Maybe we should’ve prayed before tennis.
Bryan never thought he did anything well, whether it was school, work, remembering birthdays, playing guitar, talking to girls, paying attention to details, or playing tennis. He always focused on what didn’t work. So in tennis, he saw only his missed shots, not the made ones. He compared his game to Todd’s—Todd was the best player of the three of us—as if he needed more ammunition with which to bombard himself. As much as he loved the game, he seemed to hate playing it even more. Yet he never wanted to give it up. I thought it afforded him the rare opportunity for quasi-validation that he, indeed, could do nothing right.
And he took full advantage of the chance.
One Friday night on a public court near Todd’s house, Bryan missed several shots in a row before finally slamming his racket to the ground and sprinting to the back fence. I didn’t know where he was going because there wasn’t a door there and the fence was fifteen feet high. He looked like he was going to try to plow right through the fence. Yet when he reached it, he became Spider-Man and climbed eight or nine feet straight up the wire netting until he was approaching the top (he was definitely a good climber). Then he stopped and shook the fence while wailing like he demanded his freedom from the tennis court. He let go with his left arm and swung it wildly over his head while turning back to us. He looked like King Kong on top of the Empire State Building swatting at planes. The two people playing on the court next to us stood with their mouths hanging open while clutching their rackets to defend themselves against the great ape.
After a few more moments of brawling with the fence, Bryan climbed down before a crowd could gather. I waved at the other players to apologize, yet they were already packing up their bags to leave. Apparently, they’d seen enough and wanted to flee before King Kong got hungry.
One Saturday afternoon, we played on a court at a local high school and I tried to arc a lob over Bryan standing at the net, but it wasn’t nearly deep enough, setting him up for an easy smash. Unfortunately, when the ball dropped to Bryan, he swung and missed it completely. Rather than try to hit the ball again before it bounced a second time, he just kept swinging in the same spot like he was wielding a pick-ax on a chain gang. When clobbering air wasn’t sufficient, he stepped forward and began assaulting the net with his racket. Todd told him to knock it off, so Bryan stomped over and sat in the corner of the court against the fence.
Todd and I weren’t exactly sure what to do or say. We’d seen Bryan’s “losing it” episodes (as Bryan referred to them) before, and we knew he needed time to cool down. It usually took him a few days to tunnel out of Funk Town, so nothing would be resolved right away. It was tempting just to keep playing while he fussed and fumed. Yet we couldn’t enjoy ourselves with him stewing.
We walked over and sat next to him, trying to think of ways to encourage him. I said, “Bryan, I’ve missed so many easy shots, it’s pathetic. Happens to everybody.”
Todd added, “We really shouldn’t be playing with the sun directly over our heads. Makes it tough to hit overheads and serves.”
None of this made much of a dent, as Bryan continued sulking silently. We sat beside him with our sweat pouring into our eyes and off our legs onto the scorching court. Todd peeled off his sticky shirt and wrung it out next to him. I wished we were in the shade for the intervention. I desperately tried to think of how I could help Bryan understand that he wasn’t alone when it came to mistakes and poor choices, and that he had a lot to offer from his experiences. I just couldn’t land on the right words.
Thankfully, Todd found them, and right in the nick of time before we drowned in our own perspiration. He said, “You know, Bryan, you’re too hard on yourself. I wouldn’t even be a Christian if it wasn’t for you.” It was true. Todd had smoked pot and was a drinker in high school until Bryan led him to Christ. Bryan hadn’t given up on Todd, wouldn’t leave him alone until he came around. Todd said, “I’d still be smoking weed. You don’t have any, do you?”
This cracked a smile in Bryan’s iron mask. Todd began retelling a story of how Bryan once chased him around their hotel on a field trip for Spanish class because Todd was wasted and Bryan wanted to keep him out of trouble. Todd mentioned how, even after becoming a Christian, he still struggled with pot and would call Bryan to come over and make him flush it down the toilet. Bryan couldn’t help but laugh at these memories, and he slowly began dragging himself out of the emotional dumpster.
There were other episodes on tennis courts scattered all over Fort Worth (Bryan didn’t discriminate), yet for several weeks after he was denied practicum, Bryan wouldn’t touch his racket, wouldn’t do much of anything. Nothing interested him except hiding. He was a hollowed-out shell who’d been granted the perfect excuse to fold. This was the genuine validation he sought that he loused up everything and was better off not trying. He was done hoping and trying for more. It only worsened the disappointment later.
I didn’t know how to reach him, what to do. Neither did his parents or Todd. But one thing was certain: If he flunked his classes this semester, he was definitely done. If he could keep passing, maybe the school would come around next year and grant him admission into practicum. It was his only shot, so I took a page out of my time working with Richard and began tutoring Bryan every day after work. At first, he wouldn’t let me in his room. Then he let me talk only briefly. Then I graduated to sitting down (though that was easier said than done in his room), until we finally began examining his assignment lists to identify the damage. It was bad. He had four papers due in less than two weeks, plus a test and a presentation. He muttered, “Just forget it.”
Yet I told him the same thing Richard had said to me when we first started working together: “We can at least try.”
So we did. We worked for several hours each night on different assignments for the next two weeks. Richard had prepared me well for late nights under tight deadlines. Bryan slowly picked up steam as he got a little more done on a paper or on his presentation. I quizzed him on terms for his test, edited drafts of his papers, reviewed his delivery and slides during many runs through his presentation, and guzzled lots of coffee. We even straightened up his room a little as we went. Just a little.
By the end of the two weeks, he’d turned in all four papers on time, taken his test and passed, and given his presentation for a solid A-. He’d survived the storm, and his dejection was now replaced with determination to be accepted into practicum next time. I didn’t know how long his optimism and zeal would last or what unforeseen crisis might trip him up again, but we’d just have to grind our way through it then. One thing I’d learned from Richard, and from Bryan, was that hope didn’t ride in on a white stallion to save the day. It sat over in the corner of a blistering tennis court or on a Help Wanted ad in a school lounge waiting for an opportunity to prove itself. It was a two-man operation requiring more than belief. It needed a hand getting off the ground.
R
It was around our second Christmas together that Richard made the weirdest request I’d ever received. I actually wasn’t sure I’d heard him right and asked him to repeat it. And then again. Yet it didn’t improve with age like fine wine. There was nothing fine about what he wanted from me. I shook my head, and said, “Are you serious?”
“Why not?” Richard asked with a grin. Even the man without inhibitions grasped the awkwardness and inappropriateness of what he suggested. We were way off the reservation with this.
Yet I couldn’t turn him down. He wouldn’t have held it against me, but I knew he didn’t really have anyone else he could ask for help with this particular task. It was far different from helping him eat a salad or use the bathroom or donating toward his service dog. This was about as unusual as it got.
So I lashed him down in Big Blue and we headed to the bookstore. On the way, I prayed silently that we wouldn’t be caught and thrown out. I could very easily imagine someone takin
g a cellphone photo of us being escorted out and posting it to the worldwide digital scrapbook with a detailed explanation. It would be hard for Richard to explain this in Sunday school, or for me to help Leslie understand. I barely made sense of it.
Richard wanted us to find the Kama Sutra and discover alternative sex positions he could explore with his new bride. When he’d asked me, I felt like I did when I was about to wipe his booty for the first time. Everything went white hot and clammy. However, this wasn’t a kinky, freaky, weird-o-rama thing. This was a genuine need born from his unique circumstances. His increasingly large belly (married life agreed with his appetite) coupled with his cerebral palsy and inability to use his legs limited what he and Della could do sexually. So, he needed some tips, ideas, diagrams, and step-by-step instructions he couldn’t find on his own. He needed my help with an intimate aspect of his marriage, which was actually an honor when I looked at it that way. Which was why we were now walking into Barnes & Noble.
He couldn’t do this with Della because she’d taken a job at Chick-fil-A, plus he wanted to surprise her with his findings. He was like an explorer in exotic, untamed lands. He was taking the initiative in this highly sensitive area that probably would’ve been too embarrassing for Della to investigate in public. But not for Richard. He was up for anything, as I learned each and every day.
As casually as possible, we strolled through the bookstore like we were there to pick up a new dog calendar. I smiled and nodded to everyone to dispel any suspicions that we were about to look at naked women together. Nope, not us, I assured them with my cheery smile. He’s a reverend, and I’m a seminary graduate. No nudity for us!
After fruitless passes through the Art & Photography, Romance, Self-Transformation, and Activity Books sections, I realized what we were looking for had to be in Living Your Best Life. It was the only section left remotely related. It also occurred to me that we couldn’t simply stand there in the middle of the aisle holding the Kama Sutra while taking notes. I knew that was too humiliating for me and I’d chicken out. We had to be more discreet for me to get through this.
So, I improvised and grabbed a large knitting book on our way to sexual enlightenment. Instantly, a wave of relief washed over me like I’d donned an impenetrable disguise. I was safe—we were safe from discovery. Phew! That was close.
Of course, it didn’t dawn on me that two guys intently examining a knitting book in the middle of the day was probably going to look as odd, unusual, and downright strange as if we were flipping through the Kama Sutra, but I was ecstatic with my choice because grandmothers knitted and the book was huge. A cat could’ve hidden behind it, maybe with his favorite toy.
Sure enough, we found our encyclopedia of pleasure in Living Your Best Life (I was ready to). I saw the title on the spine and looked both ways like I was about to shoplift a Snickers bar. I was surprised they didn’t have the book covered in a brown paper bag like the porn magazines next to the chewing tobacco (quite the combo) behind the counter at gas stations.
Transition time was key here. I had to slip the book off the shelf and behind our knitting shield before anyone spotted us. I turned to the middle of the knitting book and set it on Richard’s lap so it rested against the right arm of his chair to stay open. Then I took a deep breath, scanned both ways once more, before stabbing at the Kama Sutra like it was made of burning coals. I missed and knocked over the books beside it like dominoes of eroticism. I started sweating. I was afraid a diligent employee would appear to assist us. They never emerged when I needed them, especially at home improvement stores, only during the rare moments I wasn’t lost. Leave us alone, I demanded in my head. This is a private matter.
I shoved the books back in place, swiped the Holy Grail, practically dove at Richard’s lap with it, and then glued it behind our knitting wall while draping myself over the two books pretending to read. Nobody saw a thing, and in fact, Richard didn’t either because I was blocking his view. He said, “You mind if I look?”
I leaned back to grant him visual access, careful not to expose too much of the party to any curious eyes that happened by. At first, Richard didn’t say anything as he perused the positions, some of which looked like gymnastics routines. How long were people supposed to stretch before attempting these? Was this the yoga instructors’ edition? And the names for these stunts were simultaneously embarrassing, intriguing, and disturbing: Concubine, Dolphin, Sprout, Cello. Was a third party involved? Some assembly required? I was exhausted just looking at them.
We spent twenty-two minutes examining the Kama Sutra—I timed it. During our study hall, two customers dared to live their best lives along with us. They never walked past us, yet the younger one (clearly a frat boy searching for cheap thrills with no intention of reaching his best life) inched dangerously close to us when he apparently couldn’t find anything good for the boys back on campus. I guarded our book like it contained the launch codes to nuclear missiles.
Richard didn’t say much during our reading. I hoped to God he didn’t want to buy a digital version so Computer Lady could read it to him every day for further clarification. He was going to have to catch that show solo. Probably with the lights dimmed. I couldn’t make this a habit. One team viewing of a sexual guide with my boss was about all I had in me.
He did chuckle once at a particular position that seemed to defy the laws of physics, and he grunted, “Hmm,” at a few other promising moves (at least I took his reaction to mean they had potential). It was incredibly difficult to discuss what we were reading, partly because it was a fairly quiet bookstore, and also since this wasn’t a typical topic we covered between morning devotion and Bible college classes. I thought if one of us started talking, the other would run for his life out of shame. As long as we didn’t speak, it was almost as if we were sleepwalking soldiers on a reconnaissance mission with no culpability in the events that transpired. We were just along for the ride, and when we awoke in our beds the following morning, words like dolphin wouldn’t conjure up an alternate meaning and image that made it difficult to watch Free Willy.
When Richard had seen enough, I paused to make sure the coast was clear before ramming the book back in its spot on the shelf like they were locking the front doors to block our escape. Then we hustled down the aisle as I held our knitting book with its cover out so all could see our preferred reading material. Yeah, that’s right—men knit. Deal with it.
As we loaded into Big Blue, Richard remained quiet until he finally said, “Thank you.”
I wasn’t sure, but it almost seemed like he felt guilty for dragging me into this. I said, “No problem. I check out that section at least once a week on my own. You saved me a trip.” I smiled and rubbed his left shoulder. Then as I raised him on the lift, he began laughing and said, “You better not. I’m gonna stand guard at the door.” He paused for a moment, and then wondered, “Maybe I could sell shirts here.”
Chapter Eleven
A Safe Haven
Our smiley faces had blossomed into paragraphs into full-length letters. Leslie and I wrote every day, except for a two-day stretch when I didn’t hear from her and I was certain I’d scared her off. I had no idea how, yet her sudden disappearance convinced me I’d ruined everything. I felt like Charlie Brown in A Charlie Brown Christmas: “Everything I touch gets ruined.” Actually, that sounded a lot like Bryan, too. I sent two extra letters to Leslie apologizing for my reprehensible remarks that had driven her into hiding, though I couldn’t unearth them no matter how meticulously I combed my memory. Finally, catastrophe was averted when she let me know she’d simply been out of town for work (complicated medical stuff involving 3D mapping systems for heart procedures that I struggled mightily to understand yet hadn’t a solid clue). She even called me “my worrisome friend.”
We’d advanced from strangers to acquaintances to pen pals to friends.
Now we just needed to talk on the phone.
; I wasn’t a big phone talker. In fact, I hated it. I’d just recently bought my first cellphone, a TracFone, because Richard needed me to have one handy and this looked like the easiest to learn.
I never knew what to say on the phone, when I was allowed to exit a conversation, or how to terminate the torture. Once I said hello, I was trapped. With letters, even online chatting (which Leslie and I had just started doing), I didn’t feel put on the spot as I did on the phone. I was also cozier expressing my thoughts in writing than wedging them into spoken words every few beats. The odds of me blowing it increased dramatically once I opened my mouth. However, while letters provided a sturdy, dependable foundation, I knew speaking was basically unavoidable in a relationship, though plenty of marriages had given it a shot.
Thankfully, we were progressing gradually at a cautious pace, so there was time before we played phone roulette.
At least, I thought there was time.
Leslie and I exchanged letters each day, but we scheduled one night a week for “chat” sessions. When the next one rolled around, my Internet connection was so poor we couldn’t maintain a conversation without minute-long pauses during freezes. At first, Leslie suggested we try tomorrow night. Then she wrote, Or we could talk on the phone…
I was so caught off-guard, and so fearful of impaling myself on the phone, I typed exactly what skittered through my head: Yikes.
This wasn’t the wisest choice of words.
Instantly, Leslie began apologizing for rushing things and making me feel awkward and reading too much into our friendship and wasting my time, and she concluded it was definitely best if we didn’t contact each other anymore and she wished me the very best.
“Huh?” I grunted from the floor where her message left me. “What the heck just happened?”
Life at 8 mph Page 10