by Rob J. Quinn
The Adventures of Red O’Ryan
The Birth of Super Crip
Rob J. Quinn
Copyright 2015 Rob J. Quinn
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Dedication
To three brothers who treated playing basketball, football, and baseball, on their knees in the basement like it was a normal thing to do.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Author
Chapter 1
Red closed his locker, the clang of the metal door being slammed shut coming just before the bell signaling the end of lunch for juniors. He stopped at his locker once a day after lunch because he knew he could steal a little extra time in between periods. Kids with disabilities were always allowed to leave class a minute or two early to try to get a head start on reaching their next class before the halls filled with students at the bell. Some teachers were sticklers about them not leaving too early even if the lesson ended a few minutes before the bell. But lunch monitors rarely said anything even if they left as much as five minutes early, and even then a request to use the restroom always sufficed. He pushed the lock up, pressing the shackle against the inside of the hole in the handle of the locker to clamp it down, and he used his thumb to move the dial away from the final digit of his combination. He put his book bag over the back of the seat of his power wheelchair, which most people referred to as a scooter despite his protests, and turned to head for his next class only to find Chuck Groslin blocking his way.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Chuck asked. The football player towered over Red. Chuck’s stocky build was imposing to most of the kids in school.
Looking up at the familiar crew cut and lettered jacket that Chuck would wear even on the hottest days of the year, Red rolled his eyes. “It’s fifth period, Chuck,” he said. “Try to keep up. I’m going to the same place every time you do this. Social studies. It’s high school. Pretty much the same schedule every day.”
“What?” Chuck said again, adding a look of disgust. “I can’t even understand you when you talk.”
Red felt himself tense up, even feeling slightly light-headed for a second. Cracks about his speech disability always got under his skin the most. “So maybe you shouldn’t keep asking me questions, Einstein,” Red said, dismissing any thoughts of making light of the daily ritual. The hallways started to fill, and Red noticed Chuck’s girlfriend approaching him from behind. Red slowly started to steer his wheelchair past him.
“C’mon, Chuck,” Tara said, trying to gently push him on his way. “Just go to class.”
Instead, he took a step to his left to block Red’s path. “Did I give you permission to leave yet?”
Red glared at him, tempted to take a swing at the football player. “Move,” he growled.
When Chuck just stood there, Red made another attempt at steering around him. Suddenly, he felt the bully’s hand on his chest. “Where do you think you’re going?” Chuck asked again, standing right next to him and leaning down into his face.
A wave of energy surged through Red as he reached out to grab Chuck’s jacket, but he caught nothing but air. Blinded by darkness that came and went so fast that he wasn’t sure it happened, Red suddenly felt light-headed and saw dots everywhere. He heard a loud bang as if someone had slammed a locker. He caught a jumbled glimpse of Tara’s bulging eyes as she covered her mouth. Grabbing the armrest and handlebars of his power chair to steady himself, he wondered if he was having a seizure, though he’d only ever seen a couple of his friends have them. Other kids were pushing against him, a small crowd gathering to see what had happened.
Finally, his eyes started to focus. Chuck was lying on the floor with his head against a locker, and Tara was on her knees beside him trying to offer comfort. Did he slip? Red wondered. How did he get on the ground? He looked up again and noticed the other kids were starting to head to class.
Red took the opportunity to finally make his way around Chuck. His head felt as though it was swirling, almost like the momentary dizziness he often felt after getting out of a pool, but it wasn’t going away as fast. He purposely tried to take a deep breath, getting a good inhale on the second try. Exhaling, he was pretty sure that whatever he’d just experienced was starting to pass. It felt as though something was receding from his head. He didn’t look back at Chuck until he was several feet down the hall. His tormentor’s eyes looked up at him, seemingly as confused as he was. Feeling a couple pats on the back, Red vaguely heard kids say, “Nice job” and “Way to go.” He looked up at them, wondering why they were congratulating him.
Chapter 2
Though it wasn’t completely unusual for his father to be home before he got dropped off by the school bus, Red felt a pang of panic when he saw his dad’s car in the driveway. Red knew his dad often said that sometimes the sales just weren’t there and it was time to call it a day. But Red wondered if a call from the school was what had brought his dad home early.
Red parked his power wheelchair in the garage next to the folded-up manual wheelchair that sat along the wall by the door. He was using the manual more and more on family outings despite his initial reluctance. It was easier than arguing with his mom because his dad wanted to take his car instead of loading the power chair into the minivan, and if they had to walk any significant distance—into a restaurant or church—he wasn’t slowing everyone down. He hated to admit to himself that he was happy to have it on a few occasions when they had to park especially far away from church. However, he drew the line at using the manual chair in the house, and even Red was surprised when his dad remained silent after he sternly said no to his mom’s suggestion.
After making the switch to using a power wheelchair instead of walking in school, something in Red told him that he needed to draw a line. He couldn’t give any more ground. He had always walked at Sunshine Lane, the special education school he had attended until he was thirteen when he was finally mainstreamed. The first time that using a power chair came up, he thought it was a joke. It was stupid, he thought. Kids with muscular dystrophy or who had more involvement from cerebral palsy used power chairs.
Eventually, he knew he had no choice but to use the power wheelchair his parents bought. The school practically made it a requirement to being mainstreamed. At least that’s how it seemed with all of the badgering from the teachers to use the chair.
A few weeks into regular school he figured it was one of the few things they got right. He really was fine walking around Sunshine Lane. His walking was stable enough in that environment—far fewer kids, everyone was familiar with everyone, no bustling hallways, and, once he really thought about it, no real need to walk very far. In regular school, Red knew he would have been knocked down about five times on the way to his first class. So he followed the plan, exclusively traveling through halls in his scooter. Of course, once he got to the high school he actual
ly felt slightly vindicated when he had to walk up to the second floor for Computer Programming, but he had mostly gotten over reminding his parents about it.
Tim was in the kitchen reading the paper when his son came in through the garage. “Hey, Dad,” Red said, closing the door.
“How was school?” his father asked, peering over the top of the newspaper he was reading.
Red went directly to the refrigerator to grab his regular after-school Pepsi. “Fine.”
Tim watched his son get a table knife out of the drawer to slide under the tab of his soda to open it and carefully place the can on the table. He knew his wife would have done it for him, but Tim was slowly starting to realize that those days needed to stop. “Your brother just flew in and out of here,” Tim said. “Says you were in some type of ruckus at school.”
Red finished putting a straw into the can with his mouth and took a swig before he answered his father. “Scott used the word ruckus?”
“Don’t get smart,” his dad said in a tone just barely light enough that Red knew he could laugh.
He shrugged. “Nothing really happened.”
“What did happen?”
“Some kid was blocking my way and he fell when I tried to get around him,” Red said. That wasn’t a lie, Red thought.
“Did you push him?”
“No.”
His father’s stare told him more of an answer was expected.
“I didn’t push him,” he insisted.
“Red O’Ryan . . .” Tim just let his son’s full name hang in the air as he waited for more of an explanation. When none came, he shook his head. “We sure did name you right. You’re just as stubborn as they say your great-grandfather was.”
“I thought he got the name Red in the war?”
“He did,” his dad explained. “I remember hearing stories from his old Army buddies. Used to love sitting in his lap listening to the old men talk. They said Grandpop was always the first man leading the charge into a fight—on the battlefield or in the bar. Always ready for a fight.”
Red, of course, had heard the story of how he was named plenty of times, but his father always seemed to enjoy telling it, so he kept quiet. It also seemed to have changed the subject, which was an added bonus.
“I had a feeling you were going to be our last,” his dad continued. “So I was pushing pretty hard to name you after him. Mom wasn’t going for it ’til you were born. They told me you weren’t going to make it through the night. By the time Mom saw you the next morning, you looked like a different baby. Your color was better. Everything. Like nothing unusual had happened. Doctors and nurses said what a fighter you were. We named you Red on the spot.”
His dad paused and turned the page.
“But, from what I hear, Grandpop was also stubborn as hell,” his dad said. “For instance, when he was asked a question he didn’t want to answer, he just didn’t answer. Which brings us back to you. Unfortunately, you don’t have the same luxury of not answering. Now, did you push him?”
“Dad, the guy plays football,” Red explained. “Even if I had pushed him, he wouldn’t have fallen. He’s probably got like a hundred pounds on me.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“Fine, but he’s at least seventy-five pounds heavier. I still didn’t knock him over.”
His dad glanced back at the paper and turned the page again. He was almost convinced. “So, how did he end up on the floor?”
Red shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe he was surprised I was even going to try to push him and, I dunno, he slipped or something. That’s why everybody thought I pushed him. I guess.”
Folding up the paper, his father seemed satisfied. “This kid pick on you?”
“He kind of tries to, but all he ever does is block my way.”
“Well, if there’s any more trouble, I want to know about it,” Tim said, getting up from the table. “Get started on your homework after that soda.”
Chapter 3
Leaves danced in the yard to the tune of a soft fall wind. Red looked down from his bedroom window. His brother was playing football with some kids from the neighborhood in the field just beyond the neighbor’s yard. Mr. Taylor had lived in the house next door for as long as anyone could remember. Despite his reputation among the kids as a gruff old man, he let them traipse through his yard to play in what everybody called the “back back” of his yard under the unwritten rules that they didn’t get too loud and nobody messed with his boat. Rumors occasionally swirled that the old man kept a shotgun just inside his basement door for anyone that messed with Betsy, the single-engine boat he bought after his wife died. But most people didn’t believe it. Only a few people still living in the neighborhood had actually met the real Betsy. The boat sat close to the house just on the other side of the fence he shared with the O’Ryans, and had only recently returned to its post-Labor Day parking spot.
Even though Red could feel the unseasonable chill through the pane of glass, he noticed his brother had already stripped off his sweatshirt. Red squeezed the miniature commemorative 1981 Philadelphia Eagles NFC Championship football in his hands a little tighter. Playfully making a throwing motion, he wanted to flip the ball in the air and catch it the way his brother always did whenever he was just standing around with a football. But he thought better of it, knowing he might miss and have to chase after the ball if it rolled off the bed. Instead, he smacked it against his left hand, waited to see his brother get open, and pretended to throw a perfect spiral right to him.
A soft knock came at the door. Looking back across the small room from his bed, Red saw his mom standing in the doorway. “Don’t let your brother catch you with that,” she said, motioning toward the ball in his hand.
He offered a knowing smile. “‘Eleven years later and they still haven’t won the Super Bowl,’” Red said, imitating his brother. “He’s suddenly a big Cowboys fan again now that they don’t stink.”
“How come you’re not outside playing with him?” she asked.
He shrugged. “He’s playing with some of his buddies,” Red said. “It’s a little cold, anyway.”
“I know how that generally stops you,” his mom said sarcastically, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing her lower lip out as if to pout.
“Mom,” he groaned, trying not to smile.
“Don’t Mom me,” she said. “You two always play together.”
Red looked out the window at the game. He watched Scott catch a pass from his best friend and get tackled just short of the trees that marked the goal line as well as the part of Mr. Taylor’s yard that they knew to stay out of. “The other kids don’t like it when I play,” he said. “They give me ‘the look,’ like they have to go easy or they got stuck with me on their team.”
Mary watched her son for a moment. She could see his reflection in the window. His dark hair and blue eyes always reminded her of his dad just a little more than her other three sons. The four of them couldn’t deny being brothers even if they wanted to—they looked so much alike with their thin builds, light Irish complexions, and not quite long faces, in which Mary still saw their soft baby features.
“Does this have anything to do with the fight this afternoon in school?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes. “I knew you were going to ask me that,” he said.
“Well?”
Red turned back to his mom. “I already told Dad, it wasn’t a fight. The guy’s just a jerk. He gets in my way every day to be a tough guy or whatever he thinks he’s doing, and I got sick of it. I don’t think I even touched him. He just slipped or something.”
