Life at 8 mph

by Peter Bowling Anderson

  “Of course you are—I mean, a man. Not a dummy,” I answered, slightly flustered by Richard attacking with both barrels blazing. “I wasn’t trying to say you weren’t in charge.”

  “Yes, you were! Yes, you were! Yes, you were!!” he accused louder and louder in case the folks in El Mercado hadn’t heard him the first time. I noticed a few shoppers glancing quizzically at us. Two teenage boys had stopped to watch the show. We should’ve sold tickets. Evelyn could’ve held an arrow spinner sign like we were on sale.

  “No, I wasn’t. I just wanted to get out of there.” I wasn’t ready to beg for forgiveness, yet I could see the veins in Richard’s forehead bulged bigger the louder I defended myself. I started fearing he was going to have a heart attack.

  “I decide when we go!” Richard exploded. “I’m the boss! I’m the boss!”

  I needed to diffuse this bomb before Richard died or I got fired or somebody sprayed us with a fire extinguisher. I swallowed my pride, changed tactics, and said, much more meekly, “Look, I’m sorry, Richard. I know you’re the boss. I’m sorry if I took over in there.”

  But it was too late for apologies. I learned a valuable lesson that afternoon about heated arguments: They were nuclear war in a relationship and had to be avoided at all costs because no one won them. There could be disagreements, but they shouldn’t escalate into screaming vitriol that couldn’t be taken back. Both sides lost far more than if they’d merely taken the high road. Whoever shouted loudest and longest gained no meaningful vindication. Nothing was proven other than shortsightedness. And the window for humility closed excruciatingly fast. It never rang as true or significant later in a fight when things had already spiraled out of control. The time for constraint and sacrifice was offered only once at the beginning when it burned the worst and, therefore, meant the most.

  Richard barked, “You’re not sorry. You did this before. It’s too late.”

  That was when I thought I was fired. Richard had a history of firing attendants for one reason or another, and during my years to come with him, he axed at least ten more employees for tardiness or absences, unwillingness to do it his way, “dominating him” (as he called it, and I’d just done), poor attitude, carelessness, or some other reason. He kept folks on a short leash, undoubtedly because he didn’t want anyone getting the idea they were in control. It was a reaction to being handled and run over his whole life by his parents or his ex-wife or the system. This was his time to be in charge, and he wasn’t playing. He used to have a much shorter fuse and worse temper. He’d mellowed. I was sure glad I hadn’t worked for him back in the day, because I would’ve been canned for sure.

  I continued sprinting the high road as fast as possible to try to salvage the situation. “It’s not too late, Richard. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. Let’s just talk it out.”

  He swiveled his chair around and headed for the exit. “Where are you going?” I called, as more people stopped to watch our Shakespearean drama. An older Hispanic woman was talking to Evelyn, presumably asking for the backstory. We should’ve printed off programs.

  But they hadn’t missed the best part.

  “Don’t leave, Richard. We need to talk this out.” Then I launched my most powerful ammunition: “That’s what the Bible says to do.”

  The reverend didn’t like the Good Book used against him because he stopped dead in his tracks and roared, “Aaaargh!” I thought his heart attack was hitting. He drove his chair very quickly in three small circles like he was drilling himself into the mall’s floor. He looked like he was on a tiny racetrack. I had no idea what was happening. I was truly afraid he was going to hurt himself, and I regretted letting things get to this point. He was under my care on my watch. I was supposed to look out for him. That was all that mattered.

  I said as calmly as I could, “Please stop. Okay? Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

  He pulled out of his fourth trip around the racetrack and bolted for the exit. “I can’t,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’m shutting down.”

  “Huh?” I asked, thinking his chair was running out of juice. He had to charge the battery in his wheelchair all night so it would operate for a full day, yet he was still motoring along fine. “You’re what? You need help?”

  “I’m shutting down! I’m shutting down!!” he kept yelling as he banged the fat button on the wall that automatically opened the door on the right. He and Troy stormed outside and disappeared around the corner.

  Shutting down? I repeated to myself. I turned around to find at least a dozen people watching the proceedings. The older Hispanic woman was sitting next to Evelyn on the bench. We were better than cable.

  If it hadn’t been for the fact that the daughter of his fiancée was left behind in Little Mexico, Richard might’ve kept going. He was in no mood to talk to me anymore, and I wasn’t even sure I was still on the payroll. He might’ve just let me find my own way home. Maybe not. He seemed to have a soft spot for me, like I was his younger brother he was molding, which was pretty accurate. In any event, Richard reappeared at the doors and waved at us to come, so Evelyn said goodbye to the older woman and we headed out.

  The next day, Richard informed me that he’d been very close to “throwing in the towel” on me, but Della had applied her magic touch and cooled him off before he did anything hasty. She’d reminded him that I’d apologized, and she encouraged him to think long-term. She told him it was easier to replace a morning or night attendant than someone trustworthy who could work with him all day long and help him reach his goal of a master’s degree. She said to step back and take a breath and to recall the times he’d wished somebody had extended him a little grace. She said no one was perfect, not even him. By the time she was done with him, he was laughing and back to his jovial self. She had the touch.

  The more I was around the two of them, the more I envied Richard. He’d found someone who balanced him, who made him better, happier. Someone who caught him before he slipped into a mistake, who could talk him down from the ledge. An accountability partner who made life easier and offered unconditional love and support. A best friend who wasn’t going anywhere. A trusted ally.

  I had to admit that sounded nice.

  R

  A month or so after Della and the girls moved to town, Troy got sick. Della noticed Troy trembling and she told Richard, who immediately took him to the veterinarian. While staying with the vet for a few days, Troy got worse. One morning, Troy’s condition declined to the point that the vet told Richard he was going to have to put Troy down. This destroyed Richard, but miraculously, when the vet checked on Troy later that day, he’d drastically improved.

  Troy was able to come home, yet his left side remained weak and dragging. It wasn’t always obvious, though it definitely affected his stamina, prohibiting him from accompanying Richard all day. After a few weeks, the vet and Richard agreed it was best if Troy retired.

  This was the worst part.

  Troy still wanted to help Richard. He’d been trained to do it. It was his job, identity, and reflex reaction when Richard needed assistance. If Richard dropped his empty thermos, Troy scrambled to fetch it. Richard had to order him not to do it, which only confused and frustrated the newly retired service dog. It seemed to stress Troy more not to work. He found items around the duplex and brought them to Richard just in case it helped. It was heartbreaking to watch, and more than a few times Richard cried for Troy, which, of course, made Troy want to be there for him even more.

  It was clear something had to be done. It wasn’t fair to Troy to let him live with Richard if he couldn’t serve him. He didn’t know any other way to be around his owner. It was daily torture for Troy, and for Richard.

  So Richard gave Troy away to a friend who owned a farm where his ex-service dog could spend the rest of his life relaxing and roaming and snoozing, out of sight of the man in the wheelchair for whom he’d been matched and tr
ained. The man with the loud voice and the gentle hands who rubbed his head and neck. The man he loved to climb upon to lick his face, even when told not to. The man with the young boy and the chair that rolled, in the home where he could open the front door with his nose. The man he saw first each morning, and the one he checked on once or twice during the night. The man who was his as much as he was his owner’s.

  Richard had waited a year and raised $20,000 to get Troy, and now that beautiful, affectionate, clever Golden Retriever was gone. But Richard didn’t care about the lost time and investment; he missed the bond he and Troy shared. That was the rare, powerful aspect Richard needed most. Picking up fallen items and opening doors were certainly helpful, yet it was the connection Richard had with Troy that hurt the most to lose. Troy understood his needs and shifting moods, recognized them right away, without one word of explanation or justification. Richard’s speech impairment was no longer a hindrance, as their language was unspoken, and reception unconditional. Troy was more than Richard’s service dog, more than his friend. He was an extension of Richard, a part of him. His hands and feet. That was a lot to give away.

  And even harder to replace.

  Chapter Eight

  The Quest Continues

  We were ready to rock. Sort of.

  After months of writing music, tweaking parts, redoing lyrics, and rehearsing until we were sick of playing the same songs over and over, we booked our first gig. It was at a restaurant/coffee house in Dallas on a Thursday night, and it felt like we were playing Madison Square Garden. Much thought went into our outfits, the set list, speaking responsibilities between songs, possible encores if the masses demanded it, and alternate up-tempo and slow numbers we could sub in should the mood call for it. We tried to leave nothing to chance. There was always the possibility that a weary record label executive could be sitting quietly in the corner eating white pizza lasagna completely unaware that he was about to hear the band he’d scoured the country for but never discovered. A unique group with an original sound he could champion to the cynical critics, steering them past the leeches and hustlers lurking to steal their ticket to glory, all the way to astronomical commercial success without losing a shred of indie underground credibility.

  I actually did say somebody might be there who could sign us.

  It happened sometimes.

  Occasionally.

  We were opening for another band, which was always harder than headlining. We had to arrive extra early, set up all our gear, do the sound check, and then push our equipment to the very back of the stage so the headlining act could set up their instruments to check sound levels. This occurred a lot in Atlanta with our first band. Sometimes we had to haul our gear off the stage and then set it back up after the big-timers were done perfecting their sound quality. The headlining act frequently got a better mix (how it sounded in the room to the audience), plus better levels in their monitors (how it sounded to the band on stage), than the opening act because they didn’t want the unknown band to steal their thunder. It was a slippery slope: The first band couldn’t sound awful and drive people away, yet it couldn’t sound incredible and eclipse the main event. The best the opening act could hope for was to win over one or two new fans, sell a few copies of their demo, and gain some valuable experience playing live. Their time would come to get the royal treatment, hopefully.

  Not to mention, the venue was typically half full for the opening act, or in our case that Thursday evening, a tenth full. The majority of the crowd was waiters and waitresses. Again, this was nothing new for Bryan and me. We’d played more shows in Atlanta for servers than fans. At first, it had been somewhat demoralizing, but then we realized the waitstaff were potential fans we needed to win over, and it actually led to a few repeat shows from their requests to management. One particularly empty show, a waiter had encouraged us to try new songs and experiment to see what worked, and several waitresses told us to play as long as we wanted because it made their shifts more enjoyable. Many of them were just like us with plans and dreams they needed someone, anyone, to take seriously. They wanted us to do well because it validated their own choices and renewed their sense of purpose. In many ways, they were our biggest fans.

  So when we took the stage in the Dallas restaurant to play for a few diners and many more servers, we didn’t let it faze us. They were all getting treated to the musical ride of their lives! We ripped into our opening number, playing nearly twice as fast as intended. We couldn’t slow down because we were so nervous and excited and self-conscious. We were like kids racing down a hill. When we hit the last note, we should’ve leaned forward like we crossed the finish line.

  The next song, Bryan froze and forgot his part, so he pretended like he was having trouble hearing himself in his monitor. I kept glancing over at him from behind my keyboard, wondering why he wasn’t playing guitar, but all he did was point to his ear like that explained everything. His hope was that the audience would understand and sympathize. Oh, that poor fella must be having technical issues—that’s why he hit those wrong notes and stopped playing. He fiddled with his guitar cord for two and a half minutes.

  Two songs later, Manya clamped her capo on the wrong fret of her acoustic guitar, so the notes I was playing didn’t fit because we were in different keys. I kept leaning down placing my ear next to my keyboard to hear the notes better, even though the sound was pumping through the monitor six feet in front of me. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I panicked and took a page out of Bryan’s playbook, tinkering with my keyboard cable like I was having connection difficulties to explain why I’d stopped playing. Who’s the sound guy here?! Fire him immediately! It wasn’t until Manya was almost finished the song that I noticed her capo was one fret too high.

  The next song was a fast number I’d written on acoustic guitar, with several changes in tempo and style. It was the type of song that revolved around one instrument, and I had to play the part well. It was an ambitious undertaking, but I was pumped for the challenge.

  A little too pumped. I strummed so hard and fast, the pick flew out of my fingers and nailed Bryan’s leg. Thankfully, I was standing in front of Bryan’s mic stand that had a pick holder he’d attached with extra picks in case of emergency (plus, he thought it was cool when guitarists flicked their extra picks into the crowd at the end of songs—we would not be doing that in a nearly empty restaurant).

  Later, I asked a friend, who’d been gracious enough to attend, how my showcase song sounded. He said, “Uh…it was intense. You know. Real loud.”

  “Loud?” I asked, hoping it had made a deeper impact than that.

  “Yeah, like a whole bunch of sound. Really loud sound. Like a wall of sound. With distortion.”

  Not so deep of an impact.

  We played the whole set so fast, we finished ten minutes before we were supposed to conclude. The headliner, a regular who’d been playing there two nights a week for six months, was still finishing his dessert. With no more material to present, we momentarily looked at each other like it might be a neat trick to improvise a jam song for ten more minutes for the dinner crowd. Saner heads prevailed. Manya thanked everyone for listening, and we packed up as fast as we could.

  To me, there was always something embarrassing about breaking down our equipment after a set. The audience wasn’t interested in seeing it and in fact hadn’t come for us at all. We were simply in the way holding up their favorite musicians from taking the stage. Plus, there was no magic, style, or hipness in winding cords and unplugging amps. It was grunt work that reminded everyone, most of all us, that we weren’t U2 and there was a station wagon out back where all this gear was headed. We were sweaty, tired, and extremely self-conscious (at least I was). I wished there was a curtain we could’ve hidden behind to do it, but there never was. We were center stage for all to see, with no more songs to play.

  The manager of the restaurant turned on some music over
the loudspeakers, which helped distract the patrons as we scrambled to finish. After bagging, tying, and wrapping everything, Bryan and I began hauling equipment to our car while Manya chatted with a few of her friends who’d come to support us. I told Bryan to go mingle as well, which he was eager to do. He immediately tried to sign up a young couple to our mailing list. At one point, he pulled out his wallet and I thought he was going to offer them cash to let us email them updates.

  I was glad Bryan and Manya were better at networking than I, and it didn’t bother me in the slightest to lug equipment by myself to our car. I was out of the spotlight in a dark parking lot, exactly where I preferred. Besides, it wasn’t like there was a drum kit and bass rig to drag out. We were only a three-piece band, for the moment, so the load was bearable.

  As I wedged a bag of cords beside Bryan’s acoustic guitar case in the back of our dying car, the irony wasn’t lost on me. I was in a band, my second, driving back and forth to Dallas three or four times a week on little sleep with the goal of securing a record deal so we could play music for a living in front of thousands of people, yet I raced for the exit sign as soon as permitted. Why was I putting myself through this? What was the point? “Because I like to write,” I mumbled (I frequently talked to myself, just not loud enough for others to notice, I hoped). It had also been my dream to be on a real tour staying in nice downtown hotels around the world, and late at night after a show when everyone was asleep, I’d sit by the indoor pool thinking. I wasn’t sure what would be so important I had to think about it at three o’clock in the morning by a hotel pool, but that was a later worry. At least I’d be there, successful, with people enjoying the work I’d helped create, and not in my bedroom dreaming of the day when my choices were validated.