Ticked

by James A. Fussell

  Horrible thoughts flooded through his bruised brain. What the hell was he doing in college? I suck at this! he told himself. I should quit. My grades aren’t good enough, and I’ll never make it four years. Besides, look at me. I’m a freak!

  He dreamed of going to the train station and buying a ticket to anywhere, just to escape the pressure. But he couldn’t do that. He’d worked too hard to get here. He’d have to find a way to survive.

  Usually he played loud music to calm himself down. It would have been more polite to use headphones so he wouldn’t bother the other students, but he couldn’t. They were way too hot. Besides, they’d never stay on his head. So he cranked up the music from large floor speakers. It wasn’t a problem during the day.

  But in the middle of the night …

  “Matovic!” a student screamed from down the hall. “Would you shut that shit off! It’s three in the morning, and I’ve got an exam in five hours! Jesus!”

  “Sorry, man,” Jeff would yell. “You know what I have to deal with.” But when his tics got really bad, when they started throwing him around the room like this, not even music could help.

  He knew what he had to do. Summoning what little strength he had left, he rose to one knee and managed to push the start button on his five-disc CD player. He lay spread-eagle on the ground as he closed his eyes, took a big breath, and let a familiar voice wash over him in its unmistakable high-pitched Southern drawl.

  Everywhere you go in Georgia now, all they talk about is the Olympics coming there in ’96. And my whole thought is—“The Olympics in Georgia: God, you know we’re goin’ screw that up!” I guarantee ya, when they let those doves go in the opening ceremony there are going to be guys in the parking lot with shotguns. (Boom! Boom! Boom!)

  “Hey Ed! I got a whiiiite one!”

  At John Carroll the best medicine Jeff had to help him survive his severe tics didn’t come from a prescription bottle; it came from a homespun Southerner who would go on to become the bestselling comedy recording artist of all time. The comedy of Jeff Foxworthy not only made Jeff laugh, it also helped save his life.

  Hell, the Olympic rings will be five old tires nailed together. ’Cause they burn a looonnng time. I’m going back to see this. I mean, if nothing else, the opening ceremony.

  “GREE-TTNGS, Y’ALL! AND WELCOME ALL YOU DANG FOREIGNERS FROM OTHER NATIONS. DEAR LORD, BE WITH OUR GUESTS AND PREPARE THEM FOR THE BUTT WHIPPING THEY ARE ABOUT TO RECEIVE !”

  Jeff laughed as he wiped the blood from his arm and repeated the words verbatim. Every inch of his body hurt.

  Laughing felt good. It gave him something to focus on, made him feel human again, and returned badly needed energy to his body. He always considered the play button on his CD player a healing button—because that’s exactly what Jeff Foxworthy’s humor did for him.

  In a lot of parts of the country people hear me talk, they automatically want to deduct a hundred IQ points. ’Cause apparently the Southern accent is not the most “intelligent-sounding” accent. And to be honest, none of us would like to hear our brain surgeon say: “Arright, now what we goin’ do is … saw the top of your head off, root around in there with a stick, and see if we can’t find that dadburned clot.” People are like, “No thanks. I’ll just die.”

  Somehow Foxworthy’s pithy observations about life rebooted Jeff’s system. They not only calmed his body, but also balanced his mind, helping him to come back from bad places and see things in a more healthy perspective. He owned three of Jeff Foxworthy’s CDs, and he never took them out of his CD player. He knew that at some point, if his tics grew bad enough, he would listen to them again.

  If I’m around my family for more than a week, I start having fantasies that maybe I’m adopted and have a normal family that’s desperately trying to find me. But you know what? You don’t have the stupidest family in the world. You don’t have the goofiest family in the world. And if you ever need to verify that, all you have to do is go to a state fair. Five minutes at a fair, you’ll be going, “You know what? We’re all right. We’re dang near royalty!”

  After several minutes, Jeff felt good enough to get up, get himself a drink of water, put a wet washcloth over his head, and climb in bed. He knew each of the bits by heart. Like Bill Cosby, another of his favorites, Foxworthy talked about universal experiences. After a few more minutes Jeff was bouncing on the mattress.

  Cool, he thought. I’m bouncing on my mattress, but I’m doing it like a normal person!

  You ever see people so ugly you have to get somebody else to verify it? “Come ’ere, y’all gotta see this man! Get outta line. It’s worth it! Over by the cotton candy. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. Is that the hairiest back you’ve ever seen? Looks like Big Foot in a tank top. OH GOD, IT’S A WO—MAN! And she’s got kids. Somebody slept with that WO—MANNNN!”

  Jeff smiled as he screamed the word “WO—MANN!” right along with Foxworthy. The relief it brought him was real and immediate.

  Foxworthy’s humor helped Jeff in other ways too. Since he didn’t have to worry about ticking as long as his comedy CDs were playing, he was able to meet new people over Foxworthy listening sessions. The comedy helped him break the ice, make friends—even get a girlfriend. But most of all it gave him peace and assured him that no matter how bad things got, there was always something that could make him smile and help him recover.

  If your wife has ever said, “Come move this transmission so I can take a bath”—you might be a redneck. If you’ve ever been accused of lying through your tooth … If you think “The Nutcracker” is something you did off the high dive … If somebody hollers “Hoedown” and your girlfriend hits the floor …

  Laughing so hard he started to cry, Jeff wiped a tear from his eye. His body finally calm, he inhaled a deep, peaceful breath and uttered a familiar, five-word prayer.

  “God bless you, Jeff Foxworthy.”

  21

  John Carroll University

  A SINGLE PRAYER book sat open on a tiny table, a silent sentry in a small chapel at Cleveland’s John Carroll University. The late-evening darkness made the lights inside seem even brighter. A golden crucifix graced the wall of the gleaming cherry altar.

  Alone in the room, Jeff melted into his favorite cushioned chair—the second chair in the second row. His long arms relaxed until they turned to rubber and started to tingle. He did deep breathing exercises and progressive muscle relaxation. As he reclined he rested his head against the back of the chair and let the quiet of the room bake into him like the sun.

  Jeff was a regular here. Open day and night, St. Francis Chapel served as both a safe haven and a refueling station. For Jeff it was just like the comedy of Jeff Foxworthy. He didn’t think he could go on without it.

  Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. As he did he prayed out loud.

  “St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, oh Prince of the Heavenly Hosts, by the Power of God, cast down into hell Satan, and all his evil spirits who wander now throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”

  Later he directed his prayers to the Virgin Mary. And to Jesus. And directly to God. “Take this burden,” he said in a small voice, cracking with emotion. “Lift my spirits…. Give me the strength to go on.”

  If there was one thing Jeff had learned, it was how to go on. One more minute. One more hour. One more day. The pain couldn’t defeat him if he didn’t let it.

  After fifteen minutes he had spoken his piece and relaxed as much as his body would allow. He got up and headed for the door. Before leaving, he stopped to sign the prayer book on the tiny table. He always signed it the same way: “Your disciple—J.” And he kept the prayer book open so he could envision his prayers being soaked up while he was away.

  JEFF TOLD ME the story about his time praying at St. Francis Chapel during one of our interviews about his college ye
ars. I loved that story, and the way he told it. When he talked about St. Francis chapel he got this indescribable look on his face, and I felt like I was there with him in a place of peace.

  I had my special places too—places I would go to pray or be alone during college. One of them was in the stacks in the basement of Love Library at the University of Nebraska. It was cool and dark, and the small cubicles were hidden away in an industrial area that time had forgotten. There was a certain privacy, and serenity, to the area that I always loved.

  During college I got a job cleaning our church, Southminster United Methodist. I had a key and often worked nights when no one was there. My favorite place was the balcony, overlooking the gleaming pews and stained glass windows. It was so peaceful up there. And beautiful. I remember many nights after finishing my work I’d go up to the balcony and talk to God. Kneeling at the opened window in the echoing silence, a feeling of peace and love surrounded me. My prayers were silent and from my heart, and when I was there I felt safe and like nothing could hurt me—not even my tics.

  I imagine that’s what Jeff felt like at St. Francis Chapel.

  IN THE SUMMER of 2008 I actually got to sit in St. Francis Chapel. 123 On one of my visits to Cleveland, Jeff took me there. I can’t describe it, but I felt a special connection there with Jeff. It was as if in that room his pain and my pain, his life and my life, had come together in a new way. In my mind I could see him in that chair, hurting and ticking and praying for solace. I wished so much I could have been there to tell him to fight on, to hang on, and how brave I thought he was just for being there in the first place.

  To this day I don’t think people realize what kind of strength it took to look that kind of pain in the face and refuse to give in. What he did was extraordinary, and I don’t think another person in a hundred could have done it.

  College was worse for him than high school. A lot worse. A psychology major, Jeff studied hard. But as his tics strengthened and his medications could no longer control them as well as they once did, he worried he might not be able to graduate, let alone maintain the 3.0 grade-point average required to keep his scholarships. Some days were so bad he openly wished for death so the pain would stop.

  Through the help of his advisor, Dr. Helen Murphy, he got help in the form of untimed tests and special rooms where he could take final exams by himself. He also got the kind of personal support and friendship that helped him cope.

  I TOOK A second trip to Cleveland. After talking to Jeff for what seemed like hundreds of hours on the phone, I felt it was important to look him in the eyes as I heard his stories. I also wanted to get to know his wife, Debra, better, because without her strength, he wouldn’t have been around to tell anybody anything.

  Deb is one of a kind—fiery, determined, stubborn, and sweet, a smallish whirlwind of a woman with dark hair with reddish highlights who is fiercely protective of the family she loves. She is the silent hero of that family, and I wanted her to know that she meant every bit as much to me as Jeff.

  Jeff and Deb invited me to stay at their two-story house in the Cleveland suburb of South Euclid. I had a late flight and worried about my ride as a delay pushed my arrival to well after midnight. But when I deplaned at Hopkins International Airport, there was Jeff beaming from ear to ear.

  My trip to Cleveland was filled with wonderful experiences. I got to know Jeff and Deb’s teenagers, Bonnie and Mike, and meet a few of their friends. I ate with Jeff and his family and with Deb and her family. Jeff and I even stayed up late one night and watched one of his favorite movies. While Rocky IV isn’t what you’d call high art, Jeff loved it for other reasons. He identified with Rocky, who defied the odds by using willpower to outwork and overcome a steroid-fueled killing machine named Ivan Drago. Jeff saw himself as Rocky, and his Tourette’s as Drago. We watched the movie after midnight in the living room. We cheered so loudly we woke up Deb, who walked down the stairs in her robe to ask us to pipe down.

  As fun as the movie was, I hadn’t come for that. What I really needed to do was continue our interviews. The next morning Jeff and I decided to talk at John Carroll University. I was excited. I had heard the stories—now I wanted to see where they happened.

  For Jeff, college was something to survive as much as experience. But in a weird way, the difficulty of his courses helped him to focus. Of course, other students asked about his strange movements. But being a psychology major, he took most of his classes with other psych majors and pre-med students. When he explained, they understood. His teachers understood his condition as well, making accommodations for him when necessary.

  For fun, Jeff played Nintendo in his dorm room with other residents. He let them know about his tics, and they accepted him. He and friends often dressed up and went downtown to the dance clubs. Jeff loved going to the clubs. With the loud music, the dancing, the darkness, and the fact that many of the people there were drunk, he could tic all he wanted and nobody ever noticed.

  Jeff didn’t drink or do drugs in college. Not only did he not think it was the right thing to do, he didn’t want to risk drug interactions with his medications. Plus, as an athlete, he valued his body too much to mess it up.

  One of Jeff’s best stories concerned the time he kicked his roommate, Paul Knaus, as Paul walked in the door of their tiny dorm room. Jeff was relaxing on the lower part of their bunk bed, trying to get his tics to calm down—not so easy in the August heat. The doorway was inches away from Jeff’s large feet, which hung off the end of the mattress. Suddenly Paul walked through the door carrying two plastic grocery bags. His appearance startled Jeff and fueled a violent leg tic that blasted Paul in the right kidney, causing groceries to fly everywhere and Paul to crash into the door frame and crumple to the tile floor.

  “Ohhhh!” Paul screamed.

  “Oh, Christ!” Jeff said. “I didn’t mean it! It was my tics!”

  Paul writhed in pain in a fetal position, next to a broken jar of Prego spaghetti sauce. Short of breath and barely able to talk, he slowly rolled onto his back.

  “Been … one of those days for you, huh?” he said through a painful smile.

  THE CAMPUS OF John Carroll was as clean as it was beautiful. Sidewalks snaked through well-manicured grass dotted with large trees, classy red brick buildings, and statues of educators and saints.

  “That was my dorm room right there,” Jeff said, pointing to a large, red brick building.

  “Post-it Notes,” I said, referencing a different story.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I’ll never forget that day.”

  During his junior year, Jeff and Paul had a large project on gun control for their debate class. They had the pro, or affirmative, position in a Lincoln-Douglas style debate. They researched the topic and meticulously organized their best points with pink, purple, and green Post-it Notes that they stuck on two walls of their dorm room, outlining a flowchart of their arguments. Jeff loved the Post-it Notes, or at least his OCD did. They were perfectly spaced and completely even. He knew how many there were. He cataloged the colors and counted them over and over in his mind.

  Later, when Jeff and Paul were talking to friends in the hall, another resident removed the Post-its and scattered them on the floor as a joke. When Jeff saw the prank he became livid.

  “What the hell did you do?” he yelled at the prankster.

  This was not good. He expected the Post-it Notes to be on the wall, perfectly spaced and completely even. He wanted to catalog them and count them over and over in his mind. Now he couldn’t. He felt the panic to his bones. He had to pick them up and put them back exactly where they were. But there were so many of them. And he couldn’t figure out where they went.

  “This is so uncool,” he said to the student who took them down. “If you ever do this again, so help me God I will wake you at three in the morning saying your car’s on fire!”

  Anxiety began roiling inside him. He began to panic, which supercharged his Tourette’s. The tension was off the charts. He
had to release it, or he didn’t know what would happen!

  He grabbed his basketball. “Paul,” he said, breathing hard and trying unsuccessfully to hold back the powerful spasms. “I’ll be back in a few hours. If I’m not back in three, come get me. I’ll be at the gym.”

  With that he ran outside into the blackness. He knew the gym wouldn’t be open that late. But he had to try. At the gym he ran into a janitor.

  “You know what,” he said, nervously pounding on the basketball. “If you don’t let me in I’m going to go crazy!”

  “You must really love this sport,” the confused janitor said. “But you know I can’t let you in with security and all,” he said.

  “Forget security!” Jeff yelled, fairly vibrating with a type of powerful, unbearable insanity. “Let me into this gym—right now!” Taken aback, the stunned janitor opened the door.

  This was a Tourette’s emergency. Running furiously, Jeff dribbled and shot for three hours. It was a long shot, but if he could focus his mind and his body while expending maximum energy he just might be able to rob the tics of their power through sheer exhaustion. Dribble by dribble, it worked.

  Back in the dorm room, Paul worked for two and a half hours to put the Post-it Notes back up. But this time he taped them permanently to a couple pieces of poster board that they could fold up and put away.

  I looked at Jeff with curious eyes.

  “What?”

  “Well, you showed me where the Post-it Note story happened. Are you going to show me where the Vanilla Thunder story happened too?”

  He smiled. “That’s where I was going next.”

  We walked until we got to the Don Shula Sports Arena, where John Carroll played its college basketball games. We sat in the upper seats to get a better perspective on the floor while Jeff recounted the story of how in his freshman year he had been given the nickname “Vanilla Thunder.”