Laughing at My Nightmare Page 7

  Despite being a skunk, Adam was, in his heart, a bit of an exhibitionist. On almost every bus ride, Adam would have a conversation with himself that would inevitably lead to him pulling his penis out to share with the world. The first time this happened, I was just sitting there, minding my own business, and all of a sudden I noticed he had his penis completely out of his pants, just chilling on his lap. He was scanning the bus with a huge smile on his face, trying to catch someone’s attention. Our eyes met and his smile got even wider, his plan was a success. I yelled at him immediately, “DUDE! What the hell are you doing? JIM! Adam has his dick out! Dude, put that away!” Adam was as happy as could be, and his hyena laughter covered up the sound of the bus driver yelling at him. His dick remained out in the open until we got to school. I stared out the window and pondered why my life was so ridiculous.

  Skunk made flashing a daily ritual, but eventually he grew bored of just grossing the hell out of me, so he began stepping up his game. He’d stand up while the bus was moving, and walk up to the other kids, attempting to smack them with his package! There was only one time when Adam approached me with his penis. I verbally kicked the shit out of him, so harshly that he stopped in his tracks, his jaw dropped like one in a cartoon, and he returned to his seat. When you can’t physically defend yourself, you develop other methods. Adam never tried to mess with me again.

  Obviously, the bus driver could not allow this craziness to continue, so he began threatening to tell the principal at our school about what Adam was doing, which is a conversation I would have loved to hear. This threat terrified Adam, and he always responded in the most peculiar fashion. Whenever Jim threatened Adam, he would yell back, “NO, NO, NO, NO! I’ll just curl up in my turtle shell and eat some carrots!” He would then zip his coat up over his head, pull his arms inside, and presumably play with his shlong for the rest of the ride, because he always pulled that into his turtle shell as well.

  Then there was Justin the superhero. Justin had superhuman strength and was constantly getting into arguments with the tiny kid who sat next to him. These arguments always ended with Justin picking the other kid up and literally throwing him into the seat behind him. He roared like a scary dinosaur while he was tossing his prey. One time he tried to jump out of the closed bus door while the bus was moving. When Jim yelled at Justin for misbehaving, Justin apologized by howling at the top of his lungs, like a wolf howling at the moon. Fun facts: Justin always wore shirts that featured images of wolves howling at the sky, and he knew every word to every song in every Disney movie ever made.

  Mike and Zack sat next to each other near the back of the bus. I’m not exactly sure what the name for Mike’s condition is, but he used an assistive walker to get around, and all of his movements seemed to be in super-slow motion. It was obvious that his mental functions were affected by whatever he had, but not so much that I considered him “mentally disabled.” He could carry out intelligent and engaging conversations, but he spoke slowly and with a pretty bad speech impediment. Mike was honestly a cool dude, and I enjoyed talking to him when he occasionally sat in the back near me.

  Most of the time, however, Mike sat with a kid named Zack, who, as far as I could tell, just had a mental condition that made him obnoxiously irritating all the freaking time. For example, there was a solid three-week period when Zack did nothing but rap the chorus of John Cena’s introduction song from WWE as loud as he could the entire way to and from school. He didn’t even stop when Jim gave him money to be quiet.

  Anyway, cool and quiet Mike sat with loud and annoying Zack. The two of them got along really well most of the time, until they started wrestling.

  One day I overheard Mike telling Zack that he was taking a special karate class with a private instructor. First of all, I can’t even imagine how Mike did karate; it took him a few minutes to put his book bag on. Nevertheless, he claimed that he was getting really good at karate and that he wanted to show Zack some karate moves. The mini karate lesson that ensued was painfully awkward; Zack was a hundred times better at karate chopping and arm-twisting because he was significantly faster and stronger than Mike. Initially, Zack allowed Mike to demonstrate the karate moves on him, but pretty soon Zack grew bored of the slow motion instructions, and started doing his own karate moves on Mike. At first, Zack was just messing around, pretending to punch, slap, and karate chop Mike very gently, but again Zack got bored. He started legitimately hitting Mike, who couldn’t put up any kind of defense. Mike seemed like he was enjoying the fight though, despite the fact that he was basically a human punching bag. I decided they were getting out of hand when Zack punched Mike in the jaw hard enough to knock his glasses off.

  “Whoa, Zack! Chill out man. You guys probably shouldn’t do that.” I said in a stern voice that I hoped would intimidate them into stopping. However, Mike replied, “No it’s okay … I’m fine. We’re just playing.”

  Fine. You want to get your teeth knocked out, be my guest. I stopped paying attention. Unfortunately, I felt obligated to step in a few more times over the next few days because I couldn’t be silent and watch Mike take the ridiculous beatings that Zack started giving him. Every time I tried to stop them, Mike told me he was fine and he was having fun. Jim caught on to what they were doing after a few weeks, and he tried his best to keep them separated, but they still found ways to fight when he wasn’t looking. Mike’s desire to be hit is something I will never understand. Maybe he was deeply moved by the movie Fight Club.

  Last, but certainly not least, was Brandon, a kid we had to drop off for one year who lived in a neighborhood that was basically on top of a huge hill. Therefore, the roads we had to take to get to his house were very steep.

  The temperature inside the bus on this very hot and humid May day felt like we were sitting in an oven while we waited for the rest of the kids to board at the end of the day. Brandon, who was rather large and somewhat clumsy, got on the bus and plopped himself down in the front row. Brandon was in his early twenties, but because of his mental disability, he behaved like a young child, which is why he was allowed to remain at our high school after his senior year. He also smelled like he always had a large pile of poop in his pants, which might have been because he always had a large pile of poop in his pants.

  We pulled out from the school and headed for the house on the hill. On the way there, Brandon started complaining that he was too hot and felt dizzy, but Brandon was always being overly dramatic, so everyone pretty much ignored him. As we got closer to the house on the hill, Brandon doubled over in his seat and moaned, “I no feeling so well.”

  And then he immediately proceeded to throw up an astonishing amount of God-knows-what into the aisle of the bus. All the kids screamed and the bus driver cursed and said he had to get to the top of the very steep hill we were currently on before he could stop. I watched in horror as the puddle of vomit started sliding to the back of the bus towards me. The smell, amplified by the heat and humidity, was too much to handle. I held my breath as the puddle made its way back to me and settled right next to my wheelchair. There were chunks of fucking corn in the vomit. The bus driver didn’t even clean it up when we got the top of the hill because the emergency supply kit was lacking a mop. In fact, I had to sit next to that steamy, chunky, putrid puddle of puke for the rest of the forty-five-minute bus ride.

  chapter 19

  wheelchair adventures

  Although at times I’ve hated the implications of being in a wheelchair, I’ve also found many ways to enjoy the hell out of it. Obviously, the way I play sports is a little different, actually a lot different, than the way most people play, but I have found a way to involve myself in almost every sport my friends have ever played.

  In my toddler years, I went through the normal phase of wanting to go fast all the time. So while my childhood friends were riding their Big Wheels and tricycles as fast as they could down our back alley, I was racing right next to them in my wheelchair. My mom allowed me to ride around our neighborhoo
d block at a pretty young age, and from that point on, my friends and I spent hours on end being cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians, as we raced as fast as we could around the block until the sun went down. My brother learned to ride a bike without training wheels when he was three years old, so he quickly joined us in our daily adventures.

  It was during these days of nonstop play that I mastered driving my wheelchair at its top speed, which is twelve miles per hour. Cops and robbers is basically just another name for tag, so I developed the ability to chase people at top speeds, all while constantly monitoring their speed to assure I didn’t slam into them and kill them if they stopped quickly or changed directions. Today, people are always amazed by how well I handle my wheelchair, and I have to give all the credit to my childhood days of chasing my friends around our block.

  Naturally, as we got older we became more interested in sports, and our games of cops and robbers turned into games of football, basketball, soccer, baseball, and hockey. You might be wondering how I was able to play these sports with my friends.

  When we played football, I was usually on defense all the time. Since we didn’t have any really big grassy areas to play on, our football games where two-hand touch anyway. We adapted the rule so that all I had to do to “tackle” the ball carrier was get my wheelchair within a foot of his legs. This got really dangerous when my friends were running around at full speed, and I was trying to get within a foot of them without running them over. When someone on the offense ran out to catch a pass, they had to deal with the 400-pound wheelchair flying towards them while they tried to catch the ball. Every once in a while I would accidentally nail someone in the shins, which was enough to cause them to fear me for the rest of the day. I didn’t like to play offense when we played football because all I could do was run with the ball, and I knew my friends were faster than my wheelchair, so if I ever scored a touchdown, it would only be because they let me, and I hated that just as much as they did.

  On the basketball court, I can’t shoot, pass, or catch the ball so I basically just drove around, getting in people’s way, trying to make them mess up. None of us were ever really into basketball, so we didn’t try to figure out a way to incorporate my wheelchair.

  When my brother was in seventh and eighth grades, he played on our church’s basketball team with a bunch of kids who had no idea how to run in a straight line without falling, let alone dribble a basketball or do anything close to productive on a basketball court. I had to do community service for my high school’s graduation requirement, so I volunteered to help coach the team. It was hilarious watching these kids try to learn the offensive plays, when a majority of them barely knew how to make a layup. I will be honest; I spent most of the time laughing with my brother about how much of a joke the team was. My brother is a decent basketball player, however, he was not nearly good enough to carry the team in games against other churches, and I think we may have won four games total during my two-season tenure. The guy who was in charge of the entire league made a really big deal out of presenting me with a Coach of the Year award during halftime at one of the games. It was an extremely nice gesture by him, but I felt bad because he and most of the spectators in attendance didn’t realize how much of a joke I made out of coaching this team. All they could see was a kid in a wheelchair who hung around with the team and was an amazing individual for wanting to coach despite his disability.

  Baseball was difficult to play just for fun, so as kids we played a lot of Wiffle ball. I can’t bat, throw, or catch, but baseball is my favorite sport, so whenever we played, I would pinch-run for my friends. Basically, I just made a huge deal out of the base running aspect of baseball. I stole bases like Ichiro. Honestly though, I got just as much enjoyment out of watching and being the umpire.

  As we grew up, my brother realized he was actually really good at baseball and spent most of his summers playing on various teams. He and I spent a lot of time discussing and practicing baseball when he wasn’t playing for a team.

  I’m not sure how or why, but my parents found out about a baseball league designed for people with severe disabilities, whether they be physical or mental, and suggested I try it out. I was probably ten or eleven at the time, not quite sure, but I vividly remember this terrible experience and all the reasons I hated it.

  The league was called Challenger Baseball League and their motto could have been something like, “Where everyone wins!” I showed up to the first game in my bright orange uniform, totally excited to kick some ass. I was in for a rude awakening. One of the first things I noticed while we were waiting for all the players to arrive, was that all the kids seemed more disabled than me. (I am not making fun of these kids, just telling you the truth.) Most of them were either talking to themselves, drooling, having severe tantrums, or trying to escape from their wheelchairs. I immediately felt out of place.

  “Let’s find the heaviest bat we can find for the picture of the kid without muscles.”

  Once both teams had gathered, the coaches started explaining the rules. The first was that each kid was accompanied by a parent at all times, whether batting or playing the field. That made sense; I had planned on my dad helping me do the physical stuff, and on the way to the game we had even discussed how I was going to quickly communicate to him where to throw the ball when we were in the field. I made him repeat to me that I would always want him to try to get the lead runner out, unless we had the chance to twist a double play.

  Rule number two: Nobody is ever out. Every batter gets to bat once an inning, run the bases, and score. Also, there was no score being kept. Are you kidding me?

  That rule caught me way off guard. This was becoming no fun, and we hadn’t even started playing. And when we did eventually begin, it got so much worse. I was the first player up to bat, and my dad helped me hit a slow ground ball to a kid in a wheelchair at shortstop. This particular kid had some kind of disorder that caused his head to be constantly moving in all directions, and it was very obvious he didn’t really know what was going on as his mom moved him to the ball and picked it up to put in his lap. Meanwhile, I was booking it down the line to first. I stopped at first base, kind of disappointed that his mom hadn’t tried to throw me out. Although it’s probably good that she didn’t, because the kid playing first was playing with the dirt. For a second, I stayed on first and thought, “Wow. This is stupid.” And then it got even stupider. The fans, coaches, and parents helping out were still cheering for me. It took me a moment to realize what was going on, but then it clicked, they wanted me to keep running the bases. Nobody was even going to try to get me out. So I reluctantly began towards second base, not even bothering to go fast, proceeded on to third, right past the kid with the ball on his lap, and eventually made my way to home plate. It was the most degrading and unrewarding feeling I had ever felt up to that point in my life. Everyone worked together to let me get an inside the park home run on a ball that barely made it past the pitcher’s mound. All the parents and coaches emphatically congratulated me like I was safe at home because of my chair-driving ability. I didn’t have to say anything to my dad; he knew I was completely done with this league.

  Unfortunately, he made me stick out the rest of the season to teach me the lesson of finishing what you start, but we spent most of the games making fun of how god-awfully fake and unrealistic the games were. Don’t get me wrong, I think the Challenge League is a great program for lots of kids; it provides a unique experience for many disabled kids who all really enjoy it, but the fact that it felt so fake to me made it impossible to enjoy.

  A couple years later, my parents managed to talk me into joining a “Challenger” style, bowling league. To bowl, I use a ball ramp that is available at most bowling alleys. Basically I just line it up by bumping it with my wheelchair and then push the ball down. Challenger bowling was fun for a couple weeks, until a kid in my lane had a severe seizure during laser bowling. That was the end of me trying to participate in sports leagues with my wheelch
air brethren. I just couldn’t fit in or have fun with those kids. I’m probably an asshole.

  chapter 20

  the pimple days

  I attended Freedom High School in Bethlehem, PA, which was located a mere 300 yards from my middle school. For most of my life, the school had simply been a building, a landmark. My friends and I used to skateboard on the staircases that surrounded the premises. Well, I watched them skate. Pat and Andrew and I spent many days smashing tennis balls at each other on the Freedom tennis courts.

  Entering the building as one of its 2,000-something students for the first time my freshman year was an eye-opening experience. I was captivated by the immensity of it all and felt much older all of a sudden, if for no other reason than all the people around me looked much older.

  Whenever anyone asks about the buttons on my wheelchair, my automatic response is, “That button is for the rocket launchers.” That way, if the person replies, “Wait, really?” I know we are never going to be friends.

  I took it upon myself to make sure that my cousin Becca and I were together as much as possible in high school. Because of my disability, the law says the school has to put together a plan of all the adaptations I needed for each school year. Throughout all four years of high school, my disability plan had a clause that stated that I could request to have Becca in my classes if it was possible to coordinate our schedules. We justified it by saying that Becca was the only one who knew how to help me out, which was bullshit, but it allowed us to be together!

  Another clause of my disability plan stated that I was allowed to leave class five minutes early before lunch, and five minutes early at the end of the day, in order to avoid the ridiculously packed hallways of our high school. I was also allowed to leave class to go to the nurse’s office, which is where I went to use the bathroom. Jesus Christ, did we abuse those privileges.