7.0
Tyler
We were Chevy men. The unspoken vibe in my family was something like: Chevy men are a little bit poorer, a little bit dirtier, out a little bit later on Friday nights, and a little more penitent come Sunday morning. My dad’s Chevy pickup, the one I didn’t wring, has a decal on its back window that says:
Do you get it? Chevy was our team.
So when Dad came home one May Wednesday at lunchtime driving a ‘69 Ford Bronco, it felt surreal and apocalyptic. Forget that the vehicle was
beautiful
hunter green
white top
because it was a Ford.
Mom was talking to me in my room, we both heard a vehicle pulling into the driveway at he same time, she stops talking, we look, we’re slightly curious, the engine cuts off, my dad gets out, he lumbers up the sidewalk toward the front door, comes in, sees us, gulps, says, “Tyler, I got you a…[glances hesitantly out the window toward the driveway]…Bronco.” Silence.
“What do you mean?” My mom says.
“I got him a, got him a car, Peggy. Just took the insurance money, put it toward it…got him this,” motions with his head.
Mom looked out the window again, and I wheeled over to get a closer look.
“Is that a Ford?” she asked.
I laughed.
“It is,” Dad said, “It just, I saw it, and, you know, it’s in great shape, and I just, I thought it looked like…like…something Ty would like. So…”
“Well that is really nice, Bill,” Mom said, and she patted my back a little bit then said to my dad, “Can I see you in the kitchen?”
These are my parents; this is my life.
“So that she can ask you how I’m supposed to drive it,” I blurted out. Mom looked flustered.
“Well,” Dad says, “Come on outside and I’ll show you.”
7.1
The bright spring sunlight was harsh as I wheeled outside. I was glad it was well before all the neighbors got home from work, no Dude, there he is. Man his skin is so pasty. Or, Tyler! Heeeeeeeyy! [firm handshake, Ken-doll smile, then a sudden more serious schmooze] Been thinkin’ about ya, buddy, been thinkin’ about ya. *See footnote.
No, this was just me and my dad, two broken boys, really, along a quiet county road in East Tennessee.
My chair wheels thumped along the planks in the ramp as I coasted down it ahead of him. I squinted, checking out the Bronco–deciding ahead of time that I’d be complementary no matter what it looked like up close. A lot of these old deals–I knew it, my dad knew it–there’d be rust spots, street salt corrosion on the undercarriage, matte and sloppy paint jobs that looked like chalkboard surfaces, cheap aftermarket parts inside.
I had no need for politeness.
It was awesome.
Perfect paint job, perfect lines, perfect shade of white on the fenders and top, perfectly scant amount of chrome, perfect wheelbase–so many people jack their cars up–not this one, perfectly low center of gravity, like, instead of I’m going to drive right over it,
I’m going to slice right through it.
The vehicle I needed. Cause I wasn’t having a whole lot of success getting over things. I just needed to get through. And that thought really, honestly, truly did happen in that driveway as I wheeled around the Bronco, checking it out. And when I circled back to where Dad was standing, hands in his shop pants pockets, I knew that that thought was what had made him spring for a Ford.
He popped the hood and showed me the guts–what I could see from my chair–a sweet, clean engine. And then he showed me the handicap-accessible conversion points that he’d installed himself, along with two custom grab bars, one at the top of the driver door frame, the other long and anchored in the front floorboard. There was even a robot arm thing that would put my chair in the very back, from England, apparently. I want to tell you: When I first pulled myself up, dangling by my left arm, then over, and sat my butt down in the
driver’s side
of that Bronco, man, it was huge. I didn’t care that my legs were still hanging out of the cab; I’d gotten my own butt in there, and the words I uttered were some of the most solemn I’ve ever spoken in my life,
“Thank you, Jesus.”
And my dad, standing there by the open driver’s door, let out this huge relieved laugh, and kept on laughing til he was crying , and I laughed too, and said, “I’m serious!” And Dad laughed even harder and said, “I know!”
7.2
And that Bronco was enough to change a lot of things.
What changed:
1. My desire to wake up. No seriously. In the mornings, when I first came to and realized it was another day, I was like, “Oh crap, I’m awake,” and I’d try to remember my last dream, try to go back under, go back in, for as long as mentally possible, because anything in my subconscious, no matter how freakish or ridiculous, was better than a day.
But now it was like awake, okay feeling, Bronco, I’ve. got. a. Bronco!
Yeah.
2. My desire to move, exercise. Pulling the weight of myself into the Bronco made me want A) less of myself to pull–hence a new attention to, uh, caloric intake, and B) some beef. Dad hung some rings in the doorway of my room/kitchen so I could do pull-ups. Mom could stand at the stove cooking, and I’d be right there next to her–up, down/breath, up, down/breath. She just stared straight ahead, losing her mind..
3. My physique. My bottom half was still wasted, spindly, sloppy, but my chest and arms and neck and shoulders and, no joke, my face started to petrify.
4. My mobility, obviously.
5. And so, my social life. I could actually drive to Drew’s or Isaac’s or Allen’s houses and hang out for awhile, shoot the breeze, throw rocks at stuff, whatever. Of course, I couldn’t actually get into any of their houses (and if I tried it was this strange, awkward circus of oh,here, let me just move this out of your way, and I’ll just move this too, no big deal I’ve been meaning to move that couch anyhow, and that plant…and it was just insane,) but, like I said, I’d gotten my butt into the Bronco. And I’d gotten the Bronco into their driveways. And that was something. And Isaac had a nice zero-clearance garage with an old fridge, drum set, and an original working Atari and a 12-inch TV set. What more? If I was using one, I’d empty my urine bag out back. They were on septic, same difference.
6. And I started going to church again. I hated riding around in the backseat of my parents’ car. I just drove separately now.
*Footnote: Tyler’s Helpful Hints: Thinkin’ ’bout somebody is something you do for you. It is of absolutely no use to that other person unless coupled with an action. Pray for me. Make me a cupcake.
8.0
Andrea
I hadn’t seen Tyler Holden since he was in the rehab place over in Maryville. I had thought about him a lot, but I had to do all my wondering through Staci. And then one day I was just sort of on Team Staci by default, and I never realized how messed up and awkward it would all inevitably be until I saw Tyler face-to-face at church. I don’t know what I had expected–that he’d just stay inside his little house forever?–I don’t know. I saw his parents nearly every week and inquired after him dutifully, sweetly, innocently, and they were so kind in return; but I was kind of working with a net–knowing I’d never have to actually see him.
And then he was there on Sunday, wheeling himself down the hall, shaking hands with everybody and haler and heartier than most of the guys in our senior class. Of course. Of course. Him. And then he was in front of me and I towered over him now more than ever, and he paused and smiled quietly and reached out to shake my hand, and I shook it, and he held mine in his for a moment and I wondered what he was thinking.
Was he thinking of Staci, our silent little Staci in Colorado. Was he giving me a touch for her–a smile for her? Cause I hadn’t spoken to her in months. Id’ tried, then not tried. She was gone, and gone. I imagined her lying in a field, curled in a ball, licking her self-inflicted wounds, and I really just didn’t know what to think anymore.
Or maybe Tyler was pitying me–pitying the friend I’d emerged as, out of the darkroom, underdeveloped, when push came to shove.
But Ty said, “It’s good to see you,” and it was genuine and unlike the string of greetings he’d given to everyone else as he’d tacked down the hall, and I was humbled and flattered, and he gave me a gift of pretending not to notice when I teared up.
“Good to see you too,” and that’s really all we said that first Sunday he was back.
I watched him during the service from several rows back, feeling voyeuristic and captivated by his emotion. Realized, shivered, knew, that at one moment during worship he would’ve given anything to be out of that wheelchair just so that he could get on his knees.
Affected? Mmmhmm, yep.
Yes.
9.0
Michael (as per author)
Sunday, May 28, 2000
Strip searched. Orange jumpsuit. One pair socks, one pair briefs, delousing shampoo, ID bracelet, Styrofoam take-out container with meal: ham sandwich on white bread that sticks to the room of mouth, cheese stick, Red Delicious apple, bottle of water. Nicest meal he’d had in a year. Too hungry to think about homicidal glances, or the welt across his back, or spitting in his mother’s face because she never did a thing about it.
One more minute in that house and somebody, maybe him, would’ve taken one in the brain. Period. He could hear the gun report.
Best meal he’d had in a year.
