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.

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Difficult Customers

My roles in the mobility industry are varied, and among my most rewarding is that of customer service. Often consumers and providers contact me regarding products my company manufacturers, and sometimes to assist with resolving issues, whether with a user’s chair, a provider’s service, or a pending order.

In dealing with so many people over the years, I’m still surprised when I hear an industry person refer to an in instance involving a “difficult customer,” commonly referring to a boisterous consumer, not-so-politely calling the provider and manufacturer alike. As it may surprise some, however, I can’t say that I’ve ever worked with a truly “difficult customer.” To the contrary, I’ve worked with a lot of phenomenal end-users simply trying to obtain the mobility they need.

And, a lot of them are rightfully frustrated, justly boisterous, and properly put off when we speak. Heck, a few have started out by yelling at me – but, understandably so. I look at it this way: Mobility is as essential to ones life as sustenance; yet, the entire process for some is all but impossible to transcend, all but preventing needed mobility. Too often, the funding process alone can take months, with delay after delay; then, the ordering process can be overwhelmingly stressful, not knowing what product will best meet one’s needs, having to place trust in others; then, the frustration of waiting for delivery; and, then, waiting for repairs when needed. Then, let’s add to the process the reality of everyday life for many with disabilities – health issues, unreliable attendant care, financial worries, transportation issues, and on, and on, and on. What’s more, these issues – and mobility needs – don’t operate on a business schedule, they don’t go away when others aren’t answering phones or shipping deliveries. Put simply, on a Saturday, fathom having a bladder infection, your personal care attendant didn’t show up till noon, you can’t afford to fix the transmission in your van, then add to that having to somehow survive all weekend without a working powerchair.

I could never call anyone facing similar situations a “difficult customer.” However, I certainly can call them real people, deserving absolute attention.

For those dealing with “difficult customers,” I suggest empathizing with the customer’s frustrations rather than taking offense – use understanding as inspiration toward better service. And, to difficult customers,” themselves, I say find those who understand, and reach out to them with the courtesy and dedication to which they serve you.

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.

Two Of The Same

As an adolescent and teenager, I went through a fair number of wheelchairs. On the downside, my need for a new wheelchair almost every school year was fueled out of necessity, where inferior designs simply didn’t withstand my active use, breaking frames, burning through motors, and such. On the upside, I grew up in an era when both power and manual mobility technology was evolving very quickly, where if you wished to use the most liberating technology, you had to get a new wheelchair every two years.

Among my peers, I was fortunate in that I had a small medical trust fund – and, in my teen years, an increasing connection to the wheelchair industry – that provided me the resources to obtain the latest mobility technology. Nevertheless, my good fortune didn’t seem to make selecting new wheelchairs any easier, as I was always haunted by the wheelchair choices that I had to make, where there were always two chairs that so tugged at my passions, but I had to choose just one. There was the decision between the Power and Silent Premiers by E&J, where the Silent had the horizontal motors, with the controller under the seat, giving it the sportiest look around – but I went with the Power Premier because it could be better secured on the school bus. Then, there was choosing between the Fortress 655 and the E&J Explorer, where the Explorer had better marketing, with the brochure showing it on a bed of gravel, looking unstoppable – but I chose the Fortress because it was supposed to have better reliability. And, then, there was the toss between an E&J Power Premier with 21st-Century conversion kit or the original big-wheel Invacare Arrow, which was the fastest production powerchair – I chose the E&J and 21st-Century kit because it was chain drive, and I wanted a chair that rumbled like a motorcycle. And, on the manual side, the decisions were no easier, with choices between Quickie or Quadra; Liberation Concepts or Jerry Smith; Magic in Motion or Top End; Etac or Kuschall? And, so, I built a legacy of mobility decisions – punctuated with pained choices.

Throughout those agonizing decisions, what I didn’t realize was that my difficulty in choosing one mobility product over another ultimately had very little to do with comparing the specifications of two wheelchairs. In actuality, my difficulty in choosing one wheelchair over another came out of my desire for utmost mobility, where the possibilities of every new wheelchair seemed so endless that choosing one surely left some sort of unrealized potential on the table by not choosing the other.

Interestingly, my fears never proved true, where every wheelchair that I chose dramatically increased my mobility, improving my life in big and small ways alike – in that way, my choice was always two of the same.

What I’ve realized is that meaningful mobility doesn’t come from agonized, remorseful decisions. Rather, meaningful mobility stems from the resolute decisions that we make, and living life to the fullest with the wheelchairs that we have.

Rolling Resume

Scroll EBay under the search term, “wheelchair,” and every couple of weeks you’ll see someone trying to auctioning off the back of his or her wheelchair as advertising signage, where for very little money, a marketing marvel will roll around with your business’ slogan on the backrest of his or her wheelchair. Brilliant – as brilliant as the guys who auction off their foreheads, or the women who auction off their cleavage.

Or, is it?

There’s a difference between auctioning one’s wheelchair, and auctioning one’s forehead or cleavage for advertising. If auctioning one’s forehead ties into a Howard Stern stupid stunt, and auctioning one’s cleavage ties into our culture’s adage that sex sells, where does using auctioning one’s wheelchair as advertising land as an object of entertaining value in pop-marketing?

It doesn’t. What auctioning off one’s wheelchair as signage does tie into is historical need, where those with disabilities have been portraits of charitable empathy, not empowered earners. In this way, auctioning one’s wheelchair as signage is a step backward, conjuring images of times past, eras where wheelchairs, signboards, tin cans, and street corners were acceptable means for those with disabilities to use in raising money via panhandling.

In fact, the view of auctioning off the back of one’s wheelchair as a cry for charity isn’t lost on the mainstream, as the media wrote about a recent auction, “He is looking for a sponsor for his wheelchair. Finding a sponsor would mean a great deal, as it would help him to finally be rid of SSI.”

I certainly can’t know why any one individual tries to auction off one’s wheelchair as signage – maybe it is charitable need, a stupid stunt, or good ol’ greed, all without an understanding of the harmful portrait of disability that it paints. Nevertheless, whatever the reason, I say keep the sign, but change the message and venue. I say that such wheelchair-draped signs should be printed in bold with one’s education, skills, and work history – one’s resume’ – where one pounds the pavement as a rolling endorsement of employment for oneself and others with disabilities, advertising strengths, not portraying weakness.

Then again, don’t settle for just a sign on the back of your wheelchair – make your entire life a rolling billboard of your education, employment, and empowerment, where the only backer that you need to succeed in life is yourself.

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.