My Superpower Is Nothing To Sniff Your Nose at

First, I want to apologize to all of you because I've not been around the past few months. I’ve missed hanging out with you. I haven't had the chance because I have been working on big things, hush-hush kind of things, but I'm among friends now so I can tell you. I'm a superhero now. Our market research with sample groups has been so positive that we are attracting capital investment. Superhero entertainment is a hot and still-growing multibillion-dollar industry, hungry for new ideas and diverse representation. Picture this: A person with a disability — a quadriplegic in a wheelchair, no less — who deploys high-tech gadgetry to manipulate and control his environment. Plus I have an attractive but tough love-interest with MacGuyver-like instincts and a snappy tongue, but more about her later. I've been meeting with my consulting team. My designers have come up with a sleek brownish costume — but I don’t want to reveal everything too soon. My writers are coming up with catchy taglines and scripts to pitch. My agent has feelers out to Marvel, DC, the CW, ABC, BBC, CBC and the CDC: This crimefighter is branded! The only thing I need — and it's a mere formality at this point — is a superpower.

So, how hard could this be? In our formative years and into adulthood they tell us to find our talent and pursue it: the thing that makes you you. Hm … to me, that was a toughie. As my English teacher, Mr. Lemon, who was tortured by Jesuits when he was a schoolboy, said as he was passing along his cup of cheer to the next generation, "You'll never amount to anything." Well, for a long time it looked like old Lemon was right. Some around me were good at figures and cyphering, and they became engineers or accountants. But no no no no, I wasn't good at that. Some were faster, stronger or more nimble, and they became athletes. No no no no, I wasn't good at that either. Design? Acting? The arts? No no no, no no no!

But there was something I was always good at — and I mean very good at, though I didn't want to be. So often we desire one thing, but life has entirely different plans for us. This thing has followed me around throughout my life. I try to run away from it but it's always there, hanging around me like a cloud, reminding me, and everyone around me, that it's there. I thought it was curse, just like I used to think of my disability too as a curse. But here was something that followed me throughout life, through my nondisabled to my disabled life.

To seek my destiny, I was looking up at the stars and finding nothing. But I had to learn that my calling had been with me all along, right under my nose. Actually, under my shoes. It was there the whole time, but I’d been holding my nose to the truth. Because always, from the earliest age, I was the one who would step in it. This is my singular talent. To my horror, finding thick, lustrous layers of it slathered up and down the soles of my brand-new school sneakers like my grandmother's rich apple-butter, and so zesty it makes my eyes water and my vision shimmer like a desert mirage. I never tracked it on my mom’s carpet, but I did on my friend’s mom’s carpet, her metallic baby blue shag that she lovingly raked every day in parallel rows with a dedicated matching baby-blue garden rake, but all of that care and refinement was laid waste by my awesomely awkward powers. The power that stirred horror into those around me, who fled like I was Godzilla and they were the people of Tokyo, all gagging. My unbridled powers knew no borders or boundaries: At the beach, I did it. At my prom, I did it. While holding my baby goddaughter when she was being christened outdoors: did it did it did it.

And the inclusive, accessible, truly ADA angle to this is that it’s followed me up to and into my progressing disability, through shoes, cane, walker and wheelchair. It's like the Riddle of the Disabled Sphinx: What steps in poo on 2 legs, then steps in poo on 3 legs, then steps in poo on 6 legs, then steps in poo on 4 wheels? It's me! The answer is me.

When I exile myself into the wilderness, to remove myself from the company of man and his pooping pets, I will run over the scat of deer, possums and raccoons; wombats and armadillos; and all of God's creatures that defecate. So this is the thing I am definitely good at, if you can say that a talent like mine is good. And I hated it. Who wouldn’t, right? That is, until one particular incident turned my thinking completely around. When I awoke that morning, it was a proclivity. And when I went to bed, it had become a superpower.

This was the worst of splooshes, it was the best of splooshes. It was fresh, it was enormous, and in my leather-soled dress shoes, it was what we call a slider. This was the magnificent poo of destiny. The ulti-poo. The poo that made me the man I am today.

I was running late, and in a very Clark-Kentish way. I had a hot date, with somebody way, way out of my league. Intelligent, capable, independent, who had traveled the world, a beautiful fair-skinned brunette with smoky eyes, and she was an actress! Oo, she was exotic. This was such an improbable date, I was still stunned she said yes, so I could not be late.

So of course I was running late, and her neighborhood was notorious for its lack of parking. This is a whole other story, but I made a deal with God, or the devil, whoever was manning the window that day, and I shoehorned my car into a space, and dashed from my car to her apartment building.

The other thing about that block was that it was around the corner from the lakefront, lined with expensive high-rises filled with wealthy folks and wealthy folks' doggies who all had to go walkies somewhere. That is how trickle-down economics works, folks, and Mab's block of older buildings for working-class folks had only thin strips of grass along the street. Something had to give. I had picked up my lovely date, on time (thanks, deity!), and while I basked in her presence and attention, I let my guard down. You all know what happened next.

As brown bombers to go, it was a legend. I’ll spare you descriptions, only to say that for a second or two I was literally surfing on it. I remember trying to wipe it off, to scrape it off, but I was swallowed in its vortex. Probably there were other active bombs all too, all waiting to be tripped off, because quickly it had spread to my other shoe. Of course I couldn’t let on what had happened, but inside I was having a poo panic attack, at least until we got in the car together and I had to roll down the window, apologizing profusely. "Do you want to take a walk instead, or do this some other time?" "No, we have reservations," she said, "don't worry." OK then.

We pulled away and went to the newest Mexican restaurant in the neighborhood, thankfully not far away, which had a wall of windows and bright sunshine illuminating the bright, colorful murals on the walls, and unique specialty dishes. She was dazzling and delightful. 

But our date was on a downward spiral. Neighboring tables made comments about a distinct odor in the air. I made sympathetic expressions to them, “I know, right. Ew.” And it became difficult to enjoy the fresh salsas we ordered, because of my gagging reflex. Later, in the movie theater, I took off my shoes and slid them under the empty seats a few spaces away. A couple of women actually sat next to the stink chair. After a short time, they wrinkled their noses and left for other seats.

Fast-forward, I somehow got through the disastrous date until finally, mercifully, it came time to make my escape… I mean, say good night. I saw her to her door and when I was turning away, she stunned me by asking me out. I was taken so unawares that she had to repeat herself, and eventually said, “But if you don't want to go …”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. So I said the worst possible thing: “Really?”

Her jaw dropped. “If you don't want to go,” she said, “I'll just find a friend —”

“No no no, I'll go. I'm just surprised,” I said, “after all this putridness and all.”

She said that the way I dealt with it and joked around about it all evening was endearing. “You could have done typical guy-stuff, but you didn't.”

I don’t know what the lessons are here. I’m not proud. I did a lot of squirming, but 24 years ago today, I placed a ring on that girl’s finger! All because of my unique talent.

Don't you know I saved the mementos, those shoes, and have them to this very day to remind me about my realization about myself? No, of course not, I threw those shitty things out! But I got the girl, and I got3 a newfound superpower that nobody else has — and I'm leaning into it, baby, or stepping into it, or rolling into it, or whatever. I gotta be me, and this is me.

The Parking Placard (Black n') Blues

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the ADA, Which Just Turned 32

It’s an epiphany when you realize for the first time that the white stick-figure on the blue parking sign is you. That's you. Now you can park in that fat sirloin of a spot. Now you are “the disabled.”

For me, this leap to disabilityhood was as every bit as much a mental process as a physical one. And I fought the knowledge, down the line, tooth and nail. I always did, with every new adaptation or assistive device, fight, fight, fight. To some that sounds courageous, but really it’s ridiculous. But I was young, I was always healthy, and I was a guy. I didn't need no parking placard: that's for other people. I didn't need nothing. 

I had a thick head. 

Something new, something blue.

So what changed my mind? I can’t remember the moment I decided to pick up a disability parking application. It must have been some watershed event, perhaps my 1,000th fall, the one that rattles your very teeth. Falling itself was no big deal, and I might do it a half dozen times in a day. After a while, my body looked like Keith Richards’ after a bender, but cry-cry, I dusted myself off and got back in the game – because you've got to, nobody's going to pay your way. But maybe that 1,000th time was the one to slosh my brain in its comfy bath of cerebrospinal fluid: Wake up, you green-gray piece of fat!

I used a walker then. An aluminum walker, to go along with my biker jacket. I would drag the thing to the grocery store for a few items, forgetting half of them by the time I reached the aisles. No browsing, no price-shopping, I just toppled things into the basket, teetering in the checkout while I fished for money, and dragging my Frankenstein feet out to the parking lot again, cars politely navigating around me - although the occasional Einstein would honk, not that I could turn around to see him, not that I could reach around to flick him off.

Muh sexy ride.

As my legs exhausted themselves, each step became smaller, smaller, until my energy was drained and my limbs locked like jointless boards due to muscle tone. In the middle of the parking lot, I stood stock still, like performance art, like the Tin Woodsman in the days before Dorothy Gale. 

To make things a little easier, the walker had wheels on the front legs so I could shove it along instead of lifting and planting it on every step. But once fatigued, I lost the power to hold the walker in place, and the wheels assumed a more insidious role, creeping forward slowly. As they gained momentum, I thought, No, no, this can't be happening. Unable to lift my feet, my upright posture deteriorated into a wider and wider triangle as the walker rolled further away. As my angle increased, I could hear Carly Simon singing “Anticipation.” I couldn’t let go to break my fall - my hands were locked - so I'd take a deep breath and bail, turning my face as best I could, because I don’t need to be any uglier.

On the way down, I’d think: Don't land on the Chef Boyardee!

This happened once on a frigid winter night, after my friend and I had attended a wake and on the way home, stopped for a nightcap. The parking lot was a thin, solid sheet of ice. I straggled back to my car, up a slight incline of drainage built into the black asphalt. Along the way I had to stop and rest, talking to my patiently shivering friend while we waited for my chilly legs to unlock.

I detected motion. Yep, I was sliding backward over the ice, in the direction of the drain. I was unable to move or resist; like a Gemini astronaut, I was only along for the ride. At the time I had no idea where I was going: I wasn't even facing the direction I was headed.

My buddy circled nervously around me. “Hey, Fred Astaire, what do I do?”

I was picking up speed. So I had to be honest with the guy. “I got nothing."

Jim dug in behind me to brace me, but honestly, in our leather-soled dress shoes, we might as well have been in ice skates. At this point I think he was pushing back simply to save his own hide. But there was nothing he could do; there was nothing anyone could do. We were a runaway train, and I was taking him down with me.

I sometimes imagine what it was like for someone in the warm comfort of their car to watch us gliiiide across that parking lot. Floating, gracefully rotating in space. Maybe the Blue Danube Waltz was playing on their radio, <CUED UP FOR YOUR LISTENING PLEASURE> 

while we skated from one side of their windshield, all the way across to the other side of the windshield. … Faster and faster… Have you watched curling in the winter Olympics?… 

On and on and on… Circling the drain...

What would become of our intrepid boys?

That’s when I started laughing. In uncontrollable circumstances, laughing is often the best thing to do. In Chicago when freezing your body parts off we often laugh it off with our friends. Because it's better to freeze body parts off together and be laughing, then it is to freeze body parts off and not be laughing. And that's the science behind that.

But also, convulsive laughter is useful in defeating spasticity. In an instant, we were a giggling heap of metal and man sprawled on the dark ice. In our slick shoes, we'd be stranded on that parking lot for some time. For the life of me, I can't figure out how we ever got up again.

Lucky were the times when there was a friend around and frictionless ice to fall on. More often, it was a sidewalk or bathroom or busy street crosswalk, hopefully with one or more gallant onlookers there to drag me out of danger and stuff me in my car. After I’d rebuff their offers for medical help, I would fall asleep on the front seat, sometimes for over an hour, sometimes with the engine running.

Somewhere in there happened magic No. 1000, the one to knock some sense in my noggin, the one to make my broken capillaries cry out, “Get the blue placard, already!”

Before then, I clung to a strange, outmoded idea of what independence is. But once I crossed that thin blue sign, what I found was a fuller independence of accessible jobs, housing, education and protected rights, accessible medicine and tech and yes, even decent curb cutouts and parking spaces - a whole societal push to involve everyone, to bring everybody to the decision-making table, even hardheaded fools who happened to fall upon the right decision one day, after he fell absolutely every other place first.

Viva the ADA.