On The Dotted Line

I must have said it five times throughout the day at work today: “Just sign and date my name on it, please.” The other five times – meeting attendance sheets, management sign-offs, an expense report – needed no instruction, as those around me know not to be shy about using their steady hands to sign for my not-so-steady hand.

My disagreement with my own John Hancock goes way back. As a preschooler with cerebral palsy, it was evident that penmanship wasn’t going to be my best subject as I went through school. Heck, at the age of five, I couldn’t stay within the lines of a coloring book, let alone write “Mark” on those brown, lined sheets of dusty-smelling paper that students have used for over a century to practice writing their name over and over again – one life-size name per page was the closest I came.

But, as I grew up, I kept at it, and somewhere around the age of twenty, I had at least enough coordination to sign a check or a greeting card – though never both on the same day, as neither my body nor I had such patience, nor did I wish to include checks with greeting cards.

Before buying my first car and house, I bought an inked stamp of my signature. Actually, it wasn’t even my signature, but it did stamp, “Mark E. Smith.” I reckoned that if a stamp was entirely consistent in stamping whatever was printed on it, then I might as well put the best darn penmanship I could find on it – which was my mom’s.

As it turned out, if a pen required more dexterity than I had, so did that darn ink stamp. My trying to stamp it on the right line of a check or document was like playing pin the tale on the donkey – I had khaki pants for years with my name stamped on the knee from the signing of buying my first house.

Once I became an author, people wished signed books – and I did well with that. Books have a large, blank page in the front, void of structured lines, proving an ideal target for me to hit with a Sharpie. Of course, there was always that one woman in line at book signings, asking for an inscription to “Alexandria Protrocktov,” to which I’d explain that I wasn’t skilled with my “A”s or “O”s, or any other letter, really.

Nowadays, while I have to sign more items than ever, I almost never do. Sure, my signature appears on dozens of documents each week with my approval, but you’d be hard pressed to find my actual signature. My wife signs my name on most of our personal documents; whomever I’m with – family, friends, my English Bulldog – signs for Visa check card purchases; and, at work my employees and coworkers sign my name followed by their initials all day long.

The fact is, I can’t physically write, for all intents and purposes, but everyone else can – and how convenient that is for me.

Of course, some day I’ll find myself in court, starring at Exhibit A, with the plaintiff’s attorney asking, “Mr. Smith, is this your signature?”

And, I’ll be able to look him in the eyes, with sincerity, and reply, “Can you please clarify what you mean by my signature.”

Those In Glass Houses Shouldn’t Drive Backward

I’m at the Corning Museum of Glass in New York with my family – my daughter, sister, brother-in-law, and nephew. I’m not a big museum fan – not enough excitement for me – but I try to expose my daughter to as much culture as possible, including art, and glass is an approachable medium for a 10-year-old, I suppose.

If you don’t recognize the name, Corning, you have likely used the company’s products. Corning touts itself as the world’s leader in specialty glass and ceramics, producing cutting-edge optics used in the aerospace and semiconductor industries. But, you probably know Corning for its casserole dishes that your mother used, a kitchen must-have for decades. Heck, my mother rarely baked, and even she had set of Corning Wear.

So, it turns out that Corning has been located in the quant, up-state New York town of Corning since 1868, and as a result, the town is built around the company, including the company-sponsored Museum of Glass. And, this is where we are this Saturday, following the self-guided tour through a four-story building that’s remarkably modern, with mood-lit paths, lined with floor-to-ceiling display cases of two-thousand-year-old glass artifacts that sparkling like flowing streams from a distance, drawing you on a winding route through the museum.

Even though it’s a Saturday, at the beginning of summer, there’s almost no one here – just us as we follow the twists and turns of the display halls. And, I’m all wound up. I’ve been working nonstop lately, and was planning on working straight through this weekend on three articles due next week, but my daughter and sister talked me into this day trip – so, I’m feeling like I’m off the hook, paroled for a day, horsing around in a glass museum.

Now, I admit that horsing around in a glass museum is surely a poor idea – undoubtedly as bad as it sounds. But, I’m a mature father, and a wheelchair professional, so the fact that my power wheelchair is turned up to its highest speed, set to 100% acceleration, and I’m making my family both chuckle and chastise me by my zipping ahead and cranking crazy-fast turns in the glass-lined aisles isn’t nearly as obnoxious or dangerous as it might seem. I’m a pro, and I certainly wouldn’t risk smashing up Corning’s truly priceless collection of glass.

But, now I’m driving backward, in front of my family, keeping pace with them, all without looking over my shoulder to see exactly where I’m going. However, as a pro, I know that I’m in the center of the aisle, which winds through the building, so as long as I stay centered between the displays via my peripheral vision, I can drive backward all day without looking.

“You’re such a dork,” my sister says, smiling, pushing her son’s stroller.

“I bet you can’t walk backward with your stroller like this,” I tease, increasing my speed.

“Har, har, har – Dork,” my sister says, laughing.

“See, I’m such a pro, I don’t even need a powerchair that drives forward,” I say, cruising along in reverse, without a hitch.

“There’s a pole behind you,” my brother-in-law says, walking beside my sister.

“Then maybe I should speed up,” I say, giving a sarcastic smile, knowing that my brother-in-law is being a wise guy, trying to trick me into turning around to look.

BANG! – my chair comes to a slamming halt, like a train just rear-ended me, knocking me completely out of position.

“…Told ya there was a pole,” my brother-in-law says, walking past me without a care.

“I thought you were joking!” I say, straightening myself in my seat, pulling away from the pole, driving in the right direction.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” I tell my daughter.

“Never play in a museum?” my daughter asks, walking beside me.

“No,” I say. “Never back a powerchair into a poll – it hurts.”

Frolicking

In the design and manufacturing of wheelchairs, there is the terminology, “intended use,” meaning the typical ways in which a wheelchair is commonly used and operated. One word, however, that’s not on any intended use outline that I’ve ever seen is, “frolicking” – but, based on what unabashed consumers have shared with me over the years, maybe it should be.

Now, I should clarify that when I use the term “frolicking,” it’s a euphemism for… well… frolicking, if you catch my drift. With this in mind, why both men and women have felt comfortable discussing such a delicate topic with me remains a tad of a mystery? Maybe it’s because folks know I’m a wheelchair user, or maybe it’s because folks feel comfortable with me from reading my writing over the years, knowing me as a friend. But, for whatever reason, folks have no qualms toward asking me whether they can “frolic” in their new wheelchairs.

Interestingly, the approaches people take toward the subject vary from gingerly to blunt. Most ease into the question, inquiring if the seat fully reclines, that the arms completely remove, then ask about the weight capacity, wondering if the wheelchair can support two people? Other consumers skip the chase, simply asking, “Can we do it in my chair, or will the chair break?”

My professional answer is always the same: “I must recommend against exceeding the weight capacity of your wheelchair.”

However, my real answer is, I have no idea whether one can “frolic” in a wheelchair – I’m a middle-aged, long-married man, where the closest I come to “frolicking” in my own wheelchair on a good day is a kiss on the lips from my English bulldog, Rosie.

Mysterious Ways

The older I get, the more inclined I am to lie about my disability. No, I don’t lie about having a disability – I can’t hide my powerchair or profound condition. I simply lie about why I have a disability.

Now, the fact is, I just don’t get the opportunity to discuss my disability with many acquaintances these days. We live in an enlightened time, so strangers aren’t too fixated on my disability, and most people who I deal with personally and professionally already know that I have cerebral palsy based on what they’ve read and heard about me, so I just don’t get the chance to talk about my disability with strangers as much as one might expect.

As a result, when an acquaintance inquires about my disability, I’m compelled to take full advantage of the moment, sensationally exploiting his curiosity for my own enjoyment – I just can’t pass on the opportunity. I’m instinctively compelled to draw the person in close, looking him in the eyes, in confidence, with vulnerability, sharing a tale of my disability that’s unforgettable.

“When I was a young boy, my father was a religious man,” I explain. “One day, he asked, ‘Mark, do you believe in the good Lord?’”

“Yes, Father,” I replied.

“If you believe in the Lord, stand up and raise your hands to the Lord!“ he shouted.

With great faith, I stood up, raising my hands to the Lord – and, at that moment, the wind blew me right out of our convertible moving at highway speed….

As I pause and stare stone-faced at the person, I can see the wheels in his head spinning, horrified by what I’ve shared, while wondering if he heard me right?

Sometimes, I’ll smile and wink, confessing that it’s an old line from a joke that I picked up somewhere and warped it into my own use.

Other times, I simply share my father’s belief that the Lord works in mysterious ways.

Frankie’s Sticks, Man

If you saw me now, you’d think that I time-warped back to 1983.

Getting here wasn’t as hard as one might think. The fact is, a powerchair is my best friend in crowds, where it works almost as well as a snowplow, ushering people out of my way. Maybe even drunks at a rock concert have empathy for a guy seated in a wheelchair among a standing-only crowd, or maybe the look in my eyes – that I’m not stopping for anyone, that my 300-pound powerchair could break toes and ankles – appeals to their common sense; but, for whatever reason, I can always work my way through the most obnoxious of crowds.

And, that’s what my buddy, Dave, and I did tonight, making our way to the front row, center stage of this concert.

Now, this isn’t a big concert venue, but a club room, where there’s nothing between the audience and the band. The stage, in fact, is barely over a foot-and-a-half high, and I’m right against it, looking up at the lead singer of Quiet Riot, who’s still decked in purple spandex, a bad wig, and gaudy jewelry after twenty-five years without a hit, looking like this gig is at least fifteen years past his fitness level, as judged by his pouring sweat and labored dance movements.

At some point, a guy warned us that the flashback-frenzied crowd might surge forward, pressing us against the stage. However, with my reinforced-steel legrests touching the stage, and my push canes protruding behind me, ready to impale the crowd, no one’s pushing me anywhere.

Indeed, my game plan is working. See, in 2007, there’s nothing less cool than going to the concert of a hair band from the ’80s, whose members and fans are frozen in time, unable to see that a 1979 Trans Am isn’t the chic magnet that it once was. Yet, in 2007, there’s nothing more entertaining than going to the concert of a hair band from the ’80s, whose members and fans are frozen in time, where the skinny guy to my left – mullet, graying beard, skin-tight T-shirt, bandannas tied together as a belt – is playing air guitar and drums like he’s part of the band, and the 40-something mom to my right, with teased-up hair, hasn’t stop jumping up and down with her fist in the air since the band started playing two hours ago. Of course, the woman directly behind me – a seemingly over-erogenous DMV clerk – keeps leaning over me, trying to grab the lead singer’s crotch, and even he gives her disgusted looks, pulling away each time she gets lucky.

“In ‘92, I talked to Frankie, the drummer!” Mr. Mullet yells in my ear. “Dude, I live for these shows.”

And, I believe him. But, I can’t stop laughing long enough to get as excited as he is. Sure, it’s terrific that this is a highlight in the lives of those around me. But, how any 40-year-old can think that playing air guitar at hair band concert, decades past the era, is cool, is beyond me. Maybe I’m turning old and boring, but in my circles, being able to trade stocks on your PDA while you’re vacationing on a beach in the Bahamas is cool; popping a cassette tape into the dash of your Gremlin on the way to the Quiet Riot concert is uncool.

“Dude, no one’s ever come close to their genius!” Mr. Mullet yells to me.

“Dude, do you live with your mom?” I yell back.

“Yeah, but I’m moving in with my girl!” he replies, pointing to the middle aged, pear-shaped woman next to him, poured into her black velvet top and faded jeans, screaming every cheesy lyric.

I look over my shoulder, to Dave, who’s notably out of place, wearing a fatherly sweater and slacks, unable to change since someone offered us free, last-minute tickets at work late in the day, and he’s chuckling at the whole scene, too. I look back to the stage, and read the song list taped to the floor, noting that the band is playing the last song on the list – and, I’m glad, as it must be close to midnight, and two hours of being stuck in the worst of 1983 is plenty for me.

The drummer just hit the last few beats, and the singer is thanking the crowd. I’m looking around, seeing if the packed crowd is going to immediately rush for the exits, but now I see that the crowd is freaking out again. It’s the drummer coming toward me, and everyone’s reaching toward him. He kneels down, and hands me his drum sticks, but due to my poor coordination, I can’t grab them, so he gingerly sets them on my lap.

“Thanks, man!” I yell, giving him the thumbs up sign.

Mr. Mullet to my left, and Teased-Hair Tammi to my right, look simultaneously elated and disappointed by my score, and I feel guilty, instinctively thinking that I should give the sticks away to the crowd. After all, I’m here in mockery, with no regard for Quiet Riot as musical icons, thinking that the whole scene is a Saturday Night Live skit that I rolled into. Yet, those around me have seemingly invested their entire lives in this band and scene, presumably passing on any sort of cultural growth over the last twenty-five years – that is, their receiving concert drum sticks from the drummer of Quiet Riot might be like getting blessed by the Pope, a forever link to hair band immortality. But, then, here I am, a sucker-bet, all but guaranteed to get the sticks, with the well-meaning drummer likely thinking that I, as guy in a wheelchair, have had it rough in life, that it’s probably my last wish to be in the front row of a Quiet Riot concert, that receiving the drum sticks will be a golden gift. Is it my fault that I’m a tough racket to beat at a hair band concert when it comes to societal projections of sympathy toward those with disabilities?

“I’ve waited my whole life for this,” I yell to Mr. Mullet.

“Right on,” he replies, patting me on the back. “Now, you’ve got Frankie’s sticks, man!”

I turn to Dave, and he leans toward me. “How much do you think these will sell for on Ebay?” I ask.

Dave laughs, and adds, “This whole thing is just wrong.”

Screaming At The TV

Drop into my master bedroom suite on any given night, and the scene is predictable: I’m sitting at my computer desk, with my back to our TV, listening intermittently to the fluffy, feel-good shows that my wife watches from bed as I write my latest late-night ramblings and correspondences.

On this night, I’m on cue, with my wheelchair wheels pressed into their usual ruts worn into the plush, grey carpeting in front of my desk, and my wife is into the first few minutes of one of her favorite prime-time shows. As I spin my chair around, heading to the kitchen to sneak a cupcake, I see wheelchairs rolling across the TV screen.

“Oh, cool, wheelchairs,” I say, pulling up within inches of our entertainment cabinet, practically pressing my noise against the flat-screen television. “What’s this?”

“Joan of Arcadia,” my wife says.

“Cool, look, they’re playing wheelchair basketball,” I say, pointing at the screen as if it wasn’t entirely obvious. “There’s a Colours chair, and a Top-End, and a bunch of Quickies.”

I look at my wife, and her perturbed stare back at me suggests that she’s far less enthralled by the wheelchairs on TV than I am. If I’m a dog chasing its tale, she’s the wise cat watching me act like a fool. I look back to the TV, and see a guy in a Quickie GPV trying to coax a guy in a Quickie 2 to play basketball with the rest of the team.

“Hey, that guy in the GPV has stroller handles on his chair,” I shout, fingering his chair on the screen. “No one plays basketball with stroller handles – what the hell kind of blasphemy is this?”

“Stop,” my wife says, striving to break my fixation on the everyday wheelchairs racing back and forth across the basketball court.

“What the hell – look, that other guy has drop-in T-arms on his chair. No one plays basketball with T-arms,” I say, watching the guy with the Quickie 2 and T-arms roll off the court. “Good, go home and get a real basketball chair….”

The TV shuts off, and I look at my wife holding the remote control.

“Hey, I was watching that!” I shout, frustrated that she pulled the plug on my wheelchair watching and whining.

“Go away,” she’s says.

“Turn it back on,” I say.

“No,” she says. “Every time you see wheelchairs on TV, you end up yelling at the TV.”

“…Because they’re always wrong,” I say. “They never use the right types of chairs.”

“It’s a TV show, they’re actors – the guy in the Quickie walks during some of the fantasy scenes, he’s not really disabled,” she says.

“So, at least get the chairs right,” I insist. “Show me realistic wheelchair applications and I’m fine. Show me stroller handles and T-arms on a basketball court, and I’ll flip out every time.”

“Go away,” she says.

“I’m going,” I say, turning toward the hallway. “But, there better not be stroller handles and T-arms on the basketball court when I get back.”

Wheel And Deal

It’s proved interesting working consumer mobility tradeshows over the years, where I’ve noticed that consumers fall into fairly clear patterns of intentions. There are those who attend shows knowing exactly the wheelchair they want, eager to explore it in detail with a manufacturer’s representative, with a depth that they may not find at their local provider. Then, there are those who know they will need a new wheelchair in the near future, attending shows to window shop, where they can view almost all wheelchairs in one place, trying products, collecting brochures, and heading home to contemplate what they’ve seen.

Still, there’s a third profile, one exceptionally uncommon, but seen at every consumer show that I’ve worked: The gentleman who’s shopping for a new wheelchair, convinced that the process is identical to haggling a deal for a new car.

“There are a lot of great chairs here – why should I bother considering yours?” he asks, rolling up to me in my booth.

“I suppose I could give you many reasons,” I say. “But, I believe that products should speak for themselves. What type of chair are you interested in? I’ll be glad to show you what we offer.”

“Oh, I know what kind of chair I want,” he says, glancing around my booth. “And, I know what I’m willing to pay.”

“Are you looking to replace your current chair?” I ask, studying his chair, noting its product class and signs of wear, determining which products in our booth might be of interest to his needs.

“Yes, but nothing fancy – I know how all you guys up-sell,” he says. “I’m not getting suckered into all the bells and whistles.”

“How about a horn,” I say, reaching over, beeping the horn on a scooter next to me, smiling. Beep, beep, beep.

But, he doesn’t laugh or smile.

“Well, we have our newer models over here,” I say, maneuvering my chair, rolling toward the line of powerchairs of varying sizes and applications.

“Don’t you have last year’s model?” he asks. “A past model year should be cheaper.”

“Actually, powerchairs don’t go by model years like cars,” I say. “But, we have models to fit many funding levels.”

“OK, let’s cut to the chase,” he says. “Show me the one you can give me the best deal on if I buy it today.”

“We don’t actually sell powerchairs,” I say. “We’re the manufacturer. To purchase a powerchair, consumers go through a dealer. And, there are dealers here at the show. But, we’re here to educate consumers, reviewing products with them, answering any questions they may have.”

“So, you’re telling me that if I offered you a million bucks for that chair, you wouldn’t sell it to me,” he says, pointing at one of our smallest powerchairs.

“For a million bucks, I’d sell you that chair, my own chair, and that lady’s chair over there,” I say.

And, he finally smiles.

“But, in all seriousness, we don’t sell directly to consumers,” I say.

“Alright, show me what you’ve got,” he says.

I pull out of the line a powerchair of similar size and seating to his current chair, and he transfers into it. He spins in a circle, crosses the booth, squeezes the padded armrests, and rolls up beside me.

“I like it,” he says, leaning closer to me. ”Zero down, $319 per month?”

“Do you have a trade-in?” I reply, and we both laugh.

One Night Only

I have no idea what time it is, but it’s late – maybe eleven or midnight? But, because we’re strolling back to our hotel on the night of MedTrade’s big parties, Atlanta’s downtown sidewalks are still busy. Block after block, people have been congratulating me on my performance, as if I’m the real deal.

“You were awesome tonight!” a woman shouts to me as we wait to cross a main drag. “I was one of the women security pulled off the stage when you were up there – that was me!”

This all started a few hours ago, harmlessly enough. Every year, my company throws a provider appreciation party one night during MedTrade. First and foremost, the annual party is a terrific opportunity to socialize with the providers we work with throughout the year, an inspired occasion to get to know those who we strive to support. Secondly, many of us have spent a lot of time leading up to the tradeshow, preparing details and products, then once at the show, we work very long hours, so the party is an opportunity to relax a bit, and get to know providers and co-workers while enjoying great food and music.

Somewhere along the line this year, however, I decided I should get up on stage and sing karaoke with the live house band, reckoning that would be one heck of a good time, for me and the huge crowd.

…Well, in good conscience, maybe I need to stop that part of the story, and go back a tad farther in my retelling of the evening to explain exactly how I even got to the epiphany that I should get on stage in front of a huge club of people and put on the rock and roll show of my lifetime….

Somewhere along the line, I asked a bartender for an empty glass, a straw, an energy drink, and a double-shot of Jack Daniels. Not only had I never had an energy drink, I never had Jack Daniels, either – and by the looks on my friends’ faces, I concluded that no one had ever combined the two, no less. Indeed, my college chemistry was somewhat limited, but I knew enough to instruct my friend how to place the double shot in the glass, then add double that amount of energy drink, and then with a constant draw on the straw, I took it down in one breath. It burned like kerosene going down, but, surprisingly, it had no affect on me whatsoever – that is, until I felt compelled to get on stage with the band, and rock the house as no other.

“Brian,” I yelled to my co-worker and travel partner over the loud music in the packed club, “we have to get me on stage with the band.”

Brian chuckled and smiled at me, appearing skeptical but tempted to go along with this for the ride.

“Really – I’m serious,” I yelled. “Let’s get me on stage with the band – I’ll rock the house.”

We made our way through the crowd to the side of the stage, to the woman who was handling the band’s play list.

“I’m Mark Smith, with Pride,” I yelled into her ear, pointing to the company T-shirt I was wearing. “Can you squeeze me in quickly to do a song?”

I was trying to play two trump cards – the usual move-the-guy-in-the-wheelchair-to-the-front-of-the-line card, and the I’m-related-to-the-host card. I figured that she couldn’t say no to getting me on stage in short order.

“The band’s going on break till 9:20,” she yelled. “But, I’ll put you on the list for then.”

I thanked her, and realized that a wheelchair, a position in a company, and a self-invented cocktail is really all you need to become a rock star – what an easy gig.

Brian and I headed out toward the lobby to plot my performance coming up in half an hour.

“We have to spread the word,” I told Brian. “Let’s get everyone.”

Brian went upstairs in the club, and I stayed downstairs by the lobby, both of us spreading the word that I was going on stage at 9:20 – a performance not to be missed. And, word spread like wild fire, people pouring into the downstairs club room.

Close to show time, I rolled up toward the stage, everyone patting me on my back as I squeezed through the crowd, and security moved the front-row barricade, allowing me to the side of the stage, where there was a ramp. Off to the side, in the dark, I waited in the wings, ready to rock the house.

“Mark Smith,” the MC announced, and the crowd cheered.

I rolled on stage, looking out to the crowd of cheering people, a guitarist to my right and left, a drummer behind me, colored lights shinning down. I took the microphone from the MC, and was ready to roll.

“I’m Mark Smith with Pride,” I shouted. “I’m in my Q6000, and I’m on the highway to Hell!”

The band immediately went into playing the AC/DC’s classic, Highway to Hell, and the crowd went nuts.

With the mic in hand, fist in the air, I went into the lyrics.

Living easy, living free
Season ticket on a one-way ride
Asking nothing, leave me be
Taking everything in my stride….
…I’m on the highway to hell….
No stop signs, speed limit
Nobody’s gonna slow me down
Like a wheel, gonna spin it
Nobody’s gonna mess me round….
…I’m on the highway to hell….

Women were jumping on stage, and being removed by security. The crowd was pulsating up and down in sync with the beat, fists were pumping in the air. And, I was a man possessed, screaming the lyrics, working the mic, and playing to the crowd – my rock-n-roll attitude in full affect. At the guitar solo, the guitarist came up to me, leaning back with his guitar in play, rockin’ to each other, a scene from any great rock show. On queue, I went back into the lyrics, and the crowd was shouting along.

Make no mistake, I was up there, with the crowd in a frenzy, my stage antics in full affect, and the band blazing, living life at 300 miles per hour, with a wheelchair, and cerebral palsy, and an understanding that there’s nothing more liberating than simply enjoying every moment as you are, in your own skin, for the world to see.

Now, the woman on the corner is still going on and on about how I rocked the house. And, she leans in and hugs me, and my chair moves, suddenly powered.

“You ran over my foot,” she says smiling, stepping back.

I glance at the crowd around us.

“No, honey, you hit my joystick,” I quickly reply.

The crowd bursts into laughter, and I realize that there was something left to interpretation of my reply.

“If you know what I mean,” I say, winking at her, spinning my chair around, heading back to the hotel with my friends, a ruckus rock star for one night only.

Logs

“I like riding on your lap to the bus,” my daughter says as we make our usual morning path to the school bus stop, where I see her off to school, then make my way to work.

“You don’t know how good you have it,” I say, peering over her right shoulder, driving my powerchair down the sidewalk.

“I know – the other kids have to walk to the bust stop,” she says.

“No, I mean, you don’t know how good you have it compared to when I was a kid,” I say.

“How?” she asks.

“When I was a kid, not only did everyone walk to the bus stop, but it was four miles away, and it was worse for me because not only couldn’t I walk, but I didn’t have a wheelchair, either,” I say.

“That’s no true – you had a wheelchair,” she says.

“No, I didn’t,” I say.

“Then how’d you get around?” she asks.

“A log,” I say.

“What do you mean, a log?” she asks.

“My parents were poor and mean, and sat me on a log, telling me to learn to push it,” I say.

“No – that’s not true,” she says.

“Imagine trying to push a log for four miles to the bus stop each morning, up hill,” I say.

“I’ve seen pictures of you as a little boy, and you had a little wheelchair,” she says.

“…But, coming home was easy because it was all downhill – I just had to stay atop the log as it rolled,” I say.

“You’re the most teasing dad ever,” she says.

“You call it teasing, but I’m telling you, it’s absolutely true,” I say, pulling up to the bus stop.

Las Vegas Friends

I’m 715-feet in the air, looking over the side of my powerchair, with an unobstructed view from my rear tire, to the teeny-tiny swimming pool and dots of lounge chairs that are 55-stories below me – this is as close as it gets to skydiving in a powerchair.

I’m at the Ghost Bar, atop the Palms casino in Las Vegas, parked in my powerchair on a glass block about the size of a kitchen table. The glass is imbedded in a balcony floor, providing a crystal-clear view from the top of the Palms, to the ground below, a view that one might only briefly retain if they were plummeting toward Earth. Few at this mobility industry gathering thought that I’d have the guts to drive onto the glass, but I had two bits of information that I reckoned would prevent me and my powerchair from meeting our maker on the concrete pool deck below: Firstly, I once saw three drunken pseudo-celebrities jumping up and down on this very glass block on MTV’s “The Real World, Las Vegas”; and, secondly, no business would ever have such an attention-grabber unless it was foolproof, so I was confident that the window over the world could retain my weight.

Despite my confidence, anything is possible, and what if something went horribly wrong during the engineering and installation of the glass block, and the weight of me and my powerchair was the so-called straw to break the camel’s back, sending me into a catastrophic freefall over Lass Vegas? Fortunately, in either case, I couldn’t lose – if I lived, I would be respected for having the guts to roll onto the glass, or if something went wrong, I would have among the coolest death stories in the history of mankind, having fallen 55-stories in a powerchair. With such a win-win situation, I had to take the dare, and roll out onto the glass block.

So, here I am, parked on a glass block, high above the Earth, surrounded by a crowd that’s seemingly impressed by this non-impressive feat. Indeed, I’m not falling to my death, which may be just the sign I need that my luck at the black jack tables is about to change for the better.

“Come on, Dave,” I say to my colleague, “let’s go down to the casino, and play some cards.”

I’ve just won forty bucks in half an hour playing black jack, so now I’m saving my winnings, drinking a casino-courtesy Coke, and watching Dave drop quarters into a slot machine. An attractive, twenty-something woman just sat on a slot machine stool next to me.

“How’re you guys tonight?” she asks.

“Fine, winning here and there. How are you?” I ask, making idle conversation.

“Good,” she says. “So what are you guys doing tonight?”

“Hanging out,” I say, watching Dave fight to get his quarter back from the now-jammed slot machine. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Just looking to make new friends,” she says, winking at me.

Now, I’m not the most naive guy you’ll ever meet, but this has never happened to me. I just realized that I’m being solicited by a prostitute, and now I’m clueless how to handle this situation that I’ve innocently talked my way into.

“We’re both happily-married men,” I say, holding up my left hand, showing my wedding ring like garlic to a vampire.

“So you’re not into this?” she politely says.

“Actually, I’m more inclined than he is,” I quickly say, pointing at Dave, whom just pushed the button to call for an attendant to get his quarter back.

Oh no – did I really just say that? Did I really just say that I’m more inclined than Dave toward prostitution? If there’s ever been a statement that’s come out entirely wrong, it’s the one I just said.

Dave looks at the woman and says, “What did he just say?”

“He said that he’s into it, but you’re not,” she says with a smile, as if in entrapping me with my entangled, misinterpreted words.

Dave looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and I’m hoping that casino attendant shows up quick, giving Dave his quarter and diffusing this whole situation.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” I say, somewhat panicked that now I’ve inadvertently solicited the woman in return. “What I meant was, Dave’s very religious, and while I’m not personally into your thing, I’m not against it. Well, I am against it, but not against it, if you know what I mean.”

She’s looking at me like I’m speaking Japanese to an Englishman, and I might as well be – this whole solicitation dialog is way out of my range of experience, and I don’t know what I’m saying. Where’s that damn casino attendant?

“Look, we’re not into it,” I say, figuring I have to put an end to this conversation. “We’re both happily married, and not into any of this.”

Finally, the casino attendant arrives, using her key to open the machine to get Dave’s quarter.

“OK,” the soliciting woman she says, standing up. “Good luck, guys.”

With the prostitute gone, and Dave’s quarter returned, Dave and I decide that we should head back to the party, and walk toward the elevator.

“Did I just sound like a complete idiot?” I ask.

“Considering that was your first solicitation by a hooker, I thought you were pretty cool,” Dave says.

“I guess so,” I say. “And, at least we’ve learned that prostitutes don’t discriminate based on disability – the ADA is really starting to pay off for me.”