a little anticlimactic after what had just transpired, but Richard and Della still enjoyed it. It was a Christmas show, complete with traditional, Christian, and contemporary songs. Richard especially loved the Christian numbers, singing along loudly. He was having the night of his life. Troy must’ve felt the weight of the world slide off his shoulders now that everything had worked out according to plan because he lay down to listen to the music and drifted off to sleep. The noise and chatter and music all around him didn’t bother him one bit. He could snooze anywhere.
Like father, like son.
R
My new band with Bryan and Manya out in Dallas was a work in progress. For the first five months, we were exclusively a garage band. Literally. We never played anywhere but in the garage of Manya’s house. We just practiced. A lot. It was fine with all three of us for different reasons. I wanted to work up two sets of material before we started playing gigs because I knew once we began performing, we wouldn’t have as much time or interest in rehearsing. I also thought it was essential we learned the songs cold because we’d be nervous when we started playing live and if shows didn’t go well, we might lose momentum. Bryan was swamped with schoolwork and barely keeping all of his plates spinning between classes, his new part-time job at the seminary’s physical plant, and working on parts for our songs.
Manya possessed one of the best voices I’d ever heard, not just on tape but in person, too. There was no drop-off in the quality of her voice, and she very rarely missed a note. She was amazing. I thought we’d lucked out and found a professional singer who just happened to be a stay-at-home mom. She took care of her daughter during the day and practiced with us two or three nights a week. I couldn’t figure out why she was willing to play with us. Why was she not a solo star already? She had everything necessary to make it as a singer: a consistent voice, unique tone, range, and command, plus she was attractive with an outgoing personality. One night while driving home from practice, I told Bryan, “She could get a following in about a month. Nothing’s stopping her.”
Except one thing: confidence.
She hadn’t played very much in front of people, and she needed to build her fearlessness, which was another good reason for us to rehearse a little extra before hitting clubs. So each Tuesday and Thursday evening and Saturday morning, Bryan and I loaded our old Ford Taurus station wagon with my keyboard and stand, our amps, guitars, cords, and the rest of the equipment we’d accumulated through the years.
We’d started buying the gear back in Atlanta for our first band, Sticks of Stonewall. I’d thought of the name Sticks and Stones, but it was taken, so this was the next best thing. I should’ve thought longer because none of us really liked it. That was mistake number one. Mistake number two was my refusal to play any cover songs. I only wanted to do original material and not be a human jukebox. I was pretty naïve and close-minded and didn’t understand that mixing in a few songs people actually knew and enjoyed was a good thing and would only make them more receptive to our songs.
Mistake number three was my unreceptiveness to the other guys in the band writing songs. I didn’t try to forbid anyone from pursuing it, but I certainly didn’t encourage it. Since Bryan was a really good guitarist and Winn and Tripp were good vocalists, I felt the best thing I had to offer was my songwriting. If I wasn’t doing that, what was I providing? Again, this was shortsighted, narrow-minded, insecure thinking that did way more harm than good. Instead of the rest of the band feeling invested because they had songs of their own in our catalogue, I alienated and frustrated them, especially Winn. Over time, everyone’s enthusiasm for the band waned, and this was one of the reasons. Any venture could still be fulfilling and fun without success, but not without ownership.
As if these blunders hadn’t done enough damage, I dumped a few more logs onto the fire. I wouldn’t write love songs, or anything resembling a sappy ballad. I called them GAG songs (Guys And Girls) and instead churned out one angry, depressing song
after another. Bryan helped in this department. His despair and gloomy outlook on life led to many requests for songs about child abuse, suicide, or rape—all reliable crowd pleasers. We had a set list full of pain. We were perfect for funerals and breakdowns.
On top of that, my dirges were slow and long, providing the perfect opportunity for listeners to nap. It was as if I was challenging an audience, daring them to like our songs. Go ahead, you think you’re tough—try digging these songs. Good luck. I made one blunder on top of another until four years later the band was done. For many years afterward, I lugged around guilt over my mistakes and felt I’d poisoned our dream. I wanted another chance to do it right, to learn from my bad judgment.
The band in Dallas was my second chance, just as Richard and Della had gotten theirs. I was determined to do the opposite of everything I’d loused up in Atlanta (again, the George Costanza approach). This time, I let our singer pick the band name, Blue Petal, and she and Bryan could write as many songs as they wanted. The more the merrier. If someone wanted to play a cover song, sign me up (though nobody really did). I wrote more up-tempo, positive songs. I encouraged everyone to keep working on material and to practice, practice, practice. I did whatever I could to help prepare us for the shows ahead, because I understood we operated in a sliver of space that would soon vanish and probably not come again, at least for Bryan and me. We were older now, and it had taken nine years for the chance to resurface.
We used to think it was easy to re-form, to start again, yet too many unpredictable, uncontrollable factors needed to align for it to be possible. Life had a way of persistently luring or lulling, with few pauses to redirect. This felt like our last chance to move closer to the goal we’d first set long ago in school, when there was an abundance of time and promise. Back when our hair was longer and we imagined music videos for our songs and elaborate covers for our albums and endorsement deals with guitar companies and benefit concerts for noble causes and all the crowds sang along because they knew every word by heart.
Chapter Seven
Down from the Ledge
In January, Della and her two youngest daughters, Evelyn and Emilee, moved to Fort Worth. It would’ve been hard for Richard to leave town because his CLASS program was simply too valuable and rare to give up, and he’d been on a waiting list to get accepted. If he moved, they wouldn’t hold a spot for him if he wanted to return. He’d head to the back of the line for at least a year’s wait. Plus, he wouldn’t get the same amount of benefits next time, as his “cap” would be lower. Most other states didn’t offer nearly as many attendant hours and services for the physically challenged as Texas, so leaving would’ve made life much more difficult for Richard and, consequently, everyone.
Della and her daughters rented an apartment just across the railroad tracks from Richard, and the girls settled into their new schools. I liked Della right away. She was a natural optimist, with one of the most positive, mild-mannered personalities I’d come across. She had a wonderful sense of humor and seemed to be able to laugh off the stress of leaving behind her two oldest kids, who were living with their dad, to move to a strange, new state to be with her fiancé with cerebral palsy. Inside, she was a little more worried than she let on, which was understandable, yet she kept it to herself to be strong for her girls and for Richard. If I’d been in her place, I would’ve been yanking my hair out that I’d possibly just made the biggest mistake of my life. Second-guessing would’ve been my morning ritual.
But not Della. She’d been through a lot in her first marriage and had learned to survive on her own without the albatross of regret. She understood that no one lived a perfect life free of missteps and consequences and that the more time she spent dwelling on what was lost, the more slipped through her fingers. Relocating to Texas to marry Richard certainly wasn’t the safest move, but it was what she felt was right, and that was enough to justify any future problems.
I actually thought she was the perfect match for Richard. Her easygoing, calm demeanor balanced his intensity and impatience. Her relaxed approach slowed his gallop. She made him laugh, and he felt honored that she was willing to leave her home, and her kids, just for him. She softened his edges. He smiled even more with her around. He looked like a rolling jack-o’-lantern.
She also helped ground him when he was set to launch into orbit. This was never truer than when he took Evelyn to get some affordable dental work done over at La Gran Plaza de Fort Worth. It was the Hispanic mall in town and reminded me of when Bryan and I had lived near the border of Mexico. Out of curiosity, we’d once ventured across to Matamoros for half a day so Bryan could try to find a cheaper supply of Zoloft. Too bad he’d never managed to connect with the Mafia—they could’ve hooked him up.
La Gran Plaza de Fort Worth was quite similar to areas I’d seen south of the border. If New York had Little Italy and San Francisco had Chinatown, this was our Little Mexico. It used to be called Town Center Mall, but in 2004 new ownership took over and transformed its image. The exterior was remodeled to look like a Mexican village. Dillard’s gave way to El Mercado. Fiesta Mart replaced Winn-Dixie. Most of the mall’s interior resembled a bazaar/flea market. Mariachi music blared on the overhead speakers. It was busy and loud and warm, with pungent aromas from the food court detectable in the parking lot.
Better deals could often be found at La Gran Plaza, so since money was tight and Evelyn needed a root canal, we headed over to Little Mexico. After the initial visit and exam, Richard sat in the lobby trying to sort out the details with the receptionist, Marta (as her name tag read), for the next appointment. She struggled to understand what he was saying, so naturally, she wanted to talk to me. I explained that I could help clarify a word here and there, but I couldn’t speak for Richard and that she needed to talk to him. He was in charge. I’d learned my lesson.
I thought.
After fifteen minutes of getting absolutely nowhere and with a line forming behind us, all parties involved grew extremely restless and agitated. Richard’s speech slurred worse and became trickier to decipher when he was upset, which of course, made it harder for Marta to comprehend. She enlisted the aid of a coworker, who couldn’t shed much light on the situation. Her coworker actually seemed more interested in the Big Gulp to which she was glued. Richard was attempting to find out if they had an opening next Thursday for Evelyn, and if so, what was the latest they could start on the procedure. He whispered to me, “So we can do school in the morning.” I was stunned by his dedication and wanted to applaud right there in the lobby.
All the employees were Hispanic (at least the ones I’d seen) with Mexican accents, which made it even more difficult for two reasons. First, Richard couldn’t understand a lot of what Marta was saying. Second, it was hard enough to decode Richard’s articulation for native speakers of English, so for anyone tackling English as a second language, Richard proved a formidable challenge. Basically, Richard and Marta talked for fifteen minutes with neither one understanding the other.
Marta thought he wanted two appointments for next Tuesday (presumably the other for himself), and a follow-up as early as possible the next morning. I wasn’t sure how she’d reached that conclusion, but we were slamming into the same brick wall, giving us all a headache. Evelyn was quietly hiding in the corner, wisely pretending she didn’t know us. I felt helpless and anxious, Marta felt overwhelmed and behind schedule, Richard felt misunderstood and unappreciated, and Troy felt hungry and hot (he usually was).
Somebody had to do something before security was called.
So I stepped in. Or, more accurately, stepped over Richard.
I told Marta, “Just make the appointment for Evelyn for next Thursday at four, okay?” Marta nodded enthusiastically while smiling gratefully, punching in the information on her computer. Then she turned to the next customer in line and greeted him in Spanish.
Richard didn’t say a word. He steered his wheelchair and Troy o
ut of the office, as Evelyn and I followed. He drove slowly through the mall for almost a minute without looking at us or speaking. I knew I’d blown it. I knew this wasn’t going to be good, that he was mad at me, probably furious. I’d just committed the cardinal sin again by speaking for Richard. Much worse, in public! I’d humiliated him and made him feel three inches tall. I was about to get spanked in Little Mexico. I just hoped I wouldn’t get fired.
Finally, I had to say something because his silence was torturing me. “Hey, Richard, I didn’t mean to step on your toes in there. I just wanted to help out because the line was…”
“You stepped on my head!” he snapped, before speeding over to an unoccupied corner of the mall near a back entrance. I didn’t know if he was headed outside to cool off or if he’d meet us on the bus or what was happening. When he stopped at the door and spun around scowling at me, waiting, I had my answer. He was taking me behind the woodshed. I felt like I did when my parents used to order me to my room to “receive my punishment” after screwing up. Dad spanked me, and my brothers, with a sawed-off golf club for particularly heinous crimes, and it looked like Richard was brandishing a 7-iron.
I told Evelyn, “You should probably wait here for a minute.”
Or five.
I plodded over to Richard, reluctant to be scolded in front of everyone for trying to help. I knew I’d not followed the handbook, yet people were waiting in line. Marta had tried everything she knew. We were holding up an entire business. Cavities needed to be filled, chompers yanked, new toothbrushes passed out. Richard was single-handedly thwarting Little Mexico’s dental hygiene. I’d jumped in to save the day—to save smiles! I was a hero, not a villain. I should’ve received a key to the mall, not a public flogging.
By the time I reached Richard, I was almost as fired up as he.
Almost.
“Am I a man?!” he hollered, his face red. We were going to be here a while. Evelyn probably should’ve gone for churros. That actually sounded like a nice treat after the horsewhipping. “Am I just a dummy?” Richard growled. I noticed Evelyn had sat down on a bench, clutching her bag of free goodies from the dentist.
Life at 8 mph Page 6
