Life at 8 mph

by Peter Bowling Anderson

  I didn’t propose because I wasn’t ready. It wasn’t that I couldn’t see spending my life with Leslie. It was that I knew the moment I asked, I’d let go of everything simple and safe for a challenge so terrifying it made working for Richard look like guarding an empty parking lot. I preferred predictability—I clung to it. If I’d lived in generations past, I would’ve been a riveter on an assembly line all day. Or better yet—an old-school file clerk back in the days of shelves stacked with paper in actual files. I could’ve hidden in those rows of boxes for years feeling quite content. Marrying Leslie was like strapping myself to a rocket to launch into space without a flight plan. I didn’t have a career or savings or any answers. Nothing about it felt controllable. Worse, it seemed reckless, like I could inflict serious damage with one fateful question.

  Still, I brooded over it on a weekly basis. It wasn’t going away. It rarely left my thoughts for long. It was the logical next step in our relationship. But sometimes steps looked like leaps, and logic and truth appeared incompatible.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Greatness of Junk

  Now that Richard had his master’s degree, it was time for him to look for a job. Of our three goals, this was the one I feared most. But it was a selfish concern. I did worry he wouldn’t find something and become depressed, yet that wasn’t what preoccupied my thoughts for the last few months of his degree program. I worried he actually would land a job. It was an awful thing to think, but I didn’t want him to find a position.

  I liked my job the way it was, going to Richard’s house, working with him one-on-one, spending the day running errands, writing his emails, and working on sermons or lessons with him. I appreciated the flexibility of our schedule, the variety, and the bond we’d forged. Every day was something different, and each undertaking an opportunity for us to tackle it together at our own pace. We joked around and laughed, ate lunch at Julie’s with Amy, stopped in to visit some of his oldest friends around town. After years with him, I still didn’t dread going to work, which wasn’t what I’d expected, and perhaps the most essential ingredient of longevity. The day it stopped being enjoyable and turned into drudgery that I didn’t want to endure, I’d start thinking about leaving.

  My fear was that Richard would find a job that changed the dynamics of our relationship, limiting our interaction and flexibility, while adding to my responsibilities, and all of it in front of a crowd of customers or a staff of employees. That sounded embarrassing, frustrating, interminable, and like a completely different position than the one for which I’d signed on.

  It also sounded completely selfish. This wasn’t about me. None of it. This was Richard’s life I was supposed to be aiding, not mine—his needs I was putting ahead of my own. He wanted a job, to be more actively involved in the community, to feel like he was contributing something vital. Everyone wanted to be indispensable, including him. He’d worked for years in school for the chance to work in public, and now it was time to give it a shot. My job was to support him the best I could in all his endeavors, and he needed my help to make this kind of huge transition. It was daunting for anyone entering the work force. For a man with cerebral palsy confined to a wheelchair, it was Everest.

  A division of Goodwill ran a program that assisted people with physical challenges to find jobs. Richard went for interviews and vocational testing. He answered questions and performed assessment drills. He tried his best, and I was never prouder of him than while he was there, because he faced all of his anxieties and insecurities head on, determined to find a place where he could help. It would’ve been much easier to stay at home than to expose himself to judgment and scrutiny. The world didn’t care what he had to overcome. There were customers to serve and deadlines to meet to keep their doors open. Whoever did this best typically got the jobs.

  Richard scored poorly on his vocational test, and the administrators concluded that he’d require too much help at a normal position. Basically, they told him there wasn’t a job for which he was suited.

  I’d never felt so guilty in my life.

  Secretly, I’d hoped for this outcome, yet seeing the crushed look on Richard’s face as we left the testing center for the final time pounded it into my thick skull that I’d been dead wrong to wish this upon him. He didn’t deserve it as his reward for years of diligent studying. He didn’t need to be told his speech impairment would probably confuse people. He was well aware of that already. He didn’t have to be reminded that he operated at a slower pace than everyone else. He’d been playing catch-up his whole life. What he needed was affirmation and encouragement, and if they weren’t going to give it to him, I would.

  “Richard, these kinds of tests don’t prove a thing,” I insisted as we drove home. “They don’t know you. They don’t see you out in public. You’re a people person. That’s a gift. That can’t be read on a graph.”

  He looked over at me but then turned for the window again.

  “The folks at that center just met you,” I persisted. “It’s always tricky at first for people to get used to your speech. It was for me, too. But after that, everybody loves being around you. Look at Amy and Jody, or John at the Healthcare Store, or your friends from church. You guys have a blast together.”

  He shrugged, and mumbled, “I guess.”

  “What about Della? You really think she would’ve fallen in love with you and moved all the way here to marry you if she didn’t like talking to you? If she didn’t enjoy your company? Politeness only goes so far.”

  I waited for his response, yet he didn’t answer, so I gave it one more pass. “I guess what I’m trying to say is don’t let them decide for you. Don’t ever let anybody tell you what you can do. It’s up to you. You’re in charge.”

  He looked at me, unable to hide the smile poking out from underneath his scowl. He chuckled softly and said, “Who’s the boss?”

  “You are,” I said, smiling, too.

  “I’m the boss,” he declared more emphatically while thrusting his right thumb at his chest.

  “Preach it, Reverend.”

  “I’m in charge. I decide what I can do.”

  “Amen.”

  He paused and then said, “You know, you’re starting to sound a lot like me. You’re learning.” Then he burst out laughing, followed by the obligatory coughing fit and drink from his cup.

  To keep brightening his mood, I told him, “Oh, by the way, if you’re still interested in meeting Leslie, she’s coming to Fort Worth again.” I knew he and Della were dying to meet her, but it hadn’t worked out yet. Astoundingly, Leslie still wanted to come visit me, even after her massive letdown at the Joule. I was luckier than I realized. Richard announced, “She’s coming for dinner, and that’s final. I’ll tell Della to start cooking,” he added, giggling.

  Two weeks later, Leslie and I were eating dinner in Richard and Della’s kitchen. Della had prepared a delicious meal, which Richard and I devoured while the ladies got to know each other. Richard looked like the cat that ate the canary, bursting at the seams to ask something. Finally, he did. “So, when are you two getting married?” Subtle as always.

  I almost dropped my fork. Leslie and I looked at each other, and all I could tell her was, “He says what’s on his mind.”

  Della leaned toward Richard and playfully scolded, “You can’t ask that. Don’t put pressure on these two kids. They might leave without helping clean up.”

  I hoped our laughter would magically funnel us to a different topic, yet when the giggles subsided, the question still hung in the air like an elusive mosquito dodging the swatter. As awkward as Richard’s inquiry had been, I could tell everyone at the table (especially Leslie) was interested in my answer, so I quickly told my boss in an attempt to diffuse the ticking bomb, “You’ll be the first to know.”

  He smiled, and said, “I’d better.”

  Leslie corrected, “You can be the
second to know, but I should probably be first.”

  I nodded, agreeing, “Sorry, Richard, she’s got you there.”

  “I’m patient,” he said. “But I’m second.”

  “Richard,” Della admonished.

  I clapped my hands once, and said, “Okay, good, now that that’s settled—Della, how’s it going over there at the daycare center? You know, Leslie used to work as a nanny years ago.” I smiled at Della, hoping she’d grab my clumsy baton handoff. She giggled like a little girl (I wasn’t sure who had the cuter laugh, Leslie’s snort or Della’s little girl giggle) and answered, “Busy as ever. I had one baby the other day who threw up on me twice before I’d even had my morning coffee. Couldn’t he have at least waited till after my coffee? How inconsiderate.”

  Leslie and I laughed, while Richard took a drink. We were now safely off the marriage topic. The mosquito had been nailed, and I could breathe again. Yet I knew it was merely borrowed time. I had to make a decision, and the longer I waited, the harder it would be. Big choices didn’t grow easier upon further deliberation. It only provided more time to second-guess the decision that was probably made within the first two minutes the question appeared. I didn’t need more weeks or months to figure out what to do. But knowing the answer didn’t make the question any simpler.

  R

  Richard and I spent our time working on sermons and lessons he could give at local churches and elementary schools. He’d done this in the past, but now he wanted to do it much more frequently. He had a great testimony and much to share with young people, so I thought they could glean a lot from him.

  After a few weeks of work, he spoke to the youth group at his own church, and then a week later he addressed the third-, fourth-, and fifth-graders at a nearby elementary school. At first, the kids were shy with him, overwhelmed by his slurred speech and unique physical appearance, but they quickly warmed up and asked all sorts of questions, some of them borderline inappropriate. Kids did say the darnedest things. One third-grader asked, “Do you pee in your pants?” Another fourth-grader asked, “Can you talk clearer, ’cause I can’t understand you?” My favorite was from a fifth-grade boy who looked like he was fifteen (what were they feeding kids these days?), who asked, “Why don’t you just go to the gym and, you know, do some squats? Get your legs stronger so you can walk.” Richard looked over at me, as I wondered if perhaps the boy had tried fifth grade more than once.

  Richard’s next speaking engagement was at a fairly large church, where he was going to address the entire congregation for five to ten minutes during the morning service. It was a big opportunity, which he took seriously. He worked tirelessly on it, researching the passage from the Bible he planned to speak on and rewriting drafts. He even pushed back lunch at Julie’s one day because he was on a roll and didn’t want to lose his train of thought. His salad and sweet tea would have to wait!

  He focused on the first three verses of the ninth chapter in the book of John. The passage read: “As He passed by, He saw a man blind from birth. And His disciples asked Him, ‘Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he would be born blind?’ Jesus answered, ‘It was neither that this man sinned, nor his parents; but it was so that the works of God might be displayed in him.’”

  One morning as we worked, I said, “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  He swung his head over from the computer screen, answering, “Fire away.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was completely appropriate, but we’d reached the point in our friendship where sensitive, personal areas were no longer restricted. We’d read the Kama Sutra together, for crying out loud. All boundaries vanished after that. I asked, “Is that how you feel? In the passage?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Um…” I searched for the right words, unable to find a better approach than the direct one. “Your CP. Do you think that’s why you were born with it? To show how God can use you, despite your physical challenge, to accomplish so much?”

  Richard backed his wheelchair away from the table and turned to face me in my chair. When he had something important to say, he liked to point himself directly at the target. It reminded me of when he made me sit on the couch in the living room of his old house to confess that he was lonely and wanted to find a wife, which seemed like ten years ago. He said, “I’m glad God picked me to have cerebral palsy. You know why?”

  I shook my head.

  “Because it’s hard. All the junk I’ve been through—it’s good. It’s great. It makes me lean on Him more.” He stopped to think and then said, “Otherwise, who would I be? Just somebody without a care in the world. Nobody helping me. Don’t have to ask for help. Don’t have to be humbled. Just doing it all on my own.” He motioned for his giant cup by the computer, so I gave him a quick drink. Then he asked, “Why were we created?”

  I flashed back to my seminary education and answered, “To glorify God?”

  He nodded and said, “Yeah, but even more than that, to have intimacy with Him. A relationship with the Creator. That’s why He made us—to have fellowship with us.” He moved his chair slightly closer to me and said, “When you were a kid, did you listen to your parents?”

  I shrugged and replied, “Sometimes. Usually. But I was a wonderful boy,” I added with a smile.

  He laughed and said, “I bet. But when you were in trouble, did you ask them for help?”

  “Sure.”

  “We don’t talk to God unless we need help. We forget all about Him. We think we don’t need Him. But that’s not what He wants. He’s our Father. He wants intimacy.” He nodded and said, “My CP reminds me, and that’s a blessing.” He concluded by saying something I hoped I’d never forget as long as I lived, and I doubted I would: “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

  For days afterward, I thought about what Richard said. I’d always viewed hardships and success from a completely opposite perspective. Struggles and failures were to be avoided at all costs, while success was sidestepping mistakes and oversights that prevented me from reaching goals. But was that the point of all this? To make my dreams come true? Smooth sailing down the Pacific Coast Highway?

  Or was Richard right? Were the setbacks and stumbles the best part? When I was alone in my room ready to ditch it all, with nowhere else to turn but God, was that finally, ultimately, success? Was that the only way a sinner in a fallen world could stop obsessing over the surroundings for two seconds to see eternal significance? Maybe I did need crisis to rattle me out of cruise control. I had to be knocked down to look up.

  I’d seen it incorrectly my whole life. Instead of raging over mistakes and wallowing in regret, I should’ve embraced them as opportunities to know God on a deeper level, to “lean not on my own understanding.” To see the world from the proper perspective and to keep my priorities in check. This was the formula for true joy, the kind that didn’t dilute in monotonous routine. It was the secret to enjoying life, and a man in a wheelchair with cerebral palsy who “wasn’t suited” for a normal job had explained it to me. Finally. After years of groping in the dark for the light switch, Richard had flicked it on in between gulps from his Conoco cup. I was the blind one with the physical challenge from birth, not him. And he was the one taking care of me, tending to my needs, making sure I didn’t have an accident. He was the one in charge, because he was the only one of us who understood he wasn’t.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Finding the Fishing Pier

  I had a plan. To fool Leslie, I needed a good one because she could smell surprises a mile off. One Friday after work, I drove to Memphis to spend the night at her folks’ house, and then in the morning I called Leslie pretending to still be in Fort Worth. She seemed a bit edgy and not in the greatest mood, but I refused to let us have an argument. Not on this day. No matter how grumpy she became, I was Mr. Rogers and spun it positively. “I’m sorry your head hurts, but I bet it feels bette
r in just a few minutes!”

  Then I had her mom call her to ask her to come out to their house that afternoon because she needed to talk to her about something. Naturally, this concerned Leslie, though her mom did an excellent job of not spilling the beans while assuring her nobody was dying of cancer and it could wait until the afternoon. I needed time to complete preparations.

  Leslie’s favorite spot in her parent’s house was the deck on the third floor, so this was where it would go down. But first I had to get a few important things, like the ring. Her mom and I met Leslie’s aunt (a jewelry expert) to find the perfect engagement ring, and we luckily spotted one we thought Leslie would love. I then went with her mom to pick out flowers, plus red roses to scatter petals across the deck.

  Back at the house, I set out a chair on the deck, showered, put on my only suit, and waited until I saw Leslie’s car turn up their long driveway before scattering the petals. I didn’t want them all blowing away before she even saw them. It was a chilly, breezy, overcast day, not exactly as I’d envisioned. Mother Nature wasn’t sticking to the plan!

  When Leslie drove up, I scattered the rose petals around the deck and awaited her arrival. I rehearsed my speech one final time, in case the first nineteen weren’t sufficient. When Leslie walked in the front door, her mom dutifully followed the plan and invited her upstairs to show her the work her dad had done on the third floor. I was listening at the top of the stairs and I heard Leslie ask, “What’d you want to talk to me about? Are you sick? Is Daddy sick?” Her mom assured her everyone was in the best of health.