July, 1978 + Wellington, Maine
Finally, about after eleven months of hospital life I was home. Home was that beautiful homestead of which I've already written so much. A great deal had changed: the house was finished, more or less, that wonderful log structure from which I had fallen, and a well had been drilled almost one hundred feet through the tough Maine underground. From this well clean, clear, and crisply cold water flowed. The place had been ramped.
The grounds were wilder, less manicured. The hayfield lay untended; grass grew about knee high. Soon this lovely expanse, wild and free, would give way to shrubs, then seedlings, and then trees. This was our beloved field where we had beheld and marveled at the majesty of Maine's nighttime sky.
Much had remained the same, our lawn was deeply, opulently green and mowed, although not quite up to Linda's exacting standards. Our log home looked as welcoming as ever. Our vegetable and flower gardens were for the most part unplanted.
Years later I would return to a desolate reminder of a far better time. In this time to come, I simply sat in the front seat of a friend's car and gave myself to weeping, then crying, convulsively. I saw chest high weeds, overgrown wild grass, gardens in complete disarray, no flowers, no lawn, no warmth, and no joy. This was our homestead where we had dared to dream a very big dream, indeed. We had failed, so sadly failed, and left behind a chaotic memorial of what could have been.
What I did find there were friends. They were close and loving Wellingtonians who had been solidly with us from day one, visiting, encouraging, and supporting. There was plenty of laughter, and no pity, separation, or anything that kept our lives apart. These were true friends. They had gathered to welcome us back to the homestead and the community we had missed and longed for during so many interminable days and weeks.
Smiling faces were everywhere. I heaved a tremenduous sigh of relief. Undiluted happiness brought tears of joy that ran down my cheeks. I had been transported several hundred miles for a few days less than one year. I had changed in ways I would not fully understand for years, maybe decades. Some bedrock things remained as they were: our family, my love of Wellington, our home, our friends, and Maine itself.
We hoped to settle back in and resume our country ways, as we were able. I had felt continuous worry over that. How were we to live? Would we become bored and irritable? Could Linda take on such a huge load? Who would do my care? How would we get through winter and mud season? Was it all just too big, too much? Suppose so, then what?
All that notwithstanding, the first and most important thing at the moment was getting out of the car and into my chair to properly greet and hug and kiss my friends. I wanted to feel the sacred ground beneath me, and go inside to inspect out onetime dream home, newly furbished to accommodate our lives to be.
I had to do a Red-like transfer from passenger seat to wheelchair with assistance from guys who had moved houses. I was not totally confident, however. If there is the least possibility of something going wrong, believe me, I will find it and worry. "I hope we don't break a bone or put him on the ground", said one anxious crew member.
The transfer was easy beyond measure.
I was at last on our beloved thirty-five acres of Yankee hinterland. At the risk of overstatement, this return had much of the flavor of a soldier returning home injured after some time in combat. I felt very fortunate as I recalled my hospital brothers. Red was alone without loving support and probably headed into a dead end life. Johnny was in some institution, hidden away in seclusion, not to be heard from again. Al was well on his way to heavy alcoholism when I last saw him. The list goes on. Changing gears, Gary got married to a great lady and had a family, Bob started a car sales business and thrived, and Sam became a wheelchair athlete and competed around the country and world.
I was, as I say, in my by-now accustomed manual chair in deep, thick, and prospering lawn. I could no more push through it alone than navigate my way through a full-grown Kansas wheat field. Friends gathered round me hugging, weeping, and welcoming all at once. Almost immediately Michael, one of our community philosophers grabbed the handles of my chair and said, "You must want to look around". With that and without more, he abruptly pushed my chair through about two feet of luxurious turf. My left front tire found a soft spot and sank five or six inches, which was well beyond the range of stable balance.
Shall I say more, this snippet being the Tip Over section? Within fifteen minutes of my return from the most traumatic experience of my age, within five minutes of landing back on home soil, and within one minute of my first eye-level look at Shangri-La, I was literally face to face with our good Yankee ground. Maine and I were close again. Michael didn't seem overly concerned, laughing as was his style. Several others chuckled as if to say, "Now doesn't that beat all".
I wondered if this was a sign of things to come. Would my days be spent unproductively inside because i was trapped by my inability to get out and around? Was much, most, or all of Maine and our homestead off limits?
Back to ground zero. I saw little cause for humor and was piqued at Michael for a short while. Such a welcome I didn't need. Several of the more level-headed in the group thought the best thing to do would be to pick me up. That done, it sure felt good to be home.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
GROUNDED part 2 THOSE DAMN BUS DRIVERS
November, 1977 + West Roxbury VA Hospital, West Roxbury, Mass
Four of my crippled pals and I were on an unofficial outing, cruising hospital grounds and griping about everything: "This injury sucks", "I hate this place", "the food is crap", "I wish I was dead", etc. The weather was gorgeous with bright sunshine and a welcome breeze that brought low humidity. It was an Indian summer afternoon. Other than griping, which came with the territory, this was a perfect day to hang out.
We were alone, and newly chair bound forever. "Hey, what the fuck, you can't have everything" I said, totally out of character. "Yeah", Floyd responded, "Or anything". For most of us it was just another pointless day waiting for Godot, like the second day of a life sentence in a Turkish prison.
The five of us planned to negotiate several switchbacks concrete downhill ramps and cross the normally well traveled avenue that encircled hospital grounds. We would then spend the afternoon in the well shaded, grassy, and flowered park-like area within that circle. It beat being in bed, at least, surrounded by sarcastic cripples.
Here I was outside, among my hospital buddies, loving the sun and headed to an afternoon that was hospital-free. No pills, no exhausting exercises, no 'do this, do that', no progress reports. Some time off.
City transit buses regularly passed along that expansive avenue and stopped right about where we were. These buses would pick-up and discharge passengers. They were city buses driven by well-trained, courteous, and compassionate operators. These bus drivers were supposedly well-versed in wheelchair etiquette; this included offering assistance as needed.
One of the ramps proved tricky for me, even though it was constructed of concrete and not perilously graded, or so I thought. If you recall, it was a perfectly dry day. All the ramps were dry. The degree of difficulty was doubled because there were no handrails, non-slip surfaces, or other routine safety devices, such as curbed edges. These absent devises stood a great chance of preventing me from tipping over. Irony was provided by the fact that this was a huge VA hospital with a specialized spinal chord unit, not a one-horse facility in say, eat Jesus Knob, Wyoming!
Losing control on the way down could be calamitous, because I sat in a manual wheelchair. The only way to slow down or stop was to either rub my hands, palms against the tires or shove my hands into the spokes. Neither was a particularly good option, but they both beat lying face down in gravel, sand, mud, ice or snow. Or concrete. You do whatever comes to mind first when all options suck about equally.
Anyway, back to the ramp. Three of my cohorts had handled it with ease, one whose abilities were about like mine. "Shit man", I figured "If he can do it, how hard can it be?" Heedless taker of risks that I have always been, I ever so gingerly started down. My chair and I quickly accelerated way beyond my capacity to control, slow down, or stop. With both hands trying to stop, I couldn't steer.
My buddies laughed until I careened helplessly toward the edge, the one without curb or handrail. Predictably, I went over, much like the old Model A in those Charlie Chaplin black and white movies. I came to rest on my left side. I lay unhurt. The laughter subsided, replaced by shouts of, "Help; help, somebody help, hurry" from me and all. We might as well have been yelling at Grant's tomb for the old guy to wake up. I said, "A bus will eventually come along. I think I'm OK until then". [Note: That was my second out of character, non-sarcastic remark in less than twenty minutes. I was getting soft.]
We anxiously waited for the bus; one of the guys sped toward the hospital for help. I hoped I hadn't broken a bone or done something or other I couldn't, but that I would pay for very soon. At last, after nearly ten minutes on the ground, a city bus came along. My friends and I were relieved.
The bus stopped next to where I lay and made that hissing sound old buses do. The front door opened. I looked directly into the driver's eyes. He was a portly man in his mid-forties. His face was florid. He looked about 'normal', if I may say so, neither mean nor angelic. He gazed back at me, directly into my eyes. Funny about human nature: I immediately felt a bond between us, even though the whole thing took about five seconds or so. "Good", I thought, "now he will see what's happened and put me right." I expected him to say something like, 'Hold it there Pal, I'll get some help and get you up right away'.
Yeah.
Without even a nod or other sign of common humanity, he closed the door and pulled away.
Four of my crippled pals and I were on an unofficial outing, cruising hospital grounds and griping about everything: "This injury sucks", "I hate this place", "the food is crap", "I wish I was dead", etc. The weather was gorgeous with bright sunshine and a welcome breeze that brought low humidity. It was an Indian summer afternoon. Other than griping, which came with the territory, this was a perfect day to hang out.
We were alone, and newly chair bound forever. "Hey, what the fuck, you can't have everything" I said, totally out of character. "Yeah", Floyd responded, "Or anything". For most of us it was just another pointless day waiting for Godot, like the second day of a life sentence in a Turkish prison.
The five of us planned to negotiate several switchbacks concrete downhill ramps and cross the normally well traveled avenue that encircled hospital grounds. We would then spend the afternoon in the well shaded, grassy, and flowered park-like area within that circle. It beat being in bed, at least, surrounded by sarcastic cripples.
Here I was outside, among my hospital buddies, loving the sun and headed to an afternoon that was hospital-free. No pills, no exhausting exercises, no 'do this, do that', no progress reports. Some time off.
City transit buses regularly passed along that expansive avenue and stopped right about where we were. These buses would pick-up and discharge passengers. They were city buses driven by well-trained, courteous, and compassionate operators. These bus drivers were supposedly well-versed in wheelchair etiquette; this included offering assistance as needed.
One of the ramps proved tricky for me, even though it was constructed of concrete and not perilously graded, or so I thought. If you recall, it was a perfectly dry day. All the ramps were dry. The degree of difficulty was doubled because there were no handrails, non-slip surfaces, or other routine safety devices, such as curbed edges. These absent devises stood a great chance of preventing me from tipping over. Irony was provided by the fact that this was a huge VA hospital with a specialized spinal chord unit, not a one-horse facility in say, eat Jesus Knob, Wyoming!
Losing control on the way down could be calamitous, because I sat in a manual wheelchair. The only way to slow down or stop was to either rub my hands, palms against the tires or shove my hands into the spokes. Neither was a particularly good option, but they both beat lying face down in gravel, sand, mud, ice or snow. Or concrete. You do whatever comes to mind first when all options suck about equally.
Anyway, back to the ramp. Three of my cohorts had handled it with ease, one whose abilities were about like mine. "Shit man", I figured "If he can do it, how hard can it be?" Heedless taker of risks that I have always been, I ever so gingerly started down. My chair and I quickly accelerated way beyond my capacity to control, slow down, or stop. With both hands trying to stop, I couldn't steer.
My buddies laughed until I careened helplessly toward the edge, the one without curb or handrail. Predictably, I went over, much like the old Model A in those Charlie Chaplin black and white movies. I came to rest on my left side. I lay unhurt. The laughter subsided, replaced by shouts of, "Help; help, somebody help, hurry" from me and all. We might as well have been yelling at Grant's tomb for the old guy to wake up. I said, "A bus will eventually come along. I think I'm OK until then". [Note: That was my second out of character, non-sarcastic remark in less than twenty minutes. I was getting soft.]
We anxiously waited for the bus; one of the guys sped toward the hospital for help. I hoped I hadn't broken a bone or done something or other I couldn't, but that I would pay for very soon. At last, after nearly ten minutes on the ground, a city bus came along. My friends and I were relieved.
The bus stopped next to where I lay and made that hissing sound old buses do. The front door opened. I looked directly into the driver's eyes. He was a portly man in his mid-forties. His face was florid. He looked about 'normal', if I may say so, neither mean nor angelic. He gazed back at me, directly into my eyes. Funny about human nature: I immediately felt a bond between us, even though the whole thing took about five seconds or so. "Good", I thought, "now he will see what's happened and put me right." I expected him to say something like, 'Hold it there Pal, I'll get some help and get you up right away'.
Yeah.
Without even a nod or other sign of common humanity, he closed the door and pulled away.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
GROUNDED part 1 INTRODUCTION
As can be readily imagined, a quadriplegic tipping over, wheelchair and all is always a dreadful proposition. Admittedly, the 'Predicament' case was unusually dramatic and frightening. The negative possibilities were serious. Most tip overs are more mundane. When this does occur, whether dramatic or not, I am a turtle on my back (or side) with essentially four options: (1) flail about like that poor turtle, or (2) call out like a wounded buffalo or (3) gesticulate doggedly and , in most cases, hopelessly, or (4) stubbornly wait out the human family for help. During (1) through (4) I invariably feel utterly ridiculous, as if irrevocably caught in yet another of life's humiliating, undignified exercises. Most times, I'd rather be caught sleep walking naked near a convent. I have tipped over numerous times, in addition to 'Predicament', five follow.
Monday, February 1, 2010
PREDICAMENT: MR. DREDGE'S JOB
October, 1985 + Between Augusta and Waterville, Maine
Predicament: A situation from which extrication is difficult, especially an unpleasant or trying one.
I was driving home alone to Waterville in my tricked-out van on a lowering, cloudy, and chilly late afternoon. I had had a hopeless job interview for a statistical position for which I was completely unqualified yet desperately needed. The previous hour had gone something like this:
I had made it in good time to the huge, gray, false granite office building that resembled every one of its type that one sees all over. It was unimaginative, linear, and symmetrical. Every window and door was exactly where expected. This one looked like a morose, monstrous factory where majestic redwood trees are transformed into toothpicks for shipment to Greenland. This intimidating edifice must have been left over from Stalin's day. I could hardly imagine the time and effort wasted here at taxpayer expense. I reminded myself, "This is a State building, after all."
Entering through the side-by-side glass doors was problematic. There was no 'Handicap' button. The doors were too heavy for me to open by myself. No one was going in or out. There I sat, like so many times before and after, alone outside in bad weather staring at a building I couldn't enter. Finally, a defeated looking suit-and-tie man around fifty years old came out and ushered me in. I followed the signs down the long, shadowy corridor to the office to where I was to be grilled and, most likely, humiliated yet again. Yeah, I had confidence written all over me.
I eventually found my way to the front desk. The look of pity on the receptionist's face set my teeth on edge, like eating glass. It was as if she had just said, in smarmy, overly sympathetic tones, "Oh you poor little darling, how horrible your life must be." I told her why I was there, using impeccable grammar, diction, and big words, like I do when faced with interpersonal discomfort. She gave me a look of absolute incredulity, as if she had heard be say I wanted to play point guard for the Boston Celtics.
She had that, 'I'd sure like to help this poor bastard as long as it takes no effort on my part' expression on her otherwise immobile face. She seemed very self-satisfied as if she were the one who had re-taught me how to speak. I waited about ten minutes under her empathetic yet penetrating gaze. I felt like an uninvited guest everyone pretends they're glad to see, while wishing he'll disappear. I prayed she wouldn't engage me in meaningless chatter to relieve the stifling psychosocial humility in her claustrophobic little fiefdom.
I was rescued by my interviewer, a colorless, somber looking miniature man of about sixty in a cheap polyester suit. 'This guy is a perfect fit for the place', I thought. He led me into his office, which wasn't much bigger than an airplane bathroom and had about as much appeal. What it did have, of course, was a well-worn old style adding machine with long, narrow receipt paper containing a great host of tiny numbers. Nothing but numbers. I pictured this conscientious, cloistered civil servant sitting here long into the evening, attempting in vain to find the shovel unaccounted for in Bucksport.
His walls, such as they were, held proof of his education:
This certificate is awarded to MISTER DRUDGE,
in recognition of her/his successful completion of
the State of Maine two week course: "The Significance
of Accurate Computation of the Department of
Transportation's Active and Inactive Archives
Regarding the Calculation of Current Quantities
of Miscellaneous and Accessory Commodities,
Inventory Items, and Unaccounted and/or
Misplaced Implements
and achievements:
The Committee on Accounting of the Agency of
Calculations of the Bureau of Statistics of the
Department of Transportation of the State of Maine
Hereby Officially Recognizes the Contributions of
MISTER DRUDGE
for his/her Untiring Efforts and Satisfactory Service
for Thirty-Five Years on Behalf of the Permanent
and Temporary Residents Who Utilize Maine Roads and Bridges.
We small talked about weather and so forth. Realizing that time is money is numbers, he abruptly cut off the useless chatter and got down to business. In this case that meant discovering his protege: another dogged and determined go-nowhere data chaser. This position required one inconsequential drudge. I had descended to that level.
After briefly describing job duties, he surprised me with, "Why would a lawyer apply for a statistician position?" I went temporarily speechless, thinking the jig was up. My self-destructive side wanted to say, 'Because he's depressed, out of work, desperate, and counting the Department of Transportation's pencils and paper clips, and dirt piles is better than nothing.' (Although I wasn't so sure that was true).
Instead, I muttered something patently ridiculous about innate beauty and dignity of numbers. Now, this guy may have been a humorless and nondescript bean-counter, suit and tie, and must have been bleeding desperation, so he said something like, "Very interesting, I'll call you about the second interview" or something equally untrue and inane.
'Yeah,' I thought, "I'll wait breathlessly by the phone for THAT call.' Away I slink, deflated, denied my childhood dream job tabulating endless quantities of dispensable semi-worthless objects. My self-esteem, fragile at the best of times, was shattered. I hate rejection. I passed the reception desk, too ashamed to even look up.
I got back into my van for yet another long, lonely, and miserable trip home. After all, I had failed to impress a perfect Charles Dickens-like Mister Drudge. I had arrived at what I figured was the last stop on the last train at the end of the track. I had come seeking a job that would have been the slow and agonizing death of me. I would die by the numbers, so to speak. I couldn't have felt much worse.
No, as the verse goes, waiting for me on the trip home was: "...a low below the low that you know".
I pulled away from the station, released from the wretched House of Numbers.
I was soon in my van and headed back home after what had seemed like a tooth extraction without Novocain. On the freeway, I motored along, preparing myself for a night of self-torture: 'Damn, you can't even get a job you don't want. It's not something you said, it's something you are.' Catholic guilt has nothing on me.
Nobody's fool, I always kept an empty piss jug in the van in case I needed it. The need arose, so I pulled off the freeway onto the shoulder. Although my gas gauge hovered near zero, I kept the engine running. I unlocked the chair restraint and pushed myself back to the empty gallon milk jug perched atop a cement block standing upright.
I locked my brakes, set the jug on the floor, sidled up to the cement block, lifted my right foot onto the block, and emptied my chocked full leg bag. The jug probably had a quart of you know what. I put the jug back on the cement block. To this day I don't know why.
I got back behind the steering wheel and slowly (as I thought) took off. Within ten seconds I heard loud THUMP and WHOOSH sounds from the vicinity of the jug. The one-of-a-kind odor of newly minted urine wafted throughout the van. "AH SHIT", I moaned, "Not this again."
I stopped, put it in Park, and backed up for a look. I left the van idling. The jug was on its side on the hard, linoleum-like floor, which was covered in urine. There were pools a quarter inch deep here and there. All in all, it could have been worse. This had happened before. I would ask my Aide to mop it dry and disinfect the floor with Lysol, which would help with the smell. It was no bargain. Given the miseries of my injury, this was about in the 65th percentile. The mess could be managed.
Resigned to the situation, I leaned over to pick up the jug. I had forgotten that the freeway shoulder fell away in the same direction I was leaning. What occurred next was reasonably foreseeable. In the time it takes to say it, my chair and I were all tipped over onto the floor and into the piss. "OH NO! NO! NO!" There may have been six or seven No's. I wasn't counting. I lay there, engine idling, gas near empty, alone, and half on my side, half on my back. I felt painfully scrunched up, twisted, and tightly wedged against the side door/electric lift.
I fought off my first thought, which was to say, 'Fuck it, I've had all I can take' and just lay there in self-pity. With what must have been super-human effort, I somehow managed to reach almost completely around. I struggled in fits and starts and in pain and agony, to open the electric side door. To my surprise, I was then able to get the lift down to a 45 degree angle. By this time, I lay more or less on my back. My lower half was in and my upper half out of the van, as I looked up at the dark and foreboding sky. I was barely able to wave part of left arm at the cars whizzing by.
I calculated the odds of (1) someone speeding by who (2) could see me, (3) understand what was happening, (4) care enough to do something, and (5) actually stop to help at about a thousand to one. Other than saint Guy, I took and still take a dim view of humanity.
I lay there ruminating. 'Well, I figure I've taken this exercise in futility to its extreme. What's next?' RAIN! That's what's next. Big, cold drops, each like a teaspoon of ice water, came pelting down, directly into my upturned face. I was on the freeway on the shoulder in the van on the floor in the piss in the rain. I thought I would be there all night, soaking wet and frozen to the bone. The van would eventually run out of gas. After I got out of Intensive Care, I bet it would have all been for nothing.
An hour passed that seemed like five. About this time, as the song goes, I wished I were on some Australian Mountain Range. I was cold and wet. Dusk and darkness were closing in. I had plenty of time to take stock. Regrets? I had no regrets. Well, maybe one. My only regret was that I wasn't someone else.
When I had given up on humanity forever, a couple vying for the Saint Guy the Great Award stopped and flagged down a trucker. Hardly able to hide their disbelief, they collectively lifted me out of the piss and into my chair. One of these sweet people drove me home. I had a hasty and confused explanation ready, which would have run something like this:
"See, there was this job I didn't really want but
applied for anyway and I was going home from Augusta
then I tipped over in the urine and I couldn't get up
by myself and it rained and I waved and you came and
it's really nobody's fault except maybe this bean-
counter guy who wouldn't hire me no matter what.'
My rescuers had a close relative in a chair, so they understood and mercifully didn't inquire. The trucker split the scene like he was running from a bullet.
True to form, it was all for nothing. I never did get the call I didn't expect. I couldn't blame Drudge, I guess, but I could write him a limerick:
There once was a bean-counting man,
For whose job I said, "Oh, Yes I can"
It was much worse than naught
'cause soon I got caught,
on my back in the piss in the van.
Predicament: A situation from which extrication is difficult, especially an unpleasant or trying one.
I was driving home alone to Waterville in my tricked-out van on a lowering, cloudy, and chilly late afternoon. I had had a hopeless job interview for a statistical position for which I was completely unqualified yet desperately needed. The previous hour had gone something like this:
I had made it in good time to the huge, gray, false granite office building that resembled every one of its type that one sees all over. It was unimaginative, linear, and symmetrical. Every window and door was exactly where expected. This one looked like a morose, monstrous factory where majestic redwood trees are transformed into toothpicks for shipment to Greenland. This intimidating edifice must have been left over from Stalin's day. I could hardly imagine the time and effort wasted here at taxpayer expense. I reminded myself, "This is a State building, after all."
Entering through the side-by-side glass doors was problematic. There was no 'Handicap' button. The doors were too heavy for me to open by myself. No one was going in or out. There I sat, like so many times before and after, alone outside in bad weather staring at a building I couldn't enter. Finally, a defeated looking suit-and-tie man around fifty years old came out and ushered me in. I followed the signs down the long, shadowy corridor to the office to where I was to be grilled and, most likely, humiliated yet again. Yeah, I had confidence written all over me.
I eventually found my way to the front desk. The look of pity on the receptionist's face set my teeth on edge, like eating glass. It was as if she had just said, in smarmy, overly sympathetic tones, "Oh you poor little darling, how horrible your life must be." I told her why I was there, using impeccable grammar, diction, and big words, like I do when faced with interpersonal discomfort. She gave me a look of absolute incredulity, as if she had heard be say I wanted to play point guard for the Boston Celtics.
She had that, 'I'd sure like to help this poor bastard as long as it takes no effort on my part' expression on her otherwise immobile face. She seemed very self-satisfied as if she were the one who had re-taught me how to speak. I waited about ten minutes under her empathetic yet penetrating gaze. I felt like an uninvited guest everyone pretends they're glad to see, while wishing he'll disappear. I prayed she wouldn't engage me in meaningless chatter to relieve the stifling psychosocial humility in her claustrophobic little fiefdom.
I was rescued by my interviewer, a colorless, somber looking miniature man of about sixty in a cheap polyester suit. 'This guy is a perfect fit for the place', I thought. He led me into his office, which wasn't much bigger than an airplane bathroom and had about as much appeal. What it did have, of course, was a well-worn old style adding machine with long, narrow receipt paper containing a great host of tiny numbers. Nothing but numbers. I pictured this conscientious, cloistered civil servant sitting here long into the evening, attempting in vain to find the shovel unaccounted for in Bucksport.
His walls, such as they were, held proof of his education:
This certificate is awarded to MISTER DRUDGE,
in recognition of her/his successful completion of
the State of Maine two week course: "The Significance
of Accurate Computation of the Department of
Transportation's Active and Inactive Archives
Regarding the Calculation of Current Quantities
of Miscellaneous and Accessory Commodities,
Inventory Items, and Unaccounted and/or
Misplaced Implements
and achievements:
The Committee on Accounting of the Agency of
Calculations of the Bureau of Statistics of the
Department of Transportation of the State of Maine
Hereby Officially Recognizes the Contributions of
MISTER DRUDGE
for his/her Untiring Efforts and Satisfactory Service
for Thirty-Five Years on Behalf of the Permanent
and Temporary Residents Who Utilize Maine Roads and Bridges.
We small talked about weather and so forth. Realizing that time is money is numbers, he abruptly cut off the useless chatter and got down to business. In this case that meant discovering his protege: another dogged and determined go-nowhere data chaser. This position required one inconsequential drudge. I had descended to that level.
After briefly describing job duties, he surprised me with, "Why would a lawyer apply for a statistician position?" I went temporarily speechless, thinking the jig was up. My self-destructive side wanted to say, 'Because he's depressed, out of work, desperate, and counting the Department of Transportation's pencils and paper clips, and dirt piles is better than nothing.' (Although I wasn't so sure that was true).
Instead, I muttered something patently ridiculous about innate beauty and dignity of numbers. Now, this guy may have been a humorless and nondescript bean-counter, suit and tie, and must have been bleeding desperation, so he said something like, "Very interesting, I'll call you about the second interview" or something equally untrue and inane.
'Yeah,' I thought, "I'll wait breathlessly by the phone for THAT call.' Away I slink, deflated, denied my childhood dream job tabulating endless quantities of dispensable semi-worthless objects. My self-esteem, fragile at the best of times, was shattered. I hate rejection. I passed the reception desk, too ashamed to even look up.
I got back into my van for yet another long, lonely, and miserable trip home. After all, I had failed to impress a perfect Charles Dickens-like Mister Drudge. I had arrived at what I figured was the last stop on the last train at the end of the track. I had come seeking a job that would have been the slow and agonizing death of me. I would die by the numbers, so to speak. I couldn't have felt much worse.
No, as the verse goes, waiting for me on the trip home was: "...a low below the low that you know".
I pulled away from the station, released from the wretched House of Numbers.
I was soon in my van and headed back home after what had seemed like a tooth extraction without Novocain. On the freeway, I motored along, preparing myself for a night of self-torture: 'Damn, you can't even get a job you don't want. It's not something you said, it's something you are.' Catholic guilt has nothing on me.
Nobody's fool, I always kept an empty piss jug in the van in case I needed it. The need arose, so I pulled off the freeway onto the shoulder. Although my gas gauge hovered near zero, I kept the engine running. I unlocked the chair restraint and pushed myself back to the empty gallon milk jug perched atop a cement block standing upright.
I locked my brakes, set the jug on the floor, sidled up to the cement block, lifted my right foot onto the block, and emptied my chocked full leg bag. The jug probably had a quart of you know what. I put the jug back on the cement block. To this day I don't know why.
I got back behind the steering wheel and slowly (as I thought) took off. Within ten seconds I heard loud THUMP and WHOOSH sounds from the vicinity of the jug. The one-of-a-kind odor of newly minted urine wafted throughout the van. "AH SHIT", I moaned, "Not this again."
I stopped, put it in Park, and backed up for a look. I left the van idling. The jug was on its side on the hard, linoleum-like floor, which was covered in urine. There were pools a quarter inch deep here and there. All in all, it could have been worse. This had happened before. I would ask my Aide to mop it dry and disinfect the floor with Lysol, which would help with the smell. It was no bargain. Given the miseries of my injury, this was about in the 65th percentile. The mess could be managed.
Resigned to the situation, I leaned over to pick up the jug. I had forgotten that the freeway shoulder fell away in the same direction I was leaning. What occurred next was reasonably foreseeable. In the time it takes to say it, my chair and I were all tipped over onto the floor and into the piss. "OH NO! NO! NO!" There may have been six or seven No's. I wasn't counting. I lay there, engine idling, gas near empty, alone, and half on my side, half on my back. I felt painfully scrunched up, twisted, and tightly wedged against the side door/electric lift.
I fought off my first thought, which was to say, 'Fuck it, I've had all I can take' and just lay there in self-pity. With what must have been super-human effort, I somehow managed to reach almost completely around. I struggled in fits and starts and in pain and agony, to open the electric side door. To my surprise, I was then able to get the lift down to a 45 degree angle. By this time, I lay more or less on my back. My lower half was in and my upper half out of the van, as I looked up at the dark and foreboding sky. I was barely able to wave part of left arm at the cars whizzing by.
I calculated the odds of (1) someone speeding by who (2) could see me, (3) understand what was happening, (4) care enough to do something, and (5) actually stop to help at about a thousand to one. Other than saint Guy, I took and still take a dim view of humanity.
I lay there ruminating. 'Well, I figure I've taken this exercise in futility to its extreme. What's next?' RAIN! That's what's next. Big, cold drops, each like a teaspoon of ice water, came pelting down, directly into my upturned face. I was on the freeway on the shoulder in the van on the floor in the piss in the rain. I thought I would be there all night, soaking wet and frozen to the bone. The van would eventually run out of gas. After I got out of Intensive Care, I bet it would have all been for nothing.
An hour passed that seemed like five. About this time, as the song goes, I wished I were on some Australian Mountain Range. I was cold and wet. Dusk and darkness were closing in. I had plenty of time to take stock. Regrets? I had no regrets. Well, maybe one. My only regret was that I wasn't someone else.
When I had given up on humanity forever, a couple vying for the Saint Guy the Great Award stopped and flagged down a trucker. Hardly able to hide their disbelief, they collectively lifted me out of the piss and into my chair. One of these sweet people drove me home. I had a hasty and confused explanation ready, which would have run something like this:
"See, there was this job I didn't really want but
applied for anyway and I was going home from Augusta
then I tipped over in the urine and I couldn't get up
by myself and it rained and I waved and you came and
it's really nobody's fault except maybe this bean-
counter guy who wouldn't hire me no matter what.'
My rescuers had a close relative in a chair, so they understood and mercifully didn't inquire. The trucker split the scene like he was running from a bullet.
True to form, it was all for nothing. I never did get the call I didn't expect. I couldn't blame Drudge, I guess, but I could write him a limerick:
There once was a bean-counting man,
For whose job I said, "Oh, Yes I can"
It was much worse than naught
'cause soon I got caught,
on my back in the piss in the van.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
FIDO'S REVENGE
December, 1985 + Waterville, Maine
I was all decked-out in my highly-flammable, brand-new $79 pure polyester three piece suit. This ridiculous outfit, that made Mister Drudge's look like a well tailored Italian suit could stand by itself in the corner indefinitely. My ensemble included a red and blue wide-angel tie that was one half step above a garbage bag in the pure petroleum cycle from pure grade Pennsylvania crude to animal feed.
I was a dead ringer for a newly-arrived fresh off some low-budget tramp steamer from Starvation Island. I had that, "Hey, Eddie, come get a look at this guy" appearance written all over me. I was headed to Augusta for yet another job interview, this one for a lawyer position at the Attorney General's Office. This was no bean-counter job; this was the real deal.
I just had to get over this time. I had been out of work a year. This twelve month ordeal included losing my first post-law school legal job, marriage, and family. During this period I suffered unrelenting low self-esteem and complete loss of confidence. I thought I could never practice law again and fought endless battles with the conviction I was chronically unemployable.
I couldn't take much more without some sign I was OK or some success somewhere. This job would be it. I could get it all back, once and for all. I put myself squarely under the gun. It was a partly sunny day; the sky would clear in fits and starts, now overcast, now sunny. It was cold, but not bitter. There was little wind and no snow or rain. It was a decent Maine winter day. I mustered all the 'I'm OK' optimism and 'Win-Win' self assurance I could and headed out the door and into my van. Woe was me, my ride looked like I struggled not to feel. My trusted van looked seedy, drab, and unkempt. I shook off a strong sense of apprehension and a shudder of forbodding, chalking them up to nerves. I told myself, "Everything is fine, timing is right, and you look good. Take deep breaths, today's the day you begin to live again". The van started right up, hitting on all cylinders. I was definitely on my way.
I had to make one quick stop for breath mints at a local Waterville store in a perfectly forgettable small town, low rent mini-mall. These mints were anxiety quellers and halitosis helpers. Dragon breath up close is a certified, never-fails job killer. What with the suit, the pressure, and the history, I didn't need THAT to be the deciding factor. I had enough to worry about.
I parked at the mall and got out of the van onto the clean concrete sidewalk. I was careful not to touch anything that might dirty my gloveless hands. If that happened, I'd pretty much be shit out of luck. I was alone and on a tight schedule and would have to go as I was. Mt manual wheelchair was clean, for once. Even the inflatable, deep-tread outdoor tires looked good. These tires had protruding rubber knobbies that consistently picked up whatever filthy mess was around, such as mud. I was as ready to impress as I could be. I had puled out all the stops. Of course I couldn't open the stainless steel and glass door of the store by myself, so I had to knock several times on the glass. The few people there looked around bewildered, as if encountering an unexpected enigma. Someone eventually grasped the situation and let me in.
I bought the mints after a short, nervous chat with the young, slender, and attractive brown-eyed clerk. (Most men notice, no matter what). It was natural to ask her to open the door so I could leave. She did so, and I gave a strong push to get over the shiny metal threshold. I silently grunted and forcefully launched myself over this impediment and out the door onto the hitherto spotless sidewalk.
Before I could even see it, I immediately ran smack-dab into a gigantic pile of hot and steaming DOG SHIT!! By the time I was able to stop by grabbing my tires, I had dog shit all over me. There was canine poop all over my right front and rear tires and ditto on my right hand and forearm. It was halfway up my right arm. My suit was an unspeakable mess; I was a mess. I couldn't move without making matters worse. I had a situation here, one that inextricably horrible.
There was at that moment an Assistant Attorney general in Augusta in a nice clean building in a spic-and-span office wearing an expensive, tasteful suit, fragrant with cologne. This impeccable lawyer, I thought, was preparing to be his/ suddenly shitful interviewee.
Have you grasped the situation in all its wretchedness? Do you appreciate my dilemma? What was i to do? Was I figuratively and literally up shit creek? What would you do? I didn't have time or help to change; I couldn't not go to the interview. That was absolutely taboo. Could I call to postpone? Sure I could. It would go something like this:
Me: "I'm sorry I can't make the interview.
It's a long story, but the short of it
is I'm covered in fresh dog shit from
ankle to elbow. I'm sure you understand".
Interviewer:
"Mister Gill, What do you take me for? I've
been doing this for a long time and I
have never heard anything close to your
absurd excuse. If you want to be considered
for this position, you had better be here,
on time".
Well, there you have it. I can be dogged at times, Like my Dad. When I get my teeth into something, I go into pit bull mode. I wasn't about to give in or up. If I wasn't going to get that job, someone would, at least have to deal with me, suit, stink, and all.
Mustering all my shamelessness, which admittedly is quite a bit, I asked a kindly looking middle-aged woman for help. I could never have asked a male, for manly reasons. How many Saint Guys could there be? She was a true-blue Maine Yankee who was undaunted by the canine fecals. Lacking water, soap, washcloth, disinfectant, antiseptic, towel, cologne, or if all else failed gasoline, she very kindly did what she could with some tissues she carried. It wasn't much, just more than nothing.
I've given a lot of thought to this episode over the years, most of which runs like this:
When I headed into that store, there was no dog in sight, anywhere. Now for one dog to have deposited that much poop he/she must have been pony sized, like a huge, full grown 250 pound St. Bernard. There was no such poop anywhere when I went into the store, which was very small. I was one of a few customers. The entire transaction couldn't have taken over three minutes. I saw no dog up or down the sidewalk after I came out.
This huge dog had to appear, do his nasty business, and disappear, all in three minutes. Not just anywhere. Oh, no. This canine sociopath dropped his smart bomb in precisely the right place on this sidewalk that was at least one hundred feet long.
Six inches to the left or right or up or down the walk or anywhere else and all, I say, would have been well. Then it would have been someone else's problem. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. OK, so I'm lying about that. None of these deserving victims was interviewing in Augusta within the hour.
Exactly the right time within three minutes, precisely the right place within six inches, on this very day I was going to an interview for a job which I had lain myself squarely on the line. The odds against this event being random are overwhelming. Fido's Revenge could not have been an unknowable quantum event. There were just too many variables.
No, this cries out for the argument from intelligence, like the papverine stories to come. There had to be some purpose behind this. Did the universe require a metaphoric pound of flesh from me? Was some re-alignment needed in the Karmic Canine Quadrant? Was I condemned to Camus' endless, pointless toil? Was my job search a stand-in for the boulder Sisyphus eternally rolled up that hill?
Those philosophical musings notwithstanding, I went into undeterred trooper mode. I fired up the van and sped to the AG office building. My jaw was set, my resolve was intact, and my desperation was on the shelf, at least for the time being. Dog shit? Who cares? I was determined.
I was seated in a small waiting room by the ubiquitous be-speckled administrative assistant in the rather severe office/business attire.
Back on planet Earth. I was fully aware I stunk up the place. I sat there internally pacing and anxiously fidgeting. The receptionist, too, was fidgeting. She was obviously experiencing a great deal of olfactory discomfort and took every opportunity to discover something else to do that got her away from the source of her queasiness.
At this point I asked myself, did I think that it mattered, this interview? Did I actually believe I had a chance? Hope in this situation was the proverbial Bitch Goddess and desert mirage, in one. Yet hope I had. Waiting there was a bit like waiting in line at the Guillotine; maybe I would be reprieved at the last minute.
I was eventually led into a small, cramped, airless room (of course). A very dubious, hasty handshake began the proceedings. I felt like Fecal Freddie touching Mister Clean jeans. I tried to stay as far away as possible from the well-dressed, thirty-something, immaculate white male interviewer/attorney. He had to wonder why I stunk so bad and whether I bathed. I was unable to artfully work Fido's Revenge into the conversation. Neither of us acted like we noticed that the elephant in the room had been very, very naughty. I suppose that would have violated some unwritten code of civilized behavior. Mister jeans rushed through the Q and A session, like he was in a hurry to get the fuck out of there. It was mutual. We skipped the ritual handshake on the way out. Can you imagine this guy's next phone call?!
"Hello, Tom, do you know a guy named Ray Gill,
a lawyer. Yeah, he's crippled. You do? Tell me,
does that poor bastard live in a kennel?"
I'm pretty sure why I was less than impressive. It wasn't the super cheap polyester suit that crinkled when I moved. It wasn't my sub-par interview performance. It wasn't my resume. It wasn't something I said. It wasn't my confusion when I momentarily mixed up fungible springing revisions with perpetual shifting remainders. Nobody knows the difference between them. At any rate, there are more answers than lawyers, the law being as it is. Perhaps Mr. Cleanliness was so shortsighted or so squeamish that he blackballed me simply because I smelled like the local dog pound in July.
Whatever the reason. I didn't get that job either. This limerick captures the day:
"Fresh off the boat looking ray,
Interviewed for a law job that way,
but he just didn't fit,
'Cause he smelled like dog shit,
Making Clean jeans say 'No Way, Jose."
I was all decked-out in my highly-flammable, brand-new $79 pure polyester three piece suit. This ridiculous outfit, that made Mister Drudge's look like a well tailored Italian suit could stand by itself in the corner indefinitely. My ensemble included a red and blue wide-angel tie that was one half step above a garbage bag in the pure petroleum cycle from pure grade Pennsylvania crude to animal feed.
I was a dead ringer for a newly-arrived fresh off some low-budget tramp steamer from Starvation Island. I had that, "Hey, Eddie, come get a look at this guy" appearance written all over me. I was headed to Augusta for yet another job interview, this one for a lawyer position at the Attorney General's Office. This was no bean-counter job; this was the real deal.
I just had to get over this time. I had been out of work a year. This twelve month ordeal included losing my first post-law school legal job, marriage, and family. During this period I suffered unrelenting low self-esteem and complete loss of confidence. I thought I could never practice law again and fought endless battles with the conviction I was chronically unemployable.
I couldn't take much more without some sign I was OK or some success somewhere. This job would be it. I could get it all back, once and for all. I put myself squarely under the gun. It was a partly sunny day; the sky would clear in fits and starts, now overcast, now sunny. It was cold, but not bitter. There was little wind and no snow or rain. It was a decent Maine winter day. I mustered all the 'I'm OK' optimism and 'Win-Win' self assurance I could and headed out the door and into my van. Woe was me, my ride looked like I struggled not to feel. My trusted van looked seedy, drab, and unkempt. I shook off a strong sense of apprehension and a shudder of forbodding, chalking them up to nerves. I told myself, "Everything is fine, timing is right, and you look good. Take deep breaths, today's the day you begin to live again". The van started right up, hitting on all cylinders. I was definitely on my way.
I had to make one quick stop for breath mints at a local Waterville store in a perfectly forgettable small town, low rent mini-mall. These mints were anxiety quellers and halitosis helpers. Dragon breath up close is a certified, never-fails job killer. What with the suit, the pressure, and the history, I didn't need THAT to be the deciding factor. I had enough to worry about.
I parked at the mall and got out of the van onto the clean concrete sidewalk. I was careful not to touch anything that might dirty my gloveless hands. If that happened, I'd pretty much be shit out of luck. I was alone and on a tight schedule and would have to go as I was. Mt manual wheelchair was clean, for once. Even the inflatable, deep-tread outdoor tires looked good. These tires had protruding rubber knobbies that consistently picked up whatever filthy mess was around, such as mud. I was as ready to impress as I could be. I had puled out all the stops. Of course I couldn't open the stainless steel and glass door of the store by myself, so I had to knock several times on the glass. The few people there looked around bewildered, as if encountering an unexpected enigma. Someone eventually grasped the situation and let me in.
I bought the mints after a short, nervous chat with the young, slender, and attractive brown-eyed clerk. (Most men notice, no matter what). It was natural to ask her to open the door so I could leave. She did so, and I gave a strong push to get over the shiny metal threshold. I silently grunted and forcefully launched myself over this impediment and out the door onto the hitherto spotless sidewalk.
Before I could even see it, I immediately ran smack-dab into a gigantic pile of hot and steaming DOG SHIT!! By the time I was able to stop by grabbing my tires, I had dog shit all over me. There was canine poop all over my right front and rear tires and ditto on my right hand and forearm. It was halfway up my right arm. My suit was an unspeakable mess; I was a mess. I couldn't move without making matters worse. I had a situation here, one that inextricably horrible.
There was at that moment an Assistant Attorney general in Augusta in a nice clean building in a spic-and-span office wearing an expensive, tasteful suit, fragrant with cologne. This impeccable lawyer, I thought, was preparing to be his/ suddenly shitful interviewee.
Have you grasped the situation in all its wretchedness? Do you appreciate my dilemma? What was i to do? Was I figuratively and literally up shit creek? What would you do? I didn't have time or help to change; I couldn't not go to the interview. That was absolutely taboo. Could I call to postpone? Sure I could. It would go something like this:
Me: "I'm sorry I can't make the interview.
It's a long story, but the short of it
is I'm covered in fresh dog shit from
ankle to elbow. I'm sure you understand".
Interviewer:
"Mister Gill, What do you take me for? I've
been doing this for a long time and I
have never heard anything close to your
absurd excuse. If you want to be considered
for this position, you had better be here,
on time".
Well, there you have it. I can be dogged at times, Like my Dad. When I get my teeth into something, I go into pit bull mode. I wasn't about to give in or up. If I wasn't going to get that job, someone would, at least have to deal with me, suit, stink, and all.
Mustering all my shamelessness, which admittedly is quite a bit, I asked a kindly looking middle-aged woman for help. I could never have asked a male, for manly reasons. How many Saint Guys could there be? She was a true-blue Maine Yankee who was undaunted by the canine fecals. Lacking water, soap, washcloth, disinfectant, antiseptic, towel, cologne, or if all else failed gasoline, she very kindly did what she could with some tissues she carried. It wasn't much, just more than nothing.
I've given a lot of thought to this episode over the years, most of which runs like this:
When I headed into that store, there was no dog in sight, anywhere. Now for one dog to have deposited that much poop he/she must have been pony sized, like a huge, full grown 250 pound St. Bernard. There was no such poop anywhere when I went into the store, which was very small. I was one of a few customers. The entire transaction couldn't have taken over three minutes. I saw no dog up or down the sidewalk after I came out.
This huge dog had to appear, do his nasty business, and disappear, all in three minutes. Not just anywhere. Oh, no. This canine sociopath dropped his smart bomb in precisely the right place on this sidewalk that was at least one hundred feet long.
Six inches to the left or right or up or down the walk or anywhere else and all, I say, would have been well. Then it would have been someone else's problem. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. OK, so I'm lying about that. None of these deserving victims was interviewing in Augusta within the hour.
Exactly the right time within three minutes, precisely the right place within six inches, on this very day I was going to an interview for a job which I had lain myself squarely on the line. The odds against this event being random are overwhelming. Fido's Revenge could not have been an unknowable quantum event. There were just too many variables.
No, this cries out for the argument from intelligence, like the papverine stories to come. There had to be some purpose behind this. Did the universe require a metaphoric pound of flesh from me? Was some re-alignment needed in the Karmic Canine Quadrant? Was I condemned to Camus' endless, pointless toil? Was my job search a stand-in for the boulder Sisyphus eternally rolled up that hill?
Those philosophical musings notwithstanding, I went into undeterred trooper mode. I fired up the van and sped to the AG office building. My jaw was set, my resolve was intact, and my desperation was on the shelf, at least for the time being. Dog shit? Who cares? I was determined.
I was seated in a small waiting room by the ubiquitous be-speckled administrative assistant in the rather severe office/business attire.
Back on planet Earth. I was fully aware I stunk up the place. I sat there internally pacing and anxiously fidgeting. The receptionist, too, was fidgeting. She was obviously experiencing a great deal of olfactory discomfort and took every opportunity to discover something else to do that got her away from the source of her queasiness.
At this point I asked myself, did I think that it mattered, this interview? Did I actually believe I had a chance? Hope in this situation was the proverbial Bitch Goddess and desert mirage, in one. Yet hope I had. Waiting there was a bit like waiting in line at the Guillotine; maybe I would be reprieved at the last minute.
I was eventually led into a small, cramped, airless room (of course). A very dubious, hasty handshake began the proceedings. I felt like Fecal Freddie touching Mister Clean jeans. I tried to stay as far away as possible from the well-dressed, thirty-something, immaculate white male interviewer/attorney. He had to wonder why I stunk so bad and whether I bathed. I was unable to artfully work Fido's Revenge into the conversation. Neither of us acted like we noticed that the elephant in the room had been very, very naughty. I suppose that would have violated some unwritten code of civilized behavior. Mister jeans rushed through the Q and A session, like he was in a hurry to get the fuck out of there. It was mutual. We skipped the ritual handshake on the way out. Can you imagine this guy's next phone call?!
"Hello, Tom, do you know a guy named Ray Gill,
a lawyer. Yeah, he's crippled. You do? Tell me,
does that poor bastard live in a kennel?"
I'm pretty sure why I was less than impressive. It wasn't the super cheap polyester suit that crinkled when I moved. It wasn't my sub-par interview performance. It wasn't my resume. It wasn't something I said. It wasn't my confusion when I momentarily mixed up fungible springing revisions with perpetual shifting remainders. Nobody knows the difference between them. At any rate, there are more answers than lawyers, the law being as it is. Perhaps Mr. Cleanliness was so shortsighted or so squeamish that he blackballed me simply because I smelled like the local dog pound in July.
Whatever the reason. I didn't get that job either. This limerick captures the day:
"Fresh off the boat looking ray,
Interviewed for a law job that way,
but he just didn't fit,
'Cause he smelled like dog shit,
Making Clean jeans say 'No Way, Jose."
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Patterns
I'm sure you have noticed this pattern by now: The way my Dad prefaces or prepares us for tragedy or mishap with the explanation and disclaimer, "I was in a hurry, rushing, rushing, my mind already completing next week's chores..." We've all (I'm assuming) sliced our fingers when rushing to prepare dinner, mind on something else. I certainly have numerous tiny scars all over my hands.
This pattern is interesting to me because, well, if I could distill my Dad's personal philosophy into just a few words it would read (to borrow from Ram Dass) BE HERE NOW. He loved the Buddhist and Zen teachings, Krishnamurti and the power of presence. But my Dad was pretty driven, pretty ambitious and it seems the pressures to preform, whatever task, to keep moving forward, drew him out of the present and into peril, over and over and over again. All this is especially relevant for me as the tendencies of my Dad's mentioned above have found fertile soil in my character and I need to remind myself, over and over, to BE HERE NOW.
This pattern is interesting to me because, well, if I could distill my Dad's personal philosophy into just a few words it would read (to borrow from Ram Dass) BE HERE NOW. He loved the Buddhist and Zen teachings, Krishnamurti and the power of presence. But my Dad was pretty driven, pretty ambitious and it seems the pressures to preform, whatever task, to keep moving forward, drew him out of the present and into peril, over and over and over again. All this is especially relevant for me as the tendencies of my Dad's mentioned above have found fertile soil in my character and I need to remind myself, over and over, to BE HERE NOW.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
QUANDRY AND SAINT GUY
July, 1984 + Portland, Maine
"Quandry: A state of uncertainty or perplexity as requiring a choice between two unfavorable options."
This quadriplegia business can really be a bitch, as we've seen. From time to time, I find myself at the boundary between dire need and "Come on now, you can't ask someone to do THAT!" What am I to do? I have to stretch the social fabric to extricate myself from a bona fide quandry, like this:
Asking perfect strangers for minor help, like opening a door or handing me something is usually not too difficult. Like my Dad, I have always been defiantly independant. "No thank you Pal, I'll do it myself or it won't get done." The injury changed all that. The predicaments, quagmires, and quandaries i encounter require me to ask some people for outrageous things. Some balk: "Sure buddy I'll push your wheelchair up hat ramp, but I'm sure as hell not messing with any tubes or bodily fluids."
A lot of people must think I'm retarded anyway, by how they react: "Why, now, listen to that poor mental crippled boy, you'd almost think he knows what he's saying. It's marveluos what they can do for these poor souls." Every now and then I come upon a gem. I am forced to rethink my dim view of the human family. Take this story, for instance. Imagine yourself in the following situation that goes WAY beyond the pale. Ask yourself, 'What would i do?'
It was around noon on a warm, muggy, and overcast summer day. I was leaving a Bar Exam review class at the University of Southern Maine. The summer was 1984 and I was living alone and preparing to take Maine's bar Exam. I was dedicated, driven, and dead serious. I was under a lot of pressure. If I failed the exam, I would have no job, no prospects, nothing to do, and probably no marriage.
Nothing was going to keep me from my 16-hour a day schedule. I took books to bed with me. I could then study at 3:00 AM when I restlessly awoke, like I did every night. My brain swirled with sui generis, quantum meruit, littoral rights, hue and cry, and accessories before, during, and after the fact. I had a very bad case of exam anxiety. I was a mediocre test-taker, at best.
Of course, on this day I was rushing, always rushing, ahead of myself in thought, already home, studying, preparing, and worrying. I got into my van to head straight home and hunker down for the entire day and evening. Hardly aware of what I was doing, reflexively, I reached down to check how much urine was in my leg bag. There was none. I was immediately brought up short and plunged headlong into the moment.
I had a very big problem. With my stomach sinking, sick and tightening, I realized one of two possibilities existed: (1) I had wet myself and was sitting in piss or (2) the quart or so of urine from early morning to noon was somewhere else, sitting between me and the bag.
After rapidly checking, I saw I was not wet. Good, so far. Next, I looked down and, sure enough the condom catheter that was hooked by a rubber tube to the leg bag had a bubble full of that wretched uric acid liquid at the end of my dick the size of a softball. It was just sitting there, mocking me and my bar exam plans. If it broke (which it was bound to do, and soon), I would be up piss creek, in a manner of speaking.
I couldn't fix it by myself. I was, as always, myself alone. I didn't want to sit in piss, obviously. That would ruin my whole schedule, like an accurate granade thrown into my bathroom while I was... Well, I'm sure you can imagine the rest. I had two choices and only two: get help or get wet. Time was of the essence. I was just a little frantic.
I got down out of the van very carefully, wondering how in the hell I was going to resolve this quandary. After about five highly anxious minutes, I noticed two male university maintenance workers, each in his forties or so. I had never met either of them, though one I had seen around the campus. They were both dressed in USM uniforms and looked masculine, if you know what I mean. They had short hair, were clean-shaven, looked rugged, and wore work boots. They had that, "Hey boys, lets have a few cold ones and watch the game" look about them.
I had to ask one of these strangers to come into my van, unzip my pants, open the fly, reach in, and (somehow) release the bubble. I had no rubber gloves, no towels, no antiseptic, or anything to make it easier. As I played this out in my head, it was all just too crazy. "SAY WHAT?" "You want me to reach WHERE and do WHAT?" I had to do something or I would be sitting in urine all day.
I did a quick benefit-cost analysis. Benefit: I got the situation resolved, thank my newly minted piss buddies, go home dry and happy, study all day and into the night, pass the bar exam, and save my job, my sanity, and my marriage. Cost: These guys think (1) I'm lying, (2) I'm plain lazy, or (3) I'm a trolling drag queen with brass balls looking for action and they (A) walk away enraged, (B) go to a shrink, (C) beat me up, (D) call the police, or (E) try to take me up on the drag queen thing. There just weren't any good options here.
I was never much of a bullet biter; I'd take the morphine every time. Here I was, between a good beating and a better day. So, bite the bullet I did. The conversation went something like this:
Me: "Listen, Guys, you don't know me but I've seen you around
and you seem like decent guys and i need a big favor and
I'm not lying or crazy or gay or anything. I mean I'm a
student and I have to go home and study or I'll lose every-
thing, bit I've got a piss bubble at the end of my pecker
that's like a grapefruit and I need one of you to come
into my van with me and reach into my pants and release
the bubble so the piss can go into the bag on my leg right
away."
"Oh, sure" I was thinking, "That makes a lot of sense. " I prepared myself to take the beating.
Saint Guy: "Sure, I'll do it. Just show me what to do."
With that, this diamond in the deep rough followed me up into the van, did everything I asked, jumped down, said, "Let me know if I can ever help you again", and walked away. I could hardly find the words to give him the 'Thank You' he deserved. I miss Maine. A whole lot of good, solid, and funky folk live there.
I studied all that day, evening and night, passed the exam, saved my job, my sanity (I guess), and my marriage (for awhile, anyway). Thanks, at least in part, to Saint Guy the Great, to whom I dedicate this limerick:
"In my pants sat a softball-sized bubble,
That had to be fixed on the double,
Then along came Saint Guy,
Who opened my fly,
And released me from all my piss trouble"
"Quandry: A state of uncertainty or perplexity as requiring a choice between two unfavorable options."
This quadriplegia business can really be a bitch, as we've seen. From time to time, I find myself at the boundary between dire need and "Come on now, you can't ask someone to do THAT!" What am I to do? I have to stretch the social fabric to extricate myself from a bona fide quandry, like this:
Asking perfect strangers for minor help, like opening a door or handing me something is usually not too difficult. Like my Dad, I have always been defiantly independant. "No thank you Pal, I'll do it myself or it won't get done." The injury changed all that. The predicaments, quagmires, and quandaries i encounter require me to ask some people for outrageous things. Some balk: "Sure buddy I'll push your wheelchair up hat ramp, but I'm sure as hell not messing with any tubes or bodily fluids."
A lot of people must think I'm retarded anyway, by how they react: "Why, now, listen to that poor mental crippled boy, you'd almost think he knows what he's saying. It's marveluos what they can do for these poor souls." Every now and then I come upon a gem. I am forced to rethink my dim view of the human family. Take this story, for instance. Imagine yourself in the following situation that goes WAY beyond the pale. Ask yourself, 'What would i do?'
It was around noon on a warm, muggy, and overcast summer day. I was leaving a Bar Exam review class at the University of Southern Maine. The summer was 1984 and I was living alone and preparing to take Maine's bar Exam. I was dedicated, driven, and dead serious. I was under a lot of pressure. If I failed the exam, I would have no job, no prospects, nothing to do, and probably no marriage.
Nothing was going to keep me from my 16-hour a day schedule. I took books to bed with me. I could then study at 3:00 AM when I restlessly awoke, like I did every night. My brain swirled with sui generis, quantum meruit, littoral rights, hue and cry, and accessories before, during, and after the fact. I had a very bad case of exam anxiety. I was a mediocre test-taker, at best.
Of course, on this day I was rushing, always rushing, ahead of myself in thought, already home, studying, preparing, and worrying. I got into my van to head straight home and hunker down for the entire day and evening. Hardly aware of what I was doing, reflexively, I reached down to check how much urine was in my leg bag. There was none. I was immediately brought up short and plunged headlong into the moment.
I had a very big problem. With my stomach sinking, sick and tightening, I realized one of two possibilities existed: (1) I had wet myself and was sitting in piss or (2) the quart or so of urine from early morning to noon was somewhere else, sitting between me and the bag.
After rapidly checking, I saw I was not wet. Good, so far. Next, I looked down and, sure enough the condom catheter that was hooked by a rubber tube to the leg bag had a bubble full of that wretched uric acid liquid at the end of my dick the size of a softball. It was just sitting there, mocking me and my bar exam plans. If it broke (which it was bound to do, and soon), I would be up piss creek, in a manner of speaking.
I couldn't fix it by myself. I was, as always, myself alone. I didn't want to sit in piss, obviously. That would ruin my whole schedule, like an accurate granade thrown into my bathroom while I was... Well, I'm sure you can imagine the rest. I had two choices and only two: get help or get wet. Time was of the essence. I was just a little frantic.
I got down out of the van very carefully, wondering how in the hell I was going to resolve this quandary. After about five highly anxious minutes, I noticed two male university maintenance workers, each in his forties or so. I had never met either of them, though one I had seen around the campus. They were both dressed in USM uniforms and looked masculine, if you know what I mean. They had short hair, were clean-shaven, looked rugged, and wore work boots. They had that, "Hey boys, lets have a few cold ones and watch the game" look about them.
I had to ask one of these strangers to come into my van, unzip my pants, open the fly, reach in, and (somehow) release the bubble. I had no rubber gloves, no towels, no antiseptic, or anything to make it easier. As I played this out in my head, it was all just too crazy. "SAY WHAT?" "You want me to reach WHERE and do WHAT?" I had to do something or I would be sitting in urine all day.
I did a quick benefit-cost analysis. Benefit: I got the situation resolved, thank my newly minted piss buddies, go home dry and happy, study all day and into the night, pass the bar exam, and save my job, my sanity, and my marriage. Cost: These guys think (1) I'm lying, (2) I'm plain lazy, or (3) I'm a trolling drag queen with brass balls looking for action and they (A) walk away enraged, (B) go to a shrink, (C) beat me up, (D) call the police, or (E) try to take me up on the drag queen thing. There just weren't any good options here.
I was never much of a bullet biter; I'd take the morphine every time. Here I was, between a good beating and a better day. So, bite the bullet I did. The conversation went something like this:
Me: "Listen, Guys, you don't know me but I've seen you around
and you seem like decent guys and i need a big favor and
I'm not lying or crazy or gay or anything. I mean I'm a
student and I have to go home and study or I'll lose every-
thing, bit I've got a piss bubble at the end of my pecker
that's like a grapefruit and I need one of you to come
into my van with me and reach into my pants and release
the bubble so the piss can go into the bag on my leg right
away."
"Oh, sure" I was thinking, "That makes a lot of sense. " I prepared myself to take the beating.
Saint Guy: "Sure, I'll do it. Just show me what to do."
With that, this diamond in the deep rough followed me up into the van, did everything I asked, jumped down, said, "Let me know if I can ever help you again", and walked away. I could hardly find the words to give him the 'Thank You' he deserved. I miss Maine. A whole lot of good, solid, and funky folk live there.
I studied all that day, evening and night, passed the exam, saved my job, my sanity (I guess), and my marriage (for awhile, anyway). Thanks, at least in part, to Saint Guy the Great, to whom I dedicate this limerick:
"In my pants sat a softball-sized bubble,
That had to be fixed on the double,
Then along came Saint Guy,
Who opened my fly,
And released me from all my piss trouble"
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