Wheelchair Life
There are, as far as television is concerned, basically two kinds of wheelchair people.
There's the inspirational, memorable one that teaches Dylan and Brenda an important lesson about life. By the end of the episode, they've overcome their fears about not getting into the right college or not getting the limo they wanted for the prom by absorbing his motivational and meaningful platitudes. A happy ending, thanks to the inspirational wheelchair guy.
And there's the bitter, depressed wheelchair guy who just can't seem to find a reason to go on in his vertically-challenged life, the one who Dylan and Brenda help to see that his existence does have meaning. They inevitably convince him that he's smart and creative, so he can contribute to society, even if he can't dance or score with the ladies or get down a flight of stairs if a fire breaks out. He realizes, by the end, that maybe he is someone special and that life is good. A happy ending, courtesy of Dylan and Brenda, but made possible by the timely appearance of the depressed wheelchair guy.
In film there's really only one kind of wheelchair guy. The computer hacker. But that's another topic.
And so it is, geared to learn our life lessons from one-hour dramas and half-hour laugh-fests, that people see reality as presented by network execs and balding writers. Life, to us, imitates art....the modern art, or the TV series.
So when people actually come across a wheelchair guy in their non-prime-time life, it's a moment of great excitement. Which will he be? Will he inspire and delight with his laughter-in-the-face-of-disability philosophy, or is he down and lost, reaching his end, needing a special healthy person to show him the way to enlightenment and greener pastures?
Either way, if you're that wheelchair guy, you are, to people, one of those two options.
And not much more.
One day near the mall, I'd parked my brown van in my allotted blue spot at the bank, getting out to grab some quick cash at the ATM before heading off to see a movie. With Andrew Jackson tucked neatly in my overstuffed wallet, I headed back to the rear of the van to take the lift up. I hadn't noticed until she was upon me that a middle-aged woman had exited the back seat of the parked car she was in and was standing next to me. Her face was frozen in a televangelist sort of smile. As I turned to her, she leaned over at the waist, putting her hands on her knees, as if speaking to a child in sandbox.
"I just wanted to come over and tell you..." she said, her voice sing-songy. She stopped, and built in a dramatic pause. Then, with the same lively chirp in her tone, she finished, "I really admire you!"
She caught me on a good day, so I smiled and sort of thanked her, not quite sure what to say to that, no matter how many times it comes up. Admires me for knowing how to work an ATM machine? For being able to unhook from the oxygen tank at home for a short time and come out into the sunlight?
She left after a couple of more words, proud of herself for making the effort to talk to one of the differently-abled, and having somehow gained her inspiration for the day from seeing me yank a twenty without drooling on myself. Now, this was a very nice woman, and well-meaning. They all are. Most of the time, they do make me smile. But as I rode up my painfully slow and noisy lift, as she got back into her car to tell her tale to her fellow travelers, it occurred to me that there were two versions of that conversation we'd had. To her ears, she'd told someone who clearly excelled at making lemonade (when the bowl of cherries hands out the lemons) that she appreciated the effort, that it made other people fell hopeful and good and put their own lives into perspective.
What I heard was, "Hi! I just wanted to point out that everyone around you is always staring. Even when you're doing something as simple as using an ATM, you always have a morbidly fascinated audience. I just felt I should remind you that you're completely different from everyone else, and everyone is keenly aware of this...just in case you were having good day and fooling yourself into imagining that things were otherwise. Take care!"
At my friend Bryan's wedding, though I was a groomsmen, I was of course sitting out the wedding party dance at the reception. I was back at our table, videotaping the event for posterity (and thank God one of my friends finally had a wedding I taped that lasted). Bryan's younger sister came over and sat down. The girl was maybe ten or eleven. She said hello, I smiled and said hello back. And then she asked, her voice filled with dramatic expectation, "I bet you wish you could dance, don't you?"
Children are allowed. Of course they are. Children have no malice...they see the world through television more than any of us, as it's most all they know of the world at that age. I took no offense. I was tempted to tell her I knew many men who wished they could dance, and there was no disability involved. But not being able to, they developed a taste for hair bands and metal instead. Head-banging takes little dexterity and often impresses girls who are much easier to score with. But I felt it was a little beyond her at that point in her life.
But as for dancing. It was New Year's Eve back in Sacramento one year. A bunch of us had been roaming Old Sac, and the collection of bars and clubs the area has to offer. We all met up at the same place after midnight, and were all quite drunk by this point. My trip to the restroom around one a.m., and the horrifying state of the stall, reminded me that we weren't the only ones. Eventually our party moved downstairs to the dance floor, which was loud and crowded and dark. At one point, my friend Kevin, quite tanked himself, came over and grabbed the handles of my chair and pushed me out into the middle of the dance floor. Soon enough, there was a blonde in front of me. She'd maneuvered her way to me, and began to dance with me. Lost for what to do in this really awkward moment, I think I sort of danced back (I was very drunk at this point, so the memories are hazy). She didn't dance wildly, or sexily. She danced politely. The moment ended quickly, thanks to the time distortion too much Southern Comfort brings, and with it, the song (whatever late 80's dance grind it might have been. Bell Biv DeVoe, perhaps?). She leaned down carefully and spoke a few words in my ear, and then was gone. Kevin, and my other drunken friends, who had been watching the whole thing, hurried over and asked what she had said. I laughed and told them I wasn't going to tell. The next day, when asked again, I told them I was too drunk I didn't remember, making a funny story out of it for all to enjoy. But I did remember.
She had simply said, "Thank you for the dance."
She had gotten to be a Brenda. She had lifted the spirits of someone whose life obviously lacked joy and normalcy, someone who needed just a taste of what others had. And she had provided it, and probably to this day thinks back on it and feels a twinge of pride at her good deed.
My feelings after the special moment on the dance floor?
I wanted to put a gun in my fucking mouth.
Every man wants to be a Dylan. Every woman wants to be a Brenda. Some men want to be Brendas, but I digress. The wheelchair guy is here to serve a purpose, to provide the special moments in the lives of people who, at that chance meeting, get to realize that they need to appreciate what they have...their health, their relationships, the blessings that fate gave them to lead a life of fortune and possibility.
After all...they could have ended up like him.
The inspirational wheelchair guy. The bitter wheelchair guy in need of saving. Why are these the only options television presents us? Why is it you never see, say, the wheelchair guy who still wonders what he could have done to earn his father's respect or affection while his father was still alive? Or the one who lost the one true love of his life because he could not lie to her or himself and convert to Mormonism? The one who had to give up cocaine before he loved it too much, or who struggled time and again to exorcise the Marlboros from his life? The one who grapples with insecurities in his writing, fighting to find his voice while issues of self-worth strangle it? The one who left college behind to seek the meaning of life and his place in it? The one who smokes too many cigars, agonizes over issues with family, or is gripped with indecision over career choices and is plagued by the hopeless regret of growing older with little to show for the journey?
Because there only two options. That is all that television, and the world, allow.
And I'm left with the realization that--
Nothing I say...
Nothing I do...
Nothing I feel...
Nothing I believe...
Nothing I am....
...matters.
I will never be more to the world than four wheels, and a receptacle for admiration, or for pity. Or for both.
This is wheelchair life.
This is who I am.
Sure can't wait for that new fall season on Fox this year. Nice to know there's always a job waiting for me.