Once Upon A Time In My Life: A Rainy Saturday Afternoon in 2000
The guy I worked for up in Rochester, NH was a quad, late 20s, living at home. He had broken his back in a car accident when, drunk, back in high school he flipped his car. (He described others as telling him that the car flipped "perfectly", as if he was proud of the thing.) Ever since he had lived in his Mom and step Dad's basement, receiving care from a series of personal care attendents like me. We would, in the morning, use a lift to raise him out of bed into his mobilized chair. Next came the feeding, clothing, and grooming. He liked his teeth brushed just so and would examine his mouth in a mirror for several minutes in order to insure the job was done correctly.
He was a big sports fan, had a large collection of baseball cards that he liked to have me leaf through every once in a while. He was into trading and knew the value of each card on the market. We often watched baseball together, as it was summer and the Sox were just about the only thing on. He also liked wrestling. I remember watching a pay per view event one night with him, after I had put him into his bed, and having a good time listening to his passionate recall of all the histories of the various hulks we watched compete. I haven't watched a minute of wrestling since.
He was passionate about the Red Sox but didn't know how to compute a batting average, or what on base percentage meant. He just knew the Sox were his team and wanted them to win. He told me he liked to go down to one game a season and asked if I would join him. I agreed, knowing I would be under the microscope but thinking it would be fun to get down to Fenway for the first time in years.
Saturday, September 2, 2000 finally came, and it was rainy and cool outside. I was dreading the attention that was sure to come. The police in Kittery, where I was staying with my mother since I lost my Portland apartment, had bugged her house with cameras and microphones, which I could never find no matter how hard I looked. But I could hear their laughter, and the laughter of the neighbors across the street at the house on Government. They thought it was funny to watch me because I was quite literally the worst person in New England. I had abused a young developmentally disabled man at a job back up in South Portland at a group home. I was received a disability check for years, despite having a college degree and having taken some masters level classes. I was lazy and mean and people hated me and that is why the cameras were in place. And I knew going to Fenway, something bad was going to happen. People hated me as far south as Boston, I knew.
His step Dad drove the van, with his Mom copiloting, down the highway to Boston. The rain was off and on, and I wondered if the game was going to be called, not sure whether this would be a good thing or not. We got close to Fenway, amongst the old buildings of the Fens, and my heart was racing. I was glad to be attending, and those that didn't want me there could suck it. We parked in a handicapped lot close to our gate. He and I said goodbye to his parents, who would spend the entire game listening to the play by play on the radio in the lot. As we approached the stadium some half drunken college students talked about me in weird whispers. "That's Joe Sweeney. He's the biggest asshole in Maine." I was surprised they would be so blatant about hating me, but they did not make eye contact as I guided the motorized chair towards the main entrance.
Getting his wheelchair up the ramp was a challenge, and I had to push with all my might. The rain had made the cement slick, but we made it up and out. The field, even on a damp, dark afternoon, was the same as I remembered: beautiful and green. We found the slot where wheelchairs were placed and an usher offered me a folding chair. He must know who I am, I thought, and was surprisingly nice. Ramon Martinez was on the mound for the Sox. He was Pedro's brother, at the end of the line of a disappointing and halting career, but pitched with guts and guile. For the Mariners, young and talented Freddy Garcia pitched. I thought he looked like an athlete, and was going to have quite the career. He shut the Sox down. Dante Bichette looked bad batting, as he always did for the Sox. What a waste of a trade.
My employer had some medication in the backpack he placed on the rear handles of the wheelchair. After a few innings I noticed a suspicious twenty something kid standing behind us in the aisle, on the first base side, staring at the drugs. I knew he knew who we were, and that there were painkillers somewhere in that backpack. I stared at the kid for a second, trying to scare him away, then took the backpack off the handles and put it under my seat for safekeeping. I was proud of myself for making sure we didn't get mugged, but no one else seemed to notice.
Since I was such a bad guy, I knew the Red Sox TV crew might have some fun with me. I was such a big name for being such a scumbag that the crew in the truck were planning on showing my face at some point in the game. But I remember hearing an usher telling someone that Dan Duquette himself had ordered the TV people NOT to show me on video, and that if they did whomever was responsible would be fired. For years afterwards I was grateful to Duquette for that kindness.
After maybe six innings, with the game still in the balance, my client decided he'd had enough and wanted to go. He said to me, "I've seen what I wanted to see. I'm ready to go." I slid the wheelchair down the rain slicked ramp (dangerous but fun!) and along the concourse, back to our gate and out into the street. We somehow made it back to the van, where his Mom and step Dad didn't act surprised that we had left early. We headed north. I had escaped a potentially embarrassing situation and had actually managed to enjoy myself a little. All in all a good day.
He was a big sports fan, had a large collection of baseball cards that he liked to have me leaf through every once in a while. He was into trading and knew the value of each card on the market. We often watched baseball together, as it was summer and the Sox were just about the only thing on. He also liked wrestling. I remember watching a pay per view event one night with him, after I had put him into his bed, and having a good time listening to his passionate recall of all the histories of the various hulks we watched compete. I haven't watched a minute of wrestling since.
He was passionate about the Red Sox but didn't know how to compute a batting average, or what on base percentage meant. He just knew the Sox were his team and wanted them to win. He told me he liked to go down to one game a season and asked if I would join him. I agreed, knowing I would be under the microscope but thinking it would be fun to get down to Fenway for the first time in years.
Saturday, September 2, 2000 finally came, and it was rainy and cool outside. I was dreading the attention that was sure to come. The police in Kittery, where I was staying with my mother since I lost my Portland apartment, had bugged her house with cameras and microphones, which I could never find no matter how hard I looked. But I could hear their laughter, and the laughter of the neighbors across the street at the house on Government. They thought it was funny to watch me because I was quite literally the worst person in New England. I had abused a young developmentally disabled man at a job back up in South Portland at a group home. I was received a disability check for years, despite having a college degree and having taken some masters level classes. I was lazy and mean and people hated me and that is why the cameras were in place. And I knew going to Fenway, something bad was going to happen. People hated me as far south as Boston, I knew.
His step Dad drove the van, with his Mom copiloting, down the highway to Boston. The rain was off and on, and I wondered if the game was going to be called, not sure whether this would be a good thing or not. We got close to Fenway, amongst the old buildings of the Fens, and my heart was racing. I was glad to be attending, and those that didn't want me there could suck it. We parked in a handicapped lot close to our gate. He and I said goodbye to his parents, who would spend the entire game listening to the play by play on the radio in the lot. As we approached the stadium some half drunken college students talked about me in weird whispers. "That's Joe Sweeney. He's the biggest asshole in Maine." I was surprised they would be so blatant about hating me, but they did not make eye contact as I guided the motorized chair towards the main entrance.
Getting his wheelchair up the ramp was a challenge, and I had to push with all my might. The rain had made the cement slick, but we made it up and out. The field, even on a damp, dark afternoon, was the same as I remembered: beautiful and green. We found the slot where wheelchairs were placed and an usher offered me a folding chair. He must know who I am, I thought, and was surprisingly nice. Ramon Martinez was on the mound for the Sox. He was Pedro's brother, at the end of the line of a disappointing and halting career, but pitched with guts and guile. For the Mariners, young and talented Freddy Garcia pitched. I thought he looked like an athlete, and was going to have quite the career. He shut the Sox down. Dante Bichette looked bad batting, as he always did for the Sox. What a waste of a trade.
My employer had some medication in the backpack he placed on the rear handles of the wheelchair. After a few innings I noticed a suspicious twenty something kid standing behind us in the aisle, on the first base side, staring at the drugs. I knew he knew who we were, and that there were painkillers somewhere in that backpack. I stared at the kid for a second, trying to scare him away, then took the backpack off the handles and put it under my seat for safekeeping. I was proud of myself for making sure we didn't get mugged, but no one else seemed to notice.
Since I was such a bad guy, I knew the Red Sox TV crew might have some fun with me. I was such a big name for being such a scumbag that the crew in the truck were planning on showing my face at some point in the game. But I remember hearing an usher telling someone that Dan Duquette himself had ordered the TV people NOT to show me on video, and that if they did whomever was responsible would be fired. For years afterwards I was grateful to Duquette for that kindness.
After maybe six innings, with the game still in the balance, my client decided he'd had enough and wanted to go. He said to me, "I've seen what I wanted to see. I'm ready to go." I slid the wheelchair down the rain slicked ramp (dangerous but fun!) and along the concourse, back to our gate and out into the street. We somehow made it back to the van, where his Mom and step Dad didn't act surprised that we had left early. We headed north. I had escaped a potentially embarrassing situation and had actually managed to enjoy myself a little. All in all a good day.
posted by joe sweeney at 6:26 AM
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