Life at 8 mph

by Peter Bowling Anderson

  The socializing and hobnobbing necessary to get poolside came with the territory, which I understood. It was a package deal. I couldn’t expect to win folks over hiding in the parking lot. Yet that was where I took cover, the car loaded, waiting behind the wheel for Bryan and Manya like I was the getaway driver. As I sat there checking my watch wondering if McDonald’s was still open so I could get a fish sandwich and a small chocolate shake (my gig treat), I couldn’t figure out if this was merely a normal aspect of my peculiar personality or something seriously off that needed major adjustment before progress could be made. And, of course, far beneath lurked the giant, menacing question I tiptoed passed to avoid waking it: Was this progress limited to our band, or was I blockading all roads to growth out of fear it might actually happen, leaving me without an alibi of my own?

  R

  Over the next few months, Richard and Della got married. Twice. The first time was in March at the local courthouse because Richard’s contract was up with Section 8 housing and Della needed to marry him and move in right away to be included on his new contract. The only two in attendance for the first ceremony (besides Richard, Della, and the judge) were Troy and I, so I felt honored to be a witness. Evelyn and Emilee were in school, and Richard and Della didn’t want to make a big fuss over a simple courthouse wedding. It was a matter-of-fact ceremony, more like a sentencing, where the judge appeared, rattled off a few words to Richard and Della regarding the power vested in him, and they were married. If I’d blinked more than twice, I would’ve missed it.

  In the days following the wedding, Della and the girls piled most of their things in a storage unit and moved in with Richard and Michael. It was definitely cozy in Richard’s two-bedroom duplex. For the most part, everyone got along, though Michael had a few run-ins with his new big sisters, but nothing unusual for siblings. I actually wondered how Michael was handling all of this. It had just been Richard and him for a while now. Was he jealous of the attention all three girls received from his dad? Did he resent Richard for seeking additional companionship? Was he relieved to have someone else to talk to besides Richard, someone who could chat with his dad while he played video games? I really had no idea. Michael seemed to be adjusting well to the new family dynamic and living situation, but he was a pretty upbeat kid. If he was hurt by recent events, he didn’t show it. Once, while helping him with his homework, I asked how he liked his new sisters, and he replied, “They’re okay. I just wish we had another bathroom.”

  I could understand that.

  Richard was in seventh heaven surrounded by his son, new wife, and stepdaughters. Some mornings I walked in to find him camped in front of his computer with his arms raised listening to praise music like it was a Billy Graham revival. Tears poured down his face as he thanked God for all the blessings he’d received. He was the happiest I’d seen him.

  Yet the joy train was just pulling out. Next stop: church wedding.

  For this ceremony, everyone was invited to the small Baptist church they’d reserved a few blocks from Richard’s duplex. Fancy dresses and suits were worn, a delicious reception prepared, the works. Richard even went to have his wheelchair worked on that morning so it was running perfectly for the festivities. Unfortunately, it took much longer than expected and he arrived an hour late for the ceremony. While the crowd waited anxiously, I gave Richard and Della a bonus wedding gift.

  They’d asked me to play piano for twenty minutes before the ceremony, so when Richard was a no-show, I dipped deep into my catalogue and pulled out every song I knew to keep the audience from deserting. At one point, I played jazz versions of Christmas songs. Then I went back to the start of the rotation to cycle through all the tunes again. I should’ve set out a tip jar.

  When Richard finally arrived, much to the relief of Della, it was time for the main event. Troy was brought out of retirement for one last service as he performed the ring bearer’s duties. He walked down the aisle carrying Della’s ring on a pillow with a ribbon he clutched in his teeth. It was quite the swan song.

  Then I had to tickle the ivories again. Della had asked me to play “You Are So Beautiful,” by Billy Preston and Bruce Fisher (Joe Cocker later made it famous), when she walked in, so I’d practiced diligently to learn the song in time. It was now my moment to shine, forgetting, of course, it was actually Della’s moment. I eased into the intro that I’d added (as if the song needed my help), gradually building intensity throughout the first verse until I hit the chorus. Then I let her rip. I pounded those keys to squeeze out every ounce of drama, emotion, and power from the refrain so that all in attendance would feel the depth of Della’s love. I almost belted out, “You’re everything I hope for, you’re everything I need, you are so beautiful to me.” I wanted Della’s family and friends to understand she knew exactly what she was doing and what she wanted and to whom she was walking down the aisle because she had…

  Wait a minute! I peered over the top of the baby grand piano a few measures from finishing to discover Della was already standing next to Richard. In fact, the entire bridal party was standing there watching me, waiting for me to stop playing. I’d gotten so lost in my performance, I hadn’t even noticed that Della made it to the altar in under thirty seconds and had been enjoying the show with Richard for nearly twice that long. I hadn’t counted on her making it there that fast. What did she do, sprint? Was this the NFL scouting combine? Was she afraid Richard would go get more work done on his chair?

  Of course, I hadn’t taken into account the distance from the back of the small church to the altar wasn’t that far. This wasn’t Westminster Abbey. Perhaps I’d imagined Della walking in slow motion during her processional as I’d timed the event in my head. My mental music videos tended to lean toward the dramatic, with lots of slow-mo and wind. This was more likely the cause. In any event, Della had arrived safely at the altar requiring no further accompaniment, so I wrapped up the song and crept away. To distract myself from my embarrassing blunder, I took solace in the fact that at least I didn’t have to break down my equipment in front of everyone. That didn’t help much, though.

  As I listened to the minister read from the book of Ecclesiastes, it felt surreal sitting in a church watching Richard get married. It hadn’t been that long ago he was sobbing in his living room about spending the rest of his life alone. Now he’d found love and was getting hitched to someone who genuinely seemed to care about him and wouldn’t hurt him. The online dating idea had actually worked. I’d just been trying to keep him from going over the edge. I was amazed. God bless the Internet, I thought, nodding triumphantly.

  I’d been with Richard for a year now and we’d already checked off one of our three major goals: marriage. We only had to finish his master’s degree and find him a job to complete the quest. There was still a lot of heavy lifting ahead of us, but if we could find him a new family, anything was doable.

  I was surprised at how good it felt to spend my days helping someone make progress, putting his life and concerns ahead of mine. I’d known for a long time, since my years in Children’s Church as a kid, that the Good Samaritan route was the best way to go. But actually doing it was a much taller order than merely agreeing with it. On paper, it looked counterproductive not to focus on my needs, yet perhaps taking my eyes off myself to notice what surrounded me was a lot more helpful. I could actually see where I was headed and what I was missing along the way. And maybe who.

  The minister read Ecclesiastes 4:9-10: “Two are better than one…if either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.” Maybe it was the verse or being at a wedding or seeing Richard and Della so happy together or just that I was getting older or a little of all of it, but I could feel my attitude toward marriage shifting. It no longer looked like a bear trap or a prison sentence that would steal my freedom forever. Working with Richard had shown me that what appeared to be a wrong turn was often a shortcut
. Maybe that was how it went on the road less traveled—no on-ramps to the freeway, just shortcuts that had to be used to be seen. One step was all it took, like the day I met Richard, and this was starting to feel eerily similar.

  Chapter Nine

  Abandoning the Unsinkable Broken Boat

  It didn’t take long for two things to happen: Richard wanted another dog; and everyone wanted a bigger house. The second came much easier than the first.

  Richard and Della had sixty days or less before their paperwork was finalized with Section 8 to find another house in the program with more rooms and space, or else they had to stay put on Wheaton Street for another year. It was go time. A third bedroom was essential, a garage to store their extra things highly desirable, and a third bathroom the dream of each child.

  To aid their search, a friend of Richard’s used some connections to buy him an incredibly low-priced used wheelchair-accessible van, Richard’s first. The air conditioner barely worked half the time, though that was no different than my car. The lift and locking system were also primitive, supplying little more than a way to raise Richard. I called the van Big Blue, and we had to lash down Richard’s chair with long straps to hooks bolted into the floorboards. It felt a little like we were transporting a maximum-security prisoner. All Richard needed was an orange jumpsuit. Big Blue offered no ramp or advanced locking system for his chair or even two useable cup holders, but it sure beat walking.

  Richard and Della were motivated shoppers, not only because of the time constraints with Section 8 housing, but also with the walls closing in around them in their crowded duplex on Wheaton Street. It didn’t take long before they located a house about ten minutes away with most of the features on their wish list. They signed the paperwork and it was a done deal. We were moving our base of operations and saying goodbye to the home where I’d met Richard and where we’d started our journey.

  Just a month after their church wedding, I helped Richard, Della, and the girls load their stuff into their new used van and my station wagon for the drive up South Hulen Street to their new digs on North Coral Springs Drive. It took several trips to ferry everything from their old duplex and from their storage unit, yet nothing major was damaged in transit.

  Their new house was in a slightly better neighborhood and provided a much-needed third bedroom, plus a garage for storage space. However, there wasn’t a third bathroom, to the kids’ dismay. The other downside was Richard wasn’t across the railroad tracks from his beloved strip mall anymore.

  This was a big deal.

  Richard’s independence was one of the most important factors contributing to his quality of life. His ability to leave his home on his own and travel to nearby stores by himself helped him feel unrestricted and physically able. He could walk to the store just like everyone else. He could leave and return whenever he wanted without depending on others. That was true freedom. Plus, he loved being around people, popping in and out of stores to say hi and to chitchat. But their new house was more removed from the hustle and bustle of commercial businesses. Some of the only nearby stores were CVS, Subway, and Jack in the Box. His old strip mall had Mardel’s, a Christian bookstore he loved to frequent, a hair salon where he got his locks trimmed, a Whataburger with the best sweet tea, and a grocery store where he bought his victuals. And, of course, right by his duplex was East Gourmet Buffet with the finest chocolate mousse this side of Shanghai.

  Now he had Jack in the Box.

  Richard was certainly thankful for the van he’d received and for the home they’d found in which they could all be comfortable. He never took anything for granted, which was one of the qualities I admired most about him. In a way, he reminded me of a refugee from a third-world village now scraping by on minimum wage in the States. What would’ve been unacceptable to someone born here was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow to him. Every little convenience was appreciated, no advantage overlooked. He’d missed out on so many things his whole life, he cherished good fortune in whatever form or size it arrived.

  Yet potentially losing any of his independence was almost more than he could stomach. As we unpacked boxes and bags and began the process of settling in, Della could see he was down in the dumps, or as she put it, “being a poopy head.”

  Richard said, slightly defensively, “I’m sorry. But it’s a long way to move from my friends.”

  This was a poor choice of words that Della pounced on when she said, “Uh, try moving from Tennessee.”

  This seemed to help ease the sting a bit for Richard, or at least frame his sacrifice in the proper perspective. Within ten minutes, he and I were setting up his computer at our new workstation in his bedroom, trying to untangle the little amplifier cords. It seemed I couldn’t escape being a roadie.

  Now that finding a new home was accomplished, we turned our attention to the other pressing issue: locating another service dog for Richard. It was an intimidating task considering the time, money, and training necessary to acquire a service dog specifically skilled to meet Richard’s needs, yet my boss wasn’t worried. He’d been through this before. Troy was his third service dog. Yarrow, another Golden Retriever, had broken in Richard until he retired after ten years. Jimbo grabbed the baton, faithfully serving Richard for another ten years before retiring, followed by Troy. Now it was the next runner’s turn in the relay race.

  It was easy to think Richard should drop it. We were busy with school, he’d just gotten married, Michael probably needed extra attention during the blending of families, Evelyn and Emilee had to get to know their stepdad, and there was a whole new neighborhood to learn and a church home to find. Not to mention the other odds and ends of transitioning into a different house. There was plenty on Richard’s plate to keep him busy. Besides, how much did Troy actually do? Most of the time he napped next to Richard. With three kids, three attendants, and a wife around, didn’t Richard have enough help? Was it really imperative he immediately find another service dog? Wasn’t it selfish and greedy to ask for more donations? Was he thinking only of himself?

  From the outside looking in, this was a natural reaction to his situation. Even from the inside, I found myself wondering these same things. I felt guilty, like I was betraying Richard, yet I couldn’t stop the traitorous thoughts from crossing my mind. It seemed like more than he needed, more than enough.

  But that was the whole point. From someone else’s perspective, Richard should’ve been content and grateful to receive government assistance and generosity from friends and loving support from his family. He was a lot better off than many others with terminal illnesses or mental challenges or excruciating daily pain or the absence of any family or friends. Compared to them, Richard was doing just fine.

  Yet that didn’t prohibit him from wanting more like the rest of us. His physical challenges didn’t disqualify him from seeking complete fulfillment. Just because he’d already received plenty of help didn’t rule him ineligible for more. And his CP and wheelchair definitely didn’t lower the acceptable standards of joy.

  I thought of Leonard Cohen’s words (one of my all-time favorite lyricists) in “Bird on a Wire”: I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch. He said to me, “You must not ask for so much.” And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door, she cried to me, “Hey, why not ask for more?”

  Most people didn’t ask for what they wanted. They secretly envied those who did and regretted their inhibitions or guilt or just plain cowardice that stopped them. I knew I did. How many girls had I wanted to ask out through the years but never did? Anna in the fifth grade, Karen in the eighth, Vanessa in tenth, Amy in twelfth, Janice, Danielle, Mindy, and Brenda in college and graduate school. And they were merely the ones I remembered—there were more. I was so scared of them saying no, or yes. Being rejected or breaking up weren’t worth the misery. Staying alone was safer. It was enough.

  My fear of change had helped push me down the road l
ess traveled. It wasn’t so much defiance of the system and a commitment to my dreams as fear of technology. I didn’t like to admit this to myself, but I knew the truth. The world in which I’d grown up rebooted when I graduated from seminary to a digital planet run on computers, of which I knew little more than they connected to this new craze called the Internet and everyone now owned a laptop. Rather than sign up for a class to learn how to use one, I clung to typewriters and notepads like I owned stock in them. When everyone started carrying cellphones, I refused to buy one for nearly ten years because I was afraid to learn how to operate it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to know how, didn’t wish I was on the other side of the door laughing and carrying on with the rest of the party, I just couldn’t bring myself to knock. With each passing day and new technological advancement, I fell a little further behind, and it felt that much more impossible to catch up.

  People like Richard were courageous to me, not self-absorbed. He wasn’t being greedy, he simply had the guts to ask, regardless of how it might be received or perceived. He had the will to ignore embarrassment as if it didn’t apply to him and carried no votes in the outcome, which it didn’t. Whatever happened was up to him and he was going to find out either way. It wasn’t enough not to know. There was no such thing as enough for Richard’s kind. They were the ones throwing the party.

  So when it came to fundraising for a new service dog, Richard pulled out all the stops. He turned himself into a human billboard. We adorned him and his wheelchair with laminated paragraphs we’d written explaining why he was raising money. He sold T-shirts made by a friend with his favorite Bible verses. He negotiated deals with managers of local stores who allowed him to solicit donations and to sell shirts by the entrances for certain time periods every day. He camped outside these stores in his chair baking in the midday sun for hours, sucking down sweet tea from his thermos while trying to raise a few more bucks toward Troy’s replacement. When my band recorded our first five-song demo late that summer, Richard asked to sell some of our CDs and to split the profits, to which I agreed. He even wore a sign that read I’M NOT DRUNK, I JUST HAVE CP as an icebreaker to win over folks. He did whatever he could to inch closer to his goal of a new service dog.