Tap, Turn, And Roll

“You were more fun to play with when you were into Barbie dolls,” I tell my daughter as we sit at our kitchen table, reading the directions to a board game that perplexes the heck out of me. “This game makes no sense – place the card on a square, tap it, then turn it, then roll the dice, and whoever rolls the highest number wins. What kind of game is that?”

“It’s a fun game,” my daughter says, setting up the board.

“When I was a kid, we played checkers – that’s a game that makes sense – and the smart kids played backgammon,” I say, pretending to continue reading the directions, but more tuned toward making up rules as we go along.

“Did you play backgammon?” she asks.

“Sort of,” I say.

“So you were just a little smart,” she says, smiling.

“Oh yeah, let’s see how smart you are – show me how to play this crazy game,” I reply, giving up on the directions.

She places a card on a square, taps it, turns it, then rolls her dice, raking a 9. She then rolls the dice for me, ending up with a 6. “I win!” she says, adding a card to her winner’s square.

We move through another round of tapping, turning, and rolling – and she wins again. “This is rigged,” I say. “Because you’re rolling the dice for both of us, you’re somehow cheating.”

“Actually, because you can’t roll dice real good, and I have to do it for you, it’s not cheating,” she says, defeating my claim with a technicality.

“Because I need you to pour me orange juice, does that mean you can poison it?” I ask.

“Maybe,” she says tapping, turning, and rolling, defeating me further.

“Can’t we play checkers?” I ask.

“Sure, I love checkers,” she says.

“Wait – you always beat me at checkers, too, right?” I ask.

“Yep,” she says.

“Forget checkers, then,” I say. “Can’t we play some sort of wheelchair game – I’d be great at that.”

“OK,” she says. “What are manual wheelchairs made from?”

“Aluminum,” I say.

“You win,” she says. “Now back to my game.”

“Alright, let’s finish your game,” I say. “And, by the way, you’re not allowed near my orange juice anymore.”

Dirty Bird

This Thanksgiving, I have a confession to make: I’m a dirty bird.

Now, at this point in my life, I think I’m achieving many of my goals, with a healthy, happy family, stable career, and virtually no vices – heck, you can even open my closets and peek under my bed, and all is as spotless on the inside as it is on the outside.

Yet, as I roll up to the Thanksgiving table this year, homemade paper pilgrim hat on my head, wearing a crisp, rustic-orange shirt and turkey-adorned neck tie, I will still have a dirty secret cloaked beneath the ironed, white table cloth: My muck-and-mired powerchair.

I swear, I try to keep my powerchair clean – I really do, especially for occasions like Thanksgiving dinner. But, I just can’t seem to keep it spotless and speckless for any duration. It’s like making a bed, only to intrinsically mess it up again the instant you lie down – that is, as soon as I clean my powerchair, it’s dirty again by the time I roll out my front door. It’s a curse, really.

Now, one might suppose that at some point during the year, when there’s a dry stretch of weather and I stick to paved surfaces, I must be able to keep my chair clean for some time, right?

Nope, not a chance. You see, I’ve been convinced ever since I was a child that powerchairs actually create mud. People say that freshly-washed cars make it rain, and I attest that clean powerchairs create mud. Sure, my wife will tell you differently, that my powerchair only gets dirty when I drive through all kinds of yucky stuff on my way to work each day, that I’m then too lazy to wipe it off promptly, resulting in a powerchair that’s always dirty. But, I’m sticking to my story that no matter how much time I spend cleaning my powerchair, it stays dirty because it simply makes its own mud.

For Thanksgiving this year, I will once again sit at our family table, the scene groomed and gracious, silverware polished, turkey tanned, where like a newscaster behind the anchor’s desk, I will look poised and picture-perfect from the waist up. However, beneath the draped, starched tablecloth will sit my dirty bird of a powerchair, having gone another year flawless in its function, but still unbathed, even on Thanksgiving – inevitably the way I like it, surely collecting a few drops of gravy and cranberry sauce on the fenders in celebration, no less.

Cowboy Hat

This black cowboy hat seemed like a better idea than it is. The tight fit and cheap felt locks the heat in my head like an oven. I’d take it off, but it’s too late – removing the hat would ruin my image.

I bought the hat after seeing a country music video of a saddle-sore hunk wearing one, and reckoned that a black cowboy hat would be a good look for me, too – a look that would hopefully antagonize my family and friends into further questioning my sanity, as I have no country kid in me whatsoever. So, I went online, ordered a nineteen-dollar black cowboy – the cheapest that I could find – and called it a night. But, when the hat arrived a few days later, and I pranced into our kitchen with it on my head looking every bit a wheelchair cowboy, my wife merely smiled, noting that nothing I do surprises her anymore. It was then that I decided that I would wear the hat to my next public event to see how far I needed to take the theme until my wife gave me her you’re-out-of-your-mind stare.

So, here I am on a Saturday evening, leaving a speakers’ panel engagement at a New York City bookstore, wearing a white oxford shirt and black cowboy hat. My sister said that I looked hot in the hat, and I feel it, too, having worked up a sweat talking in front of fifty people for the past hour – and now I can’t wait to get in my van, rip this cow bucket off my head, and get home by eleven.

“Mark,” this woman says as I weave through the crowd, heading for the door and the cool, marine-layer breeze outside.

I slow my chair, look to my left, and a late-twenties woman bends down slightly, peeking at me under the brow of my cowboy hat. She’s tall and slender, with what my mother always called a bobbed hair cut, brunette hair chopped at shoulder length. And, she’s wearing funky, grandma- type glasses that point out on the sides. Overall, a sexy librarian, I think – always my type, smart and sexy. “Yes, hi,” I say.

“You know, I heard you speak, and you’re fantastic,” she says, kneeling down beside my chair.

I typically hate when people kneel down to speak with me. Kneeling down to speak with someone who uses a wheelchair is too scripted, taught in corporate handbooks as the best way to make customers with disabilities comfortable during conversation. I’m just under five-feet tall when sitting up straight in my powerchair, and figure that unless you want me looking down at your bald spot if you’re a man, or down your blouse if you’re a woman, it’s not preferable to kneel when speaking with me. And, this young woman is proving my practice true, as I struggle to keep my eyes above her loose-fitting, low-cut sweater.

“Well, that’s very kind – I’m glad you enjoyed the panel,” I say, noticing the constant legs in motion behind her, people making way past us as we all but block the store’s main aisle.

“Do you have a publicist?” she asks.

I laugh. “No – no publicist,” I say.

“Seriously, I’m a publicist, and would love to take a look at possibly working with you,” she says, reaching in her handbag, pulling out a business card, handing it to me.

I look at the card and it’s some sort of communications agency. “Are you Karen,” I ask, reading the name from the lower corner of the card.

“Yes,” she says, with a little too much excitement, as if she’s won something.

“It’s my pleasure to meet you, Karen,” I say, struggling to stuff the card into my shirt pocket. “But, truly, I’m the last guy who needs a publicist.”

“Everyone needs a publicist,” she says.

“Name one,” I say hoping to stump her.

“You,” she says.

“You’re quick,” I say, smiling, impressed with her wit. “I’m flattered, but no publicists for me – I’ve got enough going on.”

“Who’s publicizing your book?” she asks.

“Me,” I say. “It’s really an Internet project, focused within the disability community.”

“Well, what if we could take it mainstream?” she asks. “I get my clients on all the top media outlets.”

“I appreciate it, but, really, I’m focused on my wheelchair career – writing and speaking are after-hour pursuits,” I say. “I don’t have any wish for more press or anything like that.”

“Please think about it,” she says.

“Hey, what do you know about country venues – like country-and western magazines and networks?” I ask in a moment of inspiration.

“Sure,” she says, glancing up at my hat. “I’ve gotten clients interviews and press with all the country media outlets.”

“Cool,” I say. “More and more I’m drawn to the country lifestyle. I’ll tell you what, I’ll talk to my wife about my doing some country press, and give you a call.”

Trouble With Tongues

My English bulldog, Rosie, has an extraordinary tongue. When I say that she has an extraordinary tongue, I mean that it’s dramatically too long for her snout. When she’s sitting, her tongue peeks out between her teeth and lips like a piece of red ribbon. When she runs, her tongue flops in the wind, bouncing from her ear to the ground, then back again, flapping beside her head like a struggling kite. And, when she sleeps, her tongue drops so far out the side of her mouth that I’m tempted to roll it back up like a scroll.

But, Rosie’s extraordinary tongue isn’t wasted excess – no, she uses it to its maximum potential. Sure, most dogs will lick a child or their own paw; however, Rosie takes licking to the next level, void of boundaries, licking with no discretion toward taste, texture, or sanitation – dirt, your hair, tree bark, or carpeting, Rosie will lick it.

I’m especially amused by Rosie’s love to lick, as I, too, have always proved tempted to lick just about anything on a dare or for a laugh. In fact, I’m even inclined every so often to lick Rosie when she licks me, to her confusion, my wife’s disgust, and my daughter’s entertainment. Typically, though, my tongue doesn’t get me in trouble beyond a scolding by my wife for taking sick humor too far, like licking the oil off of our lawnmower’s dipstick, then chasing her for a petroleum-based kiss. Rosie, on the other hand, is constantly in trouble for licking what she shouldn’t be licking, with us wanting to keep her safe and healthy. “Rosie, no lick!” you often hear around our home.

Now, on the subject of doing what one shouldn’t do, I’m sure gentlemen’s clubs are known for getting guys in trouble. But, I’ve never had enough experience with them to know what kind of trouble they bring, so when I find myself here tonight, in a gentlemen’s club, it’s thought provoking but seemingly harmless, looking like a typical lounge, but with exotic dancers on the stage. My wife knows I’m here, and I’m with less-than-rowdy friends, so there’s no trouble here for me.

As I listen to the less-than-popular music played by the cliché, gravel-voiced DJ, noting the thin cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke that filters the dim light, I’m torn by the practice of gentlemen’s clubs, where men objectify women, where the women hustle men, and where everyone uses everyone in a bleak distortion of a market economy. Yet, I confess that it’s hard not to be engaged by mingling with twenty-five disrobed, gorgeous women, in a setting where I presume that my disability is less of a factor than in many situations – as long as I’m paying, I suppose that the dancers are playing.

In the context of my reservations, I’m sitting away from the action a bit, watching from a distance as a young lady, announced as Taylor, dances on the stage, noticeably staying away from the brass pole like the previous dancers, preferring to dance closer to the guys surrounding the stage.

I’ve never really had a “type” when it comes to women, preferring to address people on an individual level. But, if I had a type, Taylor is it, with long black hair, curvaceous hips, dark eyes, and funky librarian glasses – if it’s possible in the circumstance, she looked both sexy and smart. That’s my type, indeed – sexy and smart.

I pull a five bill out of my wallet, and roll up to the low-slung counter surrounding the stage. I’ve been studying the protocol, and by placing cash on the counter, the dancer comes over and focuses her attention on you for a few moments – that is, the cash on the counter is like turning on the light for a stewardess on an airplane.

And, here comes Taylor.

“I’m Taylor,” she says, standing eight-feet tall on the stage in front of me, her four-inch black heals almost at my eye level.

“I know,” I say with a wink, unsure as to what gesture to make.

“Hold on, I’ll come down to you,” she says, noting that I’m sitting back from the counter a bit, as I didn’t want to bump my knees on its edge.

She climbs down, and goes to straddle my knees, but stops, and I look from her chest to her eyes to gauge why she stopped?

“You’re married,” she says, pointing at my left hand, where my thick, white-gold wedding band shines.

“Of course,” I say.

It strikes me that if I were in a bar, trying to pick her up, I can imagine my wedding ring being an alarm bell. But, this is a gentlemen’s club, where I fathom a lot of the men are married, where there’s some sort of distinction between entertainment and intent. What’s the shocker that I’m married and wearing a wedding ring?

“Why wouldn’t I be married?” I ask.

“Because you look so young,” she replies.

“I’m thirty four, soon to be thirty-five,” I say.

“You don’t look older than twenty-four,” she says.

“Well, I’m thirty-four,” I say.

“How old is he?” she asks my friend who just pulled up a chair next to me.

“How should I know?” he says. “I’m thirty one, and he’s older than me.“

“Married, huh,” she says, turning back to me, straddling my knees, pulling my face into her cleavage.

My nose press against her chest bone, and she smells of heavy perfume, like a chain-smoking, alcoholic real-estate agent that I once had who actually sprayed her clothes with perfume out of the type of bottle that’s used to mist house plants before stepping out of her Cadillac for appointments. I wonder how Taylor’s perfume tastes? Oh, man, wouldn’t it be funny to lick her right now, with the flat of my tongue, like licking Rosie or the oil off of a dipstick, purely to evoke a reaction? But, is it wrong to lick an exotic dancer – are there boundaries, and is licking going too far? Alright, now I’m entirely compelled to lick her, just to see the consequences – it’s a self dare that I can’t pass up.

Oh man, she just pulled away, and is climbing back on stage.

I roll back to the table where my friends are sitting, and take a sip of my soda.

“What would happen if I licked a dancer,” I ask my buddy.

“Tell me you didn’t lick her,” my buddy says.

“What would happen if I did?” I ask.

“Mark, do not lick the dancers,” he says.

“So, licking a dancer is bad?” I ask.

“Look, no matter what the dancer says, no matter what the dancer does, do not lick the dancer,” he says, looking me in the eyes like my wife does when she warns me to behave. “You’re going to get us kicked out of here.”

“Fine, man, I was just wondering,” I say, going back to drinking my soda and watching from a distance, knowing how Rosie feels, always getting in trouble with her good-natured tongue.

479 Pounds of Fun

After not feeling well for a few weeks – some sort of flu, I suppose – my wife drags me to the doctor after work one evening, where the nurse pokes and prods me, reading my blood pressure, taking my temperature, and all.

“Do you know your weight?” the nurse asks, likely noting that based on my sitting here in my wheelchair, I clearly can’t stand on the office’s scale.

“479-pounds,” I reply. “I weighed myself today.”

“479-pounds?” the nurse asks, looking me in the eyes.

“That’s right,” I say, following with a cough, watching the nurse write in my chart.

“The doctor will be in shortly,” the nurse says, dropping my chart in a basket on the door as she leaves.

I’m glad that my wife didn’t come into the exam room with me because she proves an overbearing nightmare, not only asking way too many questions of the doctor about my health, but generally putting a damper on my fun. As such, I roll over to the sink, and open the cabinet underneath, and it’s a mother lode of soft goods – rubber gloves, cotton balls, tissues, and disposable gowns. But, what really catches my attention are the giant cotton swabs that must be a foot long. What, do they with these, clean the ears of elephants? I pull one out and look at it, unable to resist dropping it in my backpack to tease my daughter with it when I get home. I look for other complimentary gifts, but nothing interests me, so I shut the cabinet door, and read the prescription medication advertising posters on the wall.

“Hey, Mark, what’s going on today?” the doctor asks, swinging in through the doorway, pulling up her stool, her perfume immediately filling the air over the sterile, paper smell coming from the examination table beside me.

“I’m a little under the weather,” I say. “…Cough, fever, the whole marvelous gig.”

“Let’s see here,” she says, opening my chart. “You show a fever of 100.5 – that’s not good. Oh, and look, you weigh 479-pounds.”

“Actually, I’ve lost 3-pounds,” I say. “I was 482.”

“And, how exactly are you weighing yourself?” she asks, flashing a sarcastic smile.

“On a scale,” I say.

“In your wheelchair?” she asks.

“How’d you guess?” I ask.

“Because you tried this on me before,” she says,

“I must be slipping because I’m sick,” I say with a chuckle. “Every month or so I weigh myself on our giant scale at work to see if my powerchair’s eating too much chocolate.”

“How much does your wheelchair weigh?” she asks, putting her pen to paper.

“About 340,” I say, and she does the math by hand.

“So, that means you’re 139,” she says.

“I guess that’s why you’re the doctor and I’m the patient,” I say.

“I guess that’s why your wife should be in here making you behave,” she says.

“Why – so you can both ruin my fun?” I say, and she laughs, reaching for her stethoscope.

Cars And Vampires

Cars and vampires – they’re both out to get me when darkness comes.

 

Truly, as a pedestrian in a powerchair — rolling virtually everywhere, in all weather, to and from work, morning and evening — I am more paranoid of cars than a seasoned buck leery of hunters.  It’s survival of the fittest on the road, especially at night, big machine versus little machine, and I’m the later, the lowest of the freeway food chain, a joystick-driven soccer ball among Saabs and Subarus.

But, I’m too sly to catch, knowing the tricks of the trade, carrying my garlic, cross, and silver bullets.  OK, so my garlic is an orange safety flag, my cross is a reflective jacket, and my silver bullets are signaled streetlight crossings – but, they do seem to work.  After all, I haven’t been hit by a car or attacked by a vampire in several years.

 

Still, the whole high-visibility, nighttime tactic is a tad disconcerting to me, especially the concept of reflectors.  For instance, consider how reflectors work:  They illuminate when light shines on them.  In my case, my jacket illuminates when car headlights shine on me.  Headlights only shine on me during one condition – when a car heads right for me.  Essentially, then, I’m declaring myself a cerebral-palsied deer in the headlights – and, how is that a good idea?

 

Getting back to the predatory world of automobiles, cars also have a higher-up on the highway hierarchy, known as the police.  Flashing lights always win, so maybe there’s a lesson there for me, too.  After all, they say that if you don’t want a bear to eat you, you should spread your arms, and make yourself look like a bigger bear.  Maybe, if my powerchair flashed lights like a police cruiser, I’d prove precedent over cars?  Now, that’s real garlic.

 

So, a while back, after watching a Starsky and Hutch marathon, I surfed the internet looking for an emergency vehicle strobe light that I could slap on my powerchair when in hot pursuit, or at least when trying to ward of cars and vampires on my way home from work on winter evenings.  Sure, headlights and tail lights on my powerchair are a given, but slapping on a red emergency strobe ratchets it all up a notch – or tenfold.

  

As it turns out, for $20, you can buy a battery-powered, magnetic, flashing red emergency light that’s ideal to slap on the roof of your Starsky and Hutch edition 1976 Gran Torinos – or, my powerchair, as the case may be.  And, I had to order one.

Certainly, there’s a legal question to it all, where I saw on the news that a guy was arrested for pulling over attractive women with such a flashing light just to get their phone numbers.  However, there can’t be a law against a guy in a powerchair using one to fend off cars and vampires, right?

 

Finally, my light arrived, brilliant in form, with two flashing color modes, clear and red, turning our living room into a party fitting of the Village People at the flick of the switch.  The clear flashing mode is like the strobe light used on school buses, which is great except for the fact that when I turn it on in the morning, kids from down the block come running, thinking they’re late for the school bus.  The red light, though, is the gem, flashing like a fire engine or squad car blazing down the sidewalk.

Switching the light from clear to red, however, takes more bravado than one might suppose.  After all, the flashing clear strobe is a known sign warning drivers to steer clear of me as with a school bus, but the flashing red strobe means there’s something to see – gawkers come one and all. 

 

The key, then, is to know when to use the flashing red strobe.  And, I learned exactly when to use it, down to the second.  I was on my way home one evenings, waiting at the crosswalk light, decked out with my orange flag and reflective jacket, with my Starsky strobe light sitting unlit on my lap.  As the intersecting stoplight turned to yellow, a car approaching the intersection didn’t slow, and as the stoplight turned red the car sped toward the intersection, racing to run the light.  As the car blew through the intersection, I turned on my red strobe, holding it at arm’s length from where I sat on the corner.  The car’s brake lights immediately illuminated, and for an instant, I was tempted the shoot out into the street, chasing after him, wondering if he’d pull over with the block or stomp on the accelerator.  But, I wonder, what kind of brazen criminal would try to outrun the powerchair police?

 

However, realizing that it’s likely illegal for a guy in a powerchair to impersonate a police cruiser, I quickly turned off the light, and crossed the street into the darkness, hoping the cars and vampires wouldn’t get me.