Life at 8 mph

by Peter Bowling Anderson

  We watched The Office together on the phone every Thursday night. Though the show had already aired for several seasons, I’d never seen it. Leslie convinced me it was hilarious and even sent me DVDs of all the seasons I’d missed. She was right—I couldn’t stop laughing. We howled over Jim moving Dwight’s desk to the men’s bathroom, Michael defining the word “wedding” on Phyllis’s big day as “the fusing of two metals with a hot torch,” Kevin spilling a tub of his famous chili on the carpet and then falling in it, Stanley professing his undying love for Pretzel Day, Michael eating mayonnaise and black olives because he didn’t have any ice cream, Andy taping his nipples so they didn’t chafe during the Fun Run, and the greatest scene of all (during our all-time favorite episode, “Stress Relief: Part 1”): Dwight cutting the face off the mannequin during CPR training to pretend he was Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

  While watching together, the delay was also amusing. Leslie would laugh at a joke two seconds before I heard it on my TV and chuckled. It sounded like I was slow on the uptake. …Oh, I get it! Good one.

  We watched the Oscars and the Grammys together, too. I couldn’t find the speaker on my TracFone, so I had to hold the phone up to my ear for three or four straight hours. I switched hands throughout the awards shows, yet by the time the final winners were announced, both arms were numb and I wanted to throw the phone through the TV.

  When Leslie visited, she found the speaker on my phone in less than ten seconds.

  I wasn’t nearly as good of a tour guide as she’d been when I visited Memphis. I couldn’t take her to the zoo or to the Stockyards because of her strong feelings about caging animals. She even hated it when we came across a horse-drawn carriage. She wanted to yank the driver down and set the horse free from dragging around an oversized load in suffocating humidity and chaotic traffic. I had to admit, it was a fair point I hadn’t considered.

  I couldn’t take her to Angelo’s, which served the best chopped beef sandwich in the world, because she was a vegan. I couldn’t take her to play tennis with Todd and Bryan or to jam with the band because that didn’t make for a romantic, secluded weekend. We couldn’t play basketball, hit in the batting cages, or attend a Rangers game because, frankly, she wasn’t a dude. I began realizing how many “guy” things I did on a regular basis.

  What I could do was introduce her to Bryan and his parents. They’d been eager to meet her, so we chitchatted for a bit in their living room as Bryan played host, dutifully fetching refreshments for everyone. Leslie and Bryan connected right away, for which I was grateful. Bryan was like a power drill that arrived in the mail fully charged ready to go. He overwhelmed some people, and in fact, he told me many times how he’d burned out most of his previous friends and I was one of the only ones still standing. I was nervous he’d be too much for Leslie to handle, leaving me in an awkward conundrum, yet they joked and got on like they were old friends.

  Leslie and I continued our tradition of playing putt-putt each visit. My goal was to shoot a thirty-six, par for the course. Maybe next time. We went to the Kimbell Art Museum and each picked our favorite painting, another tradition that had begun at the Dixon Gallery and Gardens in Memphis. We walked through the Botanic Garden and around the seminary campus where Bryan toiled and I’d survived.

  I didn’t take her to meet Richard and Della because there was only so much we could do in two days and she was already bordering on overload. It was supposed to be a relaxing weekend for us to spend time together alone, not meet everyone in town. Richard and Della would have to wait till next visit, which they completely understood.

  I’d intentionally made sure our band didn’t have any gigs that weekend so I’d be free for Leslie, though in hindsight, that was probably a mistake. She even asked, “When do I get to see you perform?”

  “Uh…we’re opening for Coldplay on their next tour,” I answered, a bit caught off-guard. “Clear next summer.”

  “I want to see you stage dive,” she teased.

  “Then it’s a good thing you have a medical background.”

  Playing on stage would’ve impressed her, I realized too late. Rats, I thought, kicking myself. Yet I still could play my guitar for her, which I did in her hotel room one evening. I played her a new song for which I’d written the music and Manya had penned the lyrics. I didn’t try to sing the lyrics—I couldn’t remember them all, anyway. Manya had titled it “Hummingbird,” which I liked, and it was while I played this song that I later learned Leslie fell in love with me. She said it was the way the song changed tempos and even time signatures that reminded her of how I interacted with her: patient and sensitive, then zany and humorous, and back. She said it was my willingness to bend to the shape she needed that showed her my true character and thoughtfulness.

  Of course, she didn’t tell me that until later. When I finished playing, she got mad at me for something I couldn’t quite comprehend and in just a few short minutes, we were on the brink of breaking up. Again, it wasn’t until later that she confessed her realization of her feelings for me spooked her so much she pushed me away as hard as she could. This was scary territory rife with intimacy, full disclosure, and long-term commitment. That was a lot to absorb in one song. So Leslie picked a fight to elude the truth like she was a running back chased by an entire defense. She had to outrun it before being pinned under a massive dog pile with no way to squirm out and no room to breathe. She hoped I’d take the bait and fight back so vehemently the end would be unavoidable. I could let her off the hook before it was too late. I was the cause of this, and the solution.

  But I didn’t. It would’ve been easy enough to let happen. I struggled with emotional accessibility, verbalizing feelings, acceptance of love, assumptions of inadequacy—even hugging. I was more terrified than she in this minefield. We both could’ve let each other off the hook in one fight. Yet, in the end, I didn’t want her to leave. I wasn’t ready for it to end. I liked having someone who listened as if what I was saying were the most important thing she’d heard all day, because it was. This was a new one on me. It was hard to let go of something so rare I probably wouldn’t find again. Mattering to that degree was as singular as it got.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Something Important

  It was a blessing in disguise. I’d known for a while that Bryan needed to leave the band. As much as it fueled his motivation and buoyed his spirits, learning new parts, rehearsing, and playing shows took way too much time away from his studies. He wasn’t the type of person who could multitask as effectively as if he focused on one main objective. Neither was I. He needed to pare down his outside interests and zero in on school from here out. He was already studying hard and had come a long way, but in the fall, he was up for practicum again. This was his time to put the pedal down for the finish line. He could impress people, make key connections, sharpen his craft, and begin building a bridge to a career. Figuring out a new guitar part at 11:30 at night didn’t fit in with that.

  Unfortunately, however logical the bottom line, it didn’t make signing it any easier when it involved surrendering a dream.

  I didn’t have the nerve to bring it up. I was certain he’d misinterpret it as an indictment of his musicianship, that he was holding back the band and we were better off without him. In reality, it would’ve done him a favor. Our band wasn’t going to make it, and any further time he invested in it would be wasted. I wanted him to be successful in counseling. He had a heart for helping people, especially kids, and he was a good listener. I could see him excelling in the field. I wanted him to give it his best shot. Yet I was terrified broaching the subject would send him into an emotional tailspin.

  Thankfully, Manya did it for me. I’d never spoken to her about it, but she pulled me aside one day and said she wanted to alter our musical direction, incorporate a cellist, maybe a French horn, and let Bryan focus on school. She, too, recognized the crossroads where he stood, though she understood
far better than I that we needed to make this choice for him. He wasn’t ready to desert us, as he would’ve viewed it, and he still believed he could carry the surplus without anything slipping. He had to be told, not asked, and it had to be her because I couldn’t do it.

  The next day, she talked to Bryan and it was done. Simple as that. I braced for the fallout, yet it never came. He seemed mildly disappointed but in a way relieved. Even he had to admit that not driving an hour and a half round trip to Dallas three times a week was only going to make his life easier. I said, “Won’t be the same without you.” Then I extended an offer I hadn’t planned on making but felt like the right thing to do: “Listen, if it’s too weird with me still in the band, I’ll drop out. No big deal.”

  He shook his head, and said, “No way, I’m fine. Go for it. Seriously.”

  That was when I knew he’d turned the corner. The old Bryan from just a year ago would’ve locked his bedroom door for days after getting booted from the band, like after his practicum denial. He would’ve let everything slide and given up. Yet this 2.0 version could handle a little adversity, a letdown here and there, without crashing into a tree. He smiled, and said, “Don’t worry, I’ve always got the One Thing method to fall back on if things get hard.”

  The One Thing method was a trick I’d told him a while back to help push through a trying day. He just had to pick one thing to look forward to that evening, whether it was a movie or his favorite TV show or a chocolate malt from Fuddruckers. Something fun he enjoyed that he could focus on instead of the anxieties and depressing thoughts vying for his attention. It was pretty simplistic, yet it had helped him, which was enough.

  So I soldiered on in the band without him. It felt odd driving back from Dallas late at night without Bryan studying next to me wearing a cap with his flashlight taped on, his school books stacked on the dashboard in front of him and on the floorboards, empty bags of sunflower seeds on the center console. More than odd, a little hollow. We’d started this together, yet I’d left him on the side of the road and driven off. The car and the purpose now seemed empty.

  But it wouldn’t be long before I joined Bryan, my days as a musician numbered, too. The number and fashion didn’t line up with the picture I imagined, though I’d grown used to that.

  R

  Richard was striking out in the dog department. He’d found a trainer in Tennessee who prepared a service dog for him. When it was time to pick up the dog, Richard, Della, and I drove to Tennessee to meet Richard’s new sidekick. It was fun being on the road with them. Richard was like an excited little kid going to meet Santa, while Della remained positive and optimistic no matter what we encountered. In the middle of a traffic jam, I grumbled, “Looks like we’ll be here a while.”

  She immediately replied, “Perfect. Let’s play ‘I Spy’ or count how many different license plates we can find.” It took a whole heap of trouble to bring her down.

  At the training facility, our party fizzled. The dog wouldn’t, or couldn’t, respond to Richard’s commands. The trainer hadn’t been able to simulate his slurred speech, so the dog wasn’t used to hearing his name or “Sit” the way Richard pronounced it. The dog simply stared at Richard like he was speaking Cantonese.

  On top of this, while Richard tried to direct the dog, his trainer kept admitting, “Oh, we should’ve worked on that,” or “Yeah, that would’ve been good to practice.” What the heck had they been doing out here for the last few months, playing backgammon? We’d driven all the way to Tennessee for this?

  Richard decided to leave the dog with the trainer for additional work, though on the drive home he conceded the dog probably wasn’t the one. Too much retraining, rewiring, starting over from scratch.

  Troy was proving a tough act to follow. More like impossible.

  Naturally, this was a blow to Richard’s morale, yet ever Mr. Persistent, he stayed the course and continued seeking alternate avenues through which to secure a new service dog. He was determined to have that bond again. It had worked in the past with his other service dogs, and it could work again. He just had to find the right one.

  Admirably, he didn’t allow the disappointment to affect his schoolwork, as he remained on schedule to graduate with his master’s degree the following year. He studied hard, and Della told me she’d found him numerous times camped in front of his computer late at night struggling to stay awake so he could complete his assigned reading.

  As with Bryan, I wanted Richard to succeed. He’d overcome a lot and logged many hours of diligent work that others didn’t have to. It took him twice as long to read a chapter, take a test, and write a paper. Like Bryan, he struggled with ADHD, as well as fatigue, sleep apnea, and memory and comprehension challenges that required rereading. And also like Bryan, he battled depression.

  Despite the eternally optimistic glasses through which he viewed the world, Richard wasn’t immune to moodiness and melancholy. Given his situation, it made perfect sense to me. I would’ve sulked all day unwilling to participate in life. Richard refused to play the victim card, yet he still fought off feeling sorry for himself. He just rarely talked about it. He didn’t want to dump his gripes on everyone else because he already asked so much of them. Wasn’t it enough they bathed him and brushed his teeth, fed and clothed him? Now they had to listen to him complain the whole time, too? He knew it wasn’t fair, that he wouldn’t have wanted to hear it if he’d been in their shoes, so he kept his sadness to himself most of the time.

  Yet it was there, lurking, waiting for a vulnerable moment to crawl on top of his head and push him under. Such a moment had come years before I knew him, when he nearly succumbed to the hardships of life with cerebral palsy. It was after his divorce and his kids left to live with relatives, before Michael came back to stay with him. He was alone and despondent and saw no point in continuing. The deck was stacked against him and he was losing at life. He simply couldn’t poke his head above the rising tide any longer. He was exhausted, with no one around to prove anything to except himself, and that simply wasn’t enough anymore. At some point, moral victories and fighting the good fight felt as empty as his home, so he left one night to escape the reminders of what was missing and of what he’d missed out on.

  He went to a lake to drown himself.

  It was quiet with no one around, and he didn’t hesitate. Once Richard made up his mind to do something, there was no turning back. He drove his chair straight to the edge of the water, but his wheels got stuck in the mud. Determined as ever, he slid down his chair into the mud to reach the water however he could. It didn’t need to look pretty or go according to plan. Nothing else did, so why should this? He’d learned to be adaptable out of necessity. All that mattered was getting under the water.

  He tried to drag himself into the lake, yet his left foot was stuck awkwardly in the mud and he couldn’t free it. He struggled for twenty or thirty minutes to get out of the mud and into the water to finish what he’d started, but he couldn’t make it. He finally put his head on the seat of his chair and cried, unable to control even his own death. He was powerless and useless and understood nothing.

  Finally, he saw someone and called for help. He didn’t want to, but what else was he going to do? Sit in the mud until morning? He didn’t want anyone else calling an ambulance and then the paramedics carting him off to a psych ward when they discovered his suicidal intent. He asked the guy to come help, though he ended up calling EMT. However, when they arrived, EMT assumed Richard had merely gotten stuck and couldn’t get out. He didn’t tell them his real purpose, so they had no reason to send him to psychiatric care. They made sure he was okay, put him back in his chair, and sent him on his way.

  Eventually, through counseling, time, prayer, Bible study, and Michael returning, Richard regained his footing. He got plugged into a church, gained a few friends and accountability partners, and worked his way back to the point when I’d met him, strong and r
esilient once again, bent but not busted.

  Now, when things didn’t work out, such as not finding a new service dog, Richard was able to weather the blow without buckling. He grieved and then regrouped. He snapped back undaunted.

  To help ease the sting of this latest service dog not panning out, one of Richard’s dreams came true. He’d always wanted a nice van in which he could sit up front in the co-pilot’s spot. Now he had one. An old friend and mentor loaned him the money to buy a used Dodge Caravan without many miles on it. The van was red (I said goodbye to Big Blue and called this one Magnum after the red Ferrari 308 GTS used in Magnum, P.I.) and featured a ramp instead of a lift (no more accidental launches into orbit) and an EZ Lock Wheelchair Docking System on the floorboards into which Richard could secure his chair (no more lashing down the inmate). It was everything he’d ever wanted. It even had two working cup holders.

  The best part was Richard could now get into the van and be ready to depart all by himself. He had a remote control on his key that opened the sliding door and lowered the ramp, and once inside the van, he could guide his chair into the EZ Lock without assistance. It was one more invaluable piece of independence he’d gained. Plus, he could now sit next to Della when they went places together, not behind her like she was his chauffeur. The van literally made his month, maybe his year.

  The generosity of Richard’s friend floored me, though Richard had every intention of paying him back. He began setting aside a little money each month toward the debt, slowly chipping away it like every other challenge before him. Hacking away at them all, piece by piece, piece by piece. I thought I was diligent before I met Richard, that I knew about perseverance, yet I was a beginner compared to him. I merely used diligence; he defined it. His survival depended on it. It wasn’t a character trait he was building. It was an extension of his physical features, each fumbled item, slurred word, and drop of drool a war of will without respite. And he did it all with a smile like he’d been done a favor. At the time, I didn’t understand that he had.