Devo Diary Chapter 23

Rollerboy part 9

September 2001

I found a new apartment! Woo hoo! It's totally perfect--on the ground floor without even a single step at the front door, so Rollerboy can just roll right in. It's a one bedroom, not a studio, so for the first time in years I will actually have a separate living room, and my bed will not be directly opposite the front door. The inside is all tile floors, no gross wall to wall carpet, and the bathroom is huge, easily accommodating a wheelchair. There's no bathtub, only a stall shower, but I bet I could put a shower chair in there and he could use it. Best of all, I will shave at least 30-40 minutes off my commute to Bessemer.

Ok, so it's not actually in Raser City, and it's pretty far from my university. I had to expand my search to one of the far outer suburbs to find anything affordable and wheelchair accessible. It's not as far as Cowtown, though; I'm at least nearish to the city, in a semi-industrial semi-residential area called the Iron Triangle.

When I mention my new address to chorus mean girls, one of them says, "Oh, that's where I'm doing my PhD field work!" She's studying the effects of oil refineries on low income minority communities.

Ok, so it is next to a giant oil refinery, but the new place seems so nice and quiet. It's a house that's been divided up. An elderly African American lady lives upstairs, and I'll be on the ground floor. It even has off-street parking.

I call Rollerboy right away to tell him I signed a lease on a new apartment. His reaction is neutral to moderately pleased. The landlord of my current apartment, on the other hand, goes ballistic, ranting at me over the phone for breaking the lease. I calmly point out that he has still not fixed the heat, and I'm not freezing my ass off through another winter. He mutters something about never being able to keep anyone in that apartment, and that's when I realize he has no intention of ever fixing anything, and the apartment truly is objectively unbearable. I decide it's worth the sacrifice of my deposit to be rid of this place. I set a move-in date and rent a U-Haul.

A week or so after I find the new apartment, but before I have moved, I wake up as usual at 9 am and start my morning routine, listening to NPR as I take a shower and get dressed. Normally I'm sort of half listening to Morning Edition, but today something seems to be going on. The announcers keep talking about breaking news and a developing story. I have to listen for twenty minutes or so before I can piece together what is happening--something about planes hitting the World Trade Center in New York.

I go through the motions of getting ready with a sick apprehension, but it still feels so distant and unreal. The announcer at the local affiliate rambles on breathlessly about rumors that Raser City could be next, but that seems like obvious hysteria. As I get breakfast, I can hear workmen painting the outside of the apartment building next door through the open window. They're also talking about the attacks.

"That's it, we're going to war," one of them men says grimly, but with a tinge of excited anticipation. It's only been an hour and already I can't bear to listen to people talking about it. The paranoia and aggression, it's just too much.

But all around me, it's all everyone is talking about. Some of my classes are suspended, but even in the ones that meet, the profs let people spend the whole class time talking about it.

It's not until the evening when I get a call from my mother that it starts to seem a bit more real.

"Your brother's ok," she says breathlessly.

Well of course he's ok, it never occurred to me that he wouldn't be ok. Yes, he lives in Manhattan, but at like 96th St. My grandmother and my mother's cousins all live in New York as well but I just assumed everyone is fine. I didn't know until my mother tells me that the restaurant where my brother works is less than a mile from the World Trade Center, and his girlfriend works in one of the towers. She wasn't in her office, because she was on her way to a meeting. She ran to my brother's restaurant and they both walked all the way back to his apartment. It took them the entire day, but neither of them were hurt. I'm relieved, of course, but it feels so strange to have such a personal connection to this tragedy, even if it's only a near miss.

For the next few weeks, it's like a dark cloud settles over everything. Everyone seems to be sleepwalking through their grief and anger, and no one can stop talking about it, all these emotions with nowhere to go.

Meanwhile, I'm in the middle of moving house. Every spare minute when I'm not in class or doing homework, I'm driving back and forth between the old and new apartments, the same boring stretch of road over and over. As I drive, I listen to NPR on the car radio, but every bit of news is so freaking depressing I want to bang my head against the steering wheel. Yet somehow I can't stop listening. It's hard to feel excited about the new place when it feels like the whole world is teetering on the brink of chaos.

Finally, it's moving day. Sarah volunteers to help drive the U-Haul, bless her, because I don't think I could manage it. The only other friends who offer to help are Vincent and Margo, a Chinese-American Mormon couple who are also in our graduate program. They seemed quite secular when I first met them; it's not until I got to know them better that I realize they are actually super religious. They wear the special underwear and everything.

I already have everything boxed up, so it doesn't take long to get most of my stuff out of the tiny apartment. Sarah is in the U-Haul arranging boxes while Vincent and Margo are helping me shift the last big pieces of furniture. Vincent lifts the mattress off my Ikea bed, revealing a dusty corner of floor I clearly have not swept in the year I've been living here. Also revealed: wads of tissues, an empty condom wrapper, a pile of rope, a vibrator and some batteries, which roll across the floor.

"How did that get there," I mutter unconvincingly, as my super religious Mormon friends pretend not to have seen anything.

After one big trip in the U-Haul, many trips in the car and much appreciated help from Sarah, Vincent and Margo, I get everything shifted over to the new place in one day. The first time Rollerboy comes to visit and pushes right in the front door without any assistance from me, I'm practically cheering. I show him the living room, then the kitchen with the bedroom and bathroom on either side.

"It's ok," he sniffs.

I suggest putting a plastic chair in the shower but he declines. At least he can roll up to the toilet himself to empty his leg bag. No more will I have to ferry the contents to the bathroom in a plastic jug. Things are going to be so much better from now on.

October 2001

Rollerboy calls to tell me that he was given two free tickets to Six Flags, and do I want to go with him.

"There's a Six Flags near here?" I ask.

"Duh, yeah. It's halfway between Raser City and Bessemer."

"Seriously?"

"You go right past it every time you drive out here. You can see the rollercoaster from the freeway."

"Really? I never noticed."

"Oh my god, for real? How could you miss it?"

"When I'm driving, I just keep my eyes pinned to the road."

He laughs. "What is wrong with you?"

We both know the answer to that. I'm too tightly wound and a nervous driver. As I drive up to his place, again I somehow miss it even though I'm looking for a rollercoaster. It's not until he drives us both to the Six Flags that I figure out where it is.

As it turns out, Six Flags doesn't have that much to offer a quad. I ask Rollerboy if he wants to go on the giant rollercoaster, but he declines for fear of being ejected from the seat.

"I would flop around like a rag doll," are his exact words. Actually there was a case in the news recently of just that, an SCI dude who was thrown from a rollercoaster. As if that wasn't enough to keep us from wanting to try it, I can't even imagine how he would transfer into the seat. In any case, I get motion sick just watching a video of a rollercoaster, and the last time I rode one back in high school it was barf-o-rama afterwards, so I'm happy to skip it.

We wander about and gorge ourselves on elephant ears and cotton candy and corn dogs. We play the games on the midway, where we win a long, flexible glowing lightstick that I thread in the spokes of his chair. We get our photo taken together. I'm wearing a little plaid skirt and a tight little t shirt, with my hair in pigtails and big chunky shoes, my best riot grrrl look. He likes to smack my ass and feel me up a bit, even if people are looking. I love showing off this way. I swagger along next to him, proud to be seen in public as the hot girl dating the guy in a wheelchair. Even though Six Flags is honestly a bit boring, I'm having a great time just being with him. That photo is hot. I'm grinning like an idiot, my arm around his shoulders, and he's sitting next to me, wearing sunglasses and looking cool.

I take a ton of photos on my own camera as well. As we're getting ready to leave, I set my camera on the trunk of the car and use the timer to take a photo of the two of us together.

It isn't until a week later when I remember that I need to get the photos developed that I realize my camera isn't in my bag, or anywhere. I search the whole apartment but I can't find it. It isn't at Rollerboy's place either. I must have left it on the back of the car. Shit! How could I be so stupid?

I' really bummed to lose my camera. Not just for the thing itself, but for the photos still in it. When I was dating K, I took dozens of photos of him and when we were apart, I would take them out and look at them to get that little dev thrill. After he dumped me, I couldn't bear to look at them anymore, but I couldn't bring myself to toss them out either, so now they're sealed in a box the closet of my bedroom at my parents' house. Instead, I have dozens of photos of Rollerboy, and I do the same thing.

I imagine someone finding my camera in the parking lot and developing the film out of curiosity. It's what I would do. Whoever does that will find a roll full of photos of a cute young blond guy in a wheelchair, plus one at the end of his girlfriend sitting in his lap in a parking lot. In my mind I can see the photo of him with the lightstick threaded in the spokes of his chair. That would have been such a cool picture, and it kills me not to have it. At least I have the other photo, the one we paid for. I stick it on the refrigerator.

I'm still in the Lester State University Adult Chorus, going to rehearsals once a week in the evenings. The mean girls clique is still alternately lukewarm and bitchy to me, but apart from Sarah, they are my main social circle. We are having drinks one evening at the Vine when I meet Dorie, who used to sing with the chorus a few years ago but recently moved to one of the small towns halfway between Raser City and Bessemer. When I tell her I make the trip out there almost every weekend, she invites me to stop by and say hi sometime. She seems way nicer and more genuine than the rest of the mean girls, so I take her up on the offer the very next week, because I really want more friends.

I leave Rollerboy's place late on a Sunday morning, grabbing a Pop Tart on my way out because it's the only food he has in the house. I spread peanut butter on it to try to make it marginally more nutritious. An hour and a half down the road, I pull off the highway and follow the directions Dorie gave me to her apartment.

Dorie is a tiny, wiry ball of energy with short brown hair. Her clothes and apartment décor say "casual hippy" and her last name says "definitely Jewish." I'm excited because I feel like we are definitely going to hit it off. I make myself comfortable on the futon couch while she buzzes around making tea and self-consciously noting that her apartment is a disaster and she can never bring herself to wash a single dish. Then she says she has the personality of a golden retriever and my heart kind of sinks a bit, because one, I hate dogs, and two, I have the personality of the cranky, neurotic East Coast Jew that I am. Maybe Dorie and I are not destined to be BFFs.

As we are doing the get-to-know-you chat, I tell her all about Rollerboy, not trying to hide or gloss over his disability, but putting it right front and center. Instead of the usual blank confusion or pitying stare I have come to expect, she just smiles and says,

"Oh cool, I dated a paraplegic guy three years ago."

"Really?" I resist the urge to ask what his name is, where he lives and can I have his phone number. "That's so cool! I've never met anyone else who has dated someone with an SCI." Aside from other devotee friends online, but I'm not about to divulge that. "Everyone's always so weird or pitying, but it's like, he's just a person like everyone else."

"Yeah, I know! I was only with him for a few months but he was like, so inspiring." Ugh, well, forget it, she's definitely not a devotee. No self-respecting dev would use the i-word.

"Actually," Dorie continues, "I have a date with another paraplegic guy next weekend."

"No way! Really? I mean, what are the odds? How did you meet him?"

"Well, I have an ad on Yahoo personals, and under what type you're looking for, I checked the box for disability, along with everything else. I don't discriminate--any race, or body type or weight, anything is fine with me. Our society is so obsessed with looks but it's what's on the  inside that counts."

"Uh huh. So he contacted you?"

"Yeah, I guess because I checked that box, he figured I would be ok with a guy in a wheelchair. But to be honest, I'm a little nervous about the date. It's been a while since I've been with an active paraplegic. I'm not sure if I can keep up, haha!"

Well, shit. Not only are we not clicking like I'd hoped, now I'm a bit jealous of her. It's so unfair! How does she just fall ass backwards into dating two paraplegic guys? And she doesn't even appreciate how incredibly lucky she is! She's treating it like some social experiment or a chance to demonstrate her open-mindedness and progressivism to the world. It's pretty clear from the way she talks about them that she doesn't get how truly, irresistibly sexy they are.

I don't get a chance to ask Dorie later how her date went, but the next time I see her at another mean girls party she isn't dating a hot para. She's back together with her nebbishy ex, who is very much able bodied. Boring.

I keep thinking about what Sarah says, that there are other disabled guys out there. Clearly there are, since Dorie met two of them with zero effort. But I feel like now that everyone knows I'm with Rollerboy, I couldn't possibly date another guy in a wheelchair. It's one thing to tell close friends that I'm a devotee. But dating a second one, that would be like announcing it to the entire world, and I'm not ready to do that.

November 2001

I'm starting to think that this apartment isn't as great as I had hoped. Even though the front door is on the ground floor level and the windows are normal size, I can't deny that actually I am in the converted garage of the house, and the real rooms are above me. The living room only has one window, because I'm not even in a two-car garage. The other half belongs to the car of the upstairs tenant.

I had been pleased that the elderly black lady upstairs lived alone and seemed quiet, but her daughter just had a baby and leaves it with grandma almost all the time. I hear the baby crying constantly, especially when I'm lying in bed. Every morning I wake up in a sweat, after a recurring dream of chasing a baby that won't stop crying.

When I drag myself out of bed, I see weird shimmery stuff all over the carpet in the living room every day.

"Slugs," Rollerboy declares when he comes to visit.

"Are you sure? I haven't seen any. Where are they coming from?"

"I dunno." He uses his arms to lean down in his chair and poke at the carpet with a limp finger. "Sick." He pushes himself back up again. "Definitely slugs. And ugh, what's that smell? Did you get a cat?"

"No."

"Well it smells like cat piss."

I guess this is the downside to having a ground level apartment. The slugs must be coming in under the door. And apparently some neighborhood cat has been peeing against the outside of the door. I spray some cleaning fluid and try to forget about it.

But the smell just gets worse, until it's like a physical presence that nearly knocks me back on my heels. It's hard to believe it's actually on the outside. Rollerboy refuses to come over until I do something about it. And since the table where I eat is right next to the door, the situation has become quite dire.

I go to a pet store to get some industrial grade cleaners and scrub the door and doorframe. I discover that the threshold isn't even bolted down. It's just a piece of metal that's been held in place by years of collected dust and grime. I scrub out the whole reeking thing. How do I always end up in these jury rigged apartments?

Not to mention that every few weeks the air raid siren goes off to alert us to a leak at the oil refinery. But I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about that.

On the plus side, though, I have free cable. Not just basic, but all the premium channels too. There was a cable sticking out of the wall, so I plugged it in to the TV, and voila, there were a hundred channels, like magic.

Because we're both kind of grossed out by my apartment, I spend the next few weekends at Rollerboy's place. One evening we go out to dinner together, with me driving. When we get back, I pull up in front of the walkway to his apartment, behind the row of parked cars, so I can let him out. I don't park because there's only one handicapped space and his car is in it. Also all the spots nearby are assigned; guest parking is really far away. I'm planning to drive over to a guest spot after dropping him off, but I discover after he gets out that I can't get the car out of park. The button on the gear shifter won't go in, like it's frozen or something. I'm stuck.

A woman pulls up behind me and lays on her horn. I'm blocking her spot. Rollerboy wheels over to her car to explain that I'm stuck, but she is not having it. She immediately starts screaming that I need to move my fucking car. He yells back at her. I'm sweating bullets, trying to move the gear shifter, wondering if I should call a tow truck and how the hell I am ever going to get back to Raser City.

Rollerboy pushes back over to me. "Just move the fucking shifter!"

"I can't!"

"Push harder! God dammit!" Now he's getting frustrated because he thinks that if he weren't paralyzed, this wouldn't happen. He would be able to fix it, or have the strength to push in the button.

But I know it's not a matter of hand strength. This is not the first time this has happened, and it's always at the worst possible moment, like when I'm filling up at the gas station or late for school. Usually I just try a lot and eventually it works. This is by far the longest I've been stuck.

Just as both the woman and Rollerboy are really screaming at me, suddenly the car goes into gear as if nothing were wrong. Great, so now they both think I'm just an idiot who doesn't know how to drive.

The next week I take the car in to be serviced, but it doesn't happen when the guy is looking at it. He asks when I spilled soda in the gear box and I say never. He looks at me like I'm lying and shrugs his shoulders. I get in the habit of leaving the car in neutral and using the emergency brake instead.

December 2001

Rollerboy calls me on a Friday afternoon, which is unusual for him. Even before I pick up the phone, I know something is up.

"Hey, what is it?"

"Uh, I think you shouldn't come up this weekend. My mom, like, had a stroke yesterday."

"What? Oh my god! Is she ok?"

"Yeah, she's ok. I mean, I guess, I don't know. She's in the hospital but she's not like a vegetable or nothing. She's awake and everything."

"Oh, that's good!"

"Um, the doctor said he doesn't know yet how extensive the damage is but so far it seems mild."

"Wow, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"Nah, it's fine, but maybe you don't want to come up this weekend."

Ugh! Why is he pushing me away? This is exactly the moment when I should be there for emotional support. But I can't tell him that he should want me to be there. Instead I say, "It's ok, I understand. Are you going to visit her in the hospital?"

"Yeah, I already went once but it's not like I'm going every day. I hate the fucking hospital, you know? Reminds me of my accident and rehab. Anyway she has my aunt there for company."

I assume this is the same aunt who after his accident urged him to come to Jesus because "that's all you have left now." I don't ask any further about that.

"Well you shouldn't just sit around and worry the whole weekend," I suggest. "Are you sure you don't want me to come up? We can just take it easy if you want." I don't mention going to the hospital together, because I still have not met his mom, and now is not the time to get into that whole conversation.

"I dunno..."

"Come on, I'll help take your mind off things. We can watch TV."

"Ok, I guess."

I arrive as usual on Saturday just before lunch. He's looking pale and worn out, but insists he's fine. So far the news has been good--his mom seems a little forgetful and distracted but otherwise she's doing ok. We decide to go out for lunch at Chevy's. I volunteer to drive us there.

We each order sandwiches with fries, then for dessert we splurge and get a huge ice cream sundae. The conversation wanders here and there, just filling space and trying to stay positive. He repeats what the doctor said about how it's too soon to tell but so far the prognosis is good. Her legs seem a little weak so she's scheduled for rehab to work on walking. I'm thinking about the sad irony of the mother following the son through rehab and wondering if he is thinking the same thing, when Rollerboy abruptly puts his spoon down.

"Oh no," he says, his face going white, his eyes suddenly hollow.

"What?" I sit up, worried.

"Ohhhh no.....ugghhh...."

"What's wrong?" Now I'm really worried.

"My stomach...I shouldn't have eaten that ice cream...."

"What do you want to do? I'm sure there's a handicapped toilet here. Do you want me to help you transfer?"

"No."

"Ok, let's go home then." I grab my purse and the bill.

He grimaces suddenly, then his face shuts down. "Too late."

"Wha...really?" I sputter, momentarily thrown off guard. We sit there for a second, staring at each other in horror, wondering what to do next. A moment later I snap into disaster management mode.

"Let's go," I say calmly, picking up the check. I pay as quickly as possible. He waits by the door while I run to the bathroom. Luckily there is a paper towel dispenser, not just an air dryer. I yank out as big a stack of paper towels as I can grab. A middle-aged woman behind me tsks disapprovingly but I ignore her. If she only knew.

I run back out to the car and spread the paper towels all over the passenger seat as best I can. It doesn't work very well because they don't want to unfold and I don't have time to make it neat. Rollerboy transfers onto the seat, cursing under his breath. I grab his chair and toss it in the back seat without even taking the wheels off.

Once we get back to his apartment, he makes a beeline for the bathroom and slams the door shut. I take some spray cleanser from under the kitchen sink and a roll of paper towels and go out to survey the damage in the car. Surprisingly, there are only a few tiny spots on the back of the seat, otherwise his jeans and the paper towels seem to have contained the mess. I clean up and scrub the seat as best I can.

I go back inside and turn on the TV, to give him some privacy in the shower. After about thirty minutes, I hear the water turn off, and I knock on the bathroom door.

"Need anything?"

"Yeah, can you take care of my clothes?"

I get a black plastic trash bag and open the door. He indicates his jeans and t-shirt lying in a wad on the floor.

"I can wash it if you want."

He wrinkles his nose. "No, just toss it all."

I feel bad throwing his clothes away. He wears these jeans almost every day. On the other hand, he's not one to get overly attached to a favorite article of clothing, like I do. I throw bag containing the jeans and t-shirt in the dumpster outside.

I come back in to find him stretched out on the bed, looking drained. I lay down next to him and he puts his arms around my shoulders.

"Feel better?"

"Uh."

"Does your stomach still hurt?"

"No, that's finished."

"Good."

We're quiet for a while.

"Thanks," he says gruffly.

"No problem."

"I mean it," he elaborates, in a rare fit of talkativeness. "I really appreciate that you didn't freak out."

"Of course," I say, and kiss him on the cheek. What can I say? For him, it's the most horrible, humiliating experience, but it doesn't make me not love him. What kind of monster would I be to leave him in the lurch, or act all grossed out? These things happen. You just have to deal with it. I feel bad that he had to go through all that, but at least I was there to help.

Devo Diary Chapter 24

Rollerboy part 10

February 2002

I've reached a point in the semester where I have projects due, a ton of reading to get through, a million tasks large and small, and it feels like there are never enough hours in the day to get everything done. This grad program is dragging on seemingly forever, and I've got a huge exam coming up next month. Now that I have moved to the crappy outskirts of Raser City, it's easier to drive up to see Rollerboy, but the tradeoff is that it now takes me over an hour to get to campus. I feel like I'm spending half my life sitting in traffic. I'm on edge all the time. It doesn't help that I feel like Rollerboy is getting distant lately. Nothing I can exactly put my finger on, but somehow we both seem cranky, like we're not trying so hard anymore to impress each other.

While he's visiting me one weekend, I make us pasta for dinner, nice and simple, the way he likes. I love to cook, and I thought it would be a nice thing to do for him. Also I'm sick of the arguments about where to eat. I think he's the world's pickiest eater because he will never have anything other than hamburgers, pizza and Pop Tarts. He thinks I'm a picky eater because I won't eat "normal food" (meaning fast food) and always want "that fancy shit."

My plain pasta dinner goes down reasonably ok. I don't get any compliments, but no complaints either. Afterward, he sits on the couch watching TV while I wash up. Normally I would make a guy help me with the dishes, but the edge of the sink is very high and I don't think he could manage it.

I look up from the sink to see Rollerboy sitting on the couch with his fingers in his ears. He senses me staring at him and turns around slowly, lowering his hands with a guilty, sheepish look.

"The water's so noisy," he mumbles.

I stare at him, laughing in disbelief. So I make him dinner and clean it all up, while he sits there watching TV, and he complains that the sound of the water coming out of the faucet is too loud? You've got to be fucking kidding me! What kind of immature bullshit is this?

But he seems embarrassed already by this display of childishness, so I don't say all that. Instead, I just stare some more, until he says, "Sorry," and turns up the volume on the TV.

Another week goes by, and I'm getting more freaked out by my workload and impending exam. One afternoon, I race into my department, intending to grab something from my locker and head to the library. The grad students don't have offices or desks, just a big lounge with lockers and shared desktop computers.

I turn my key in the lock on the heavy oak door to the lounge and push, but it won't open. I push some more, and it cracks open just enough for me to hear voices laughing inside. I realize that one of the guys in my grad program is purposely holding the door shut so I can't get in.

I lean in with my shoulder and give one last push. The door opens, and the Roadblock stumbles backward, laughing. Something inside me snaps. Like, I can almost hear a snapping noise as the rage boils over.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!" I scream at him, and give him a hard kick in the shins.

The Roadblock's expression instantly transforms from laughter to shock. He looks stricken, because I literally just struck him.

"It was just a joke," he mumbles.

"What kind of fucking joke is that?!"

I suddenly realize that the room is full of people, all my fellow grad students, who have gone quiet and are staring at me in horror. I turn on my heel and run out of the room, then out of the building.

I flop down on a bench outside the entrance and immediately start crying.

A minute later, Sarah comes running out and puts her arm around my shoulders.

"It wasn't anything personal. He was doing that to everyone," she explains.

"What the fuck!" I yell through my tears. "How is that even a joke? What are we, in kindergarten?!"

"I know."

I sigh and put my face in my hands. "I can't believe I kicked him. Oh my god, what is wrong with me?"

"It wasn't so much the kick as the look in your eyes. It was scary."

"I don't know what happened. I just couldn't take it anymore."

"You know if you were a high school student you would get sent for mediation."

"Ugh, I know. So embarrassing. And if we were working in an office I would be sent to HR."

"Yeah, lucky for you no one cares about grad students at Lester State."

We both laugh bitterly, and I cry some more.

"So what's it about really?" Sarah asks, handing me a handkerchief from her pocket. "I know you didn't just lose it over a stupid prank."

I put the handkerchief over my face, then lower it to my lap. "I don't know," I say, toying with it, a folded cloth decorated with Hello Kitty designs. "I don't know. I just..." I trail off for a moment, then burst out, "I feel like Rollerboy is about to break up with me!"

Sarah waits for a while as I sob even harder. "Did he say something?"

"No, nothing! Everything is the same! I don't know, I feel like I'm losing my mind! It's just, I don't know, it seems like he calls me less. He says he loves me but I feel like I annoy him all the time, like he doesn't want to be around me."

We both sigh. To her credit, Sarah does not say what we are both thinking: maybe it would be for the best. Instead, she just says, "He's an angry, unhappy guy."

"I know, but why doesn't he want to be happy with me?" I wail, and cry some more. We sit on that cold marble bench for a long time, not talking, me just crying and Sarah waiting for me to finish.

There's more I could say, but I don't want to voice it, not even to myself. Like how he drinks a lot. Not every day (as far as I know) but whenever he does, he's like a different person. Meaner, nastier. He once told me a story about when he was still in rehab, one day his step-brother came to pick him up at the hospital. A nurse was waiting with Rollerboy outside, and when his brother pulled up and she opened the passenger side door for him, a pile of empty beer cans cascaded out in front of her. When he told me the story, we both laughed hard about the dirty look the nurse gave him. The idea of him being the bad boy and shocking the uptight nurse was hilarious to me. But now I'm not so sure. The story ended with them driving off and drinking a lot more.

I also don't want to think about the fact that he's kind of racist. Not in a white supremacist way, but in a low level, casual use of racial slurs kind of way. Like one time, pretty early on in our relationship, we were watching Late Night with Dave Attell, and he said, "It's funny to watch him try to jew down the hookers." Then a second later, he looked shocked and embarrassed, his mouth a little o of surprise. "Sorry."

But honestly, I hadn't even heard what he said, so I didn't understand why he was apologizing. It took me a good long while to figure out what he said, and that he was worried I was offended because I'm Jewish. I guess it shows what a protected bubble I grew up in, but I had never before that moment heard anyone say that. I had no idea it was a thing people said. I was too bemused by this new information to even be bothered that he said it.

I've also heard him say other slurs and some offhand, ignorant comments about African Americans and Latinos. Whenever he did it, I brushed it off and tried not to think about it. But in the back of my mind, I keep hearing the lyrics to that They Might Be Giants song: "I feel like a hypocrite talking to yooooouuuu and your racist friend." It feels wrong to just let these bullshit comments slide, but I don't want to fight with him about it either.

And the constant, childish rebellion against any kind of authority. I was talking about school with him and he burst out, "Teachers think they can control kids, but they can't." Again, I let it slide, but inside I was thinking, dude, you're twenty eight years old. Let go of that teenage resentment already. He once said that he felt stuck at the age his accident happened, like his life stopped at age eighteen.

I don't discuss any of this with Sarah. Eventually I stop crying and go off to the library to so some work.

The next day, I offer the Roadblock an abject apology, which he accepts sulkily. We're probably not friends anymore but at least nothing worse has come of it.

When I drive up to Rollerboy's place on Saturday, it's like nothing ever happened. Things between us seem normal. We watch TV, go out to dinner, watch some more TV, then get in bed and have sex.

The sex is not as adventurous or experimental as it used to be, but that's just because we know each other better now. I know the location of every scar on his body. He has a lot of huge, spectacular scars. It's like a frozen portrait of his accident, how his body hit the earth, and how the doctors put him back together. Partially back together.

He goes down on me and it's freaking amazing. Then he wants me to get him off. Even though he can only feel it imperfectly, he has become more and more fixated on ejaculating every time we have sex. Even though he says it's more of a reflex; it doesn't feel that great. I guess he wants the psychological satisfaction of seeing it. The only way to make that happen is to use my hands, squeezing really hard and fast, but even then it takes a long time.

The room is so quiet, just the sound of us both breathing hard. The bedside lamp bathes us both in a golden light, the dust motes dancing around as I try to get him off. It doesn't always work--sometimes we just give up, frustrated and tired out. But tonight I manage it. As we lay together in bed cuddling afterward, it feels like my little freak out was over nothing. I'm just afraid of losing him, so it's like I had a practice run. But we're fine. Everything is fine.

March 2002

Things continue on as normal. I try not to think about that meltdown I had in front of all the other students in my graduate program. It seems so silly now. Rollerboy and I keep seeing each other every weekend, and things between us are the same. His mother is doing much better. She's home from the hospital now (although I still haven't met her, and now would be a really weird time for introductions). I guess I'm just stressed about my exam, which is next month. One of the women in the program who already passed assured me that it's normal to feel like you're losing your mind heading into the exam, so there's that.

I am studying all the time. I even try to read while I'm cooking dinner. I aim to go to bed early and study in the morning, but somehow my most productive work happens from 10 pm to midnight or 1 am, then I have to get up at 7 am to make the extra long bus ride and get to campus in time for my morning classes. I feel worn out all the time.

On Saturday, I drive up to Bessemer as usual. Rollerboy and I spend most of the day watching TV. For dinner, we get takeout sandwiches from Subway. It's like the one fast food joint we can both compromise on, but luckily the one near his apartment is better than average. I wolf down my whole sub while we watch old episodes of South Park.

Several hours later, we're both lying in bed, about to go to sleep. All of a sudden, I leap out of bed, faster than I thought I was capable of moving. I feel like a puppet, being pulled by invisible strings, devoid of any conscious thought. I run straight to the bathroom and puke up then entire sandwich and then some. I don't even have time to move the special padded toilet seat. I just try to aim in the center so I don't get any on it.

I clean up as best I can and scrub out the inside of my mouth, then stagger weakly back to bed.

"You ok?"

"Ugh, I'm sorry, that was disgusting. I don't know what came over me. I was feeling fine until a minute ago."

"You think the sandwich was bad?" Rollerboy looks alarmed. We both ordered basically the same thing; if I have food poisoning, he could have it too.

"I don't know."

"Shit. I hate to throw up. Since my injury it's like I can't do it right. I have to use my hand to push on my diaphragm."

"Really? That sucks."

But Rollerboy need not have worried. By the next morning it's eminently clear I have the flu, not food poisoning. I wake up with a cracking headache, sore joints and a fever. At least I don't throw up again, although I feel like I might at any moment.

I drag myself home, the drive going by in a blur. I don't really have time to rest, though, because I have so much school work, plus cramming for my big exam next month. I have to skip seeing Rollerboy the next two weekends because I'm still not better. What I really want is for him to drive down and take care of me, but I know that would never happen. I don't even ask.

April 2002

For a few weeks, things go back to normal. I recover finally, and go back to visiting Rollerboy on the weekends. I'm still stressing over how much work I have to do, and it's making it hard to sleep at night. I start having a recurring dream that I've lost my wallet. That seems like it must mean something, but I have no idea what.

For the first time in a while, Rollerboy drives down to spend the weekend at my place. When we first started dating we would alternate weekends but now I go Bessemer about three to four times for every one trip he makes to Raser City.

In the afternoon, I start feeling tired and achy, but I shrug it off. The feeling comes over me so gradually, it almost feels like I'm imaging things. How could I be sick again? I just got better, for gods sake.

By bedtime, there's no denying I'm achy and feverish.

"I think I'm sick," I say as we climb into my bed together, by way of explaining that we won't be having sex.

"Again?" Rollerboy looks at me in disgust. "Jesus, why are you sick all the time?"

"I don't know. Maybe I just need a good night's sleep," I suggest hopefully.

But this is not to be. My head is pounding, and my throat is killing me. I try to lie as still as possible so I won't bother him, but I feel like I'm burning up. He seems to be asleep but he's having leg spasms that are shaking the whole bed.

By around 3 am, I realize I am never going to get any sleep in this bed, and I don't want to wake him up. As stealthily as I can, I creep out of the bed and go lie down on the sofa in the living room.

I try to doze off but it's no good here either. The sofa is too small to stretch out on, so I'm curled in an awkward ball. A short time later, he rolls into the living room.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I ask groggily. "I got up so you could sleep."

"Nah, forget it. This is bullshit. I'm going home."

"What? No! Come on, I want you to stay."

"If we're sleeping in different places anyway, what's the point?"

"But come on, it's barely even 4 am."

"So what? I'll beat the traffic." He yanks open the front door. "I'll call you later."

I'm too stunned and weak to get up from the sofa. I just lie there, watching his back as he bumps up and down over the hump of the threshold. He pulls the door shut behind him and he's gone.

I lie on the sofa a while longer, feeling too sick and miserable to move, but I can't sleep. I crawl back into my empty bed, but I can't sleep there either. My skin feels hot and prickly, and I keep seeing in my mind over and over the image of his back as he rolls out the door.

The next few days are a feverish, achy coughing blur, but whatever virus I've picked up this time is not as bad as the last one. By Thursday I'm starting to feel better and looking forward to the weekend. I'm at home studying as usual when the phone rings at 11 pm. The caller ID tells me it's Rollerboy. Right away I know something is up, because it's not his usual time to call. My heart is thudding as I pick up.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Heeeyyyyy," he slurs. "I gotta talk to you about something. Something I gotta say."

"What?"

"We need to break up."

My stomach drops and for a moment I feel dizzy and nauseous. I can't believe he's doing this right now, out of nowhere, over the phone. I sit there in shock, not saying anything.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

"Of course I'm still here. What do you want me to say? I don't want to break up."

"Yeaaah...I've been thinking about it a while and it's just not working."

I finally tune in to the way he's talking slow, dragging out his words. "Are you drunk?"

"So what? I hadda havea few before I could say it."

"Look, why don't we talk this over in person when you're sober?"

"No. There's nothing to 'talk over'." God, I hate the way he mimics what I've just said, in that mocking, childish tone.

"Come on, I don't want to stop seeing you. I love you!"

"No, you're only into me because of my disability."

Oh my fucking god, this again. "That's not true! It's the reason we met but it's not why I fell in love with you." I feel like a broken record. How many times do I have to say it before he believes me?

We go around and around on this, until finally he says, "I don't even know you. You're just some chick I met on the internet."

"What? We've been together almost two years! How can you say you don't know me?"

"You're just some chick from the internet," he repeats.

By this point I'm crying so hard the phone is getting wet. I know there's nothing more to say. I want this horrible conversation to end, but I also don't want to hang up because then it really will be over, forever. And that image of his back going out the door in the middle of the night while I lie sick on the couch will be the last time I ever see him. It's almost unbearable. I cry some more, because I've run out of things to say.

"Well, ok, I gotta go," he mumbles.

"Fine. Goodbye." I slam the phone down, then sit there crying even longer.

The shock gives way to misery, and I spend the next week wallowing. To her credit, Sarah is extremely nice and doesn't say I told you so even once. She lets me spend the weekend lying on her couch eating chips and rehashing every detail of my relationship. Even I have to admit that it's probably for the best to break up. I wanted so badly for him to be happy with me, but if I'm being honest, he seems more unhappy now than when we first met. He's definitely drinking more, and his crankiness and negativity has only increased. It's hard to admit because I so wanted to save him from himself, but being in a relationship with me seems to have made him worse.

His last barb over the phone, though, about me only liking him because of his disability, that really stings. It kills me that he still thinks that about me after all this time. I mean, I've met guys with disabilities before and I didn't date any of them for two years, except for K. So it's not like just anyone will do. I was the one pushing for us to live together like a real couple, and he was the one who said no. But the way he kept saying I only like him for his disability makes me doubt myself. How do I know? How do I know anything? It feels like he was only pretending to be ok with me being a devotee.

May 2012

I have too much to do to spend more than one weekend lying around feeling sorry for myself. I take my big exam, and I pass. It's good to have something besides Rollerboy to focus on. Well anyway it's a huge relief to pass my exam. I feel the future opening up with endless potential.

Right after my exam, I have a big concert with the Lester State Adult Chorus. It's not the usual kind of concert either, where I'm one of a dozen other voices in my part. This time the theme is 1940s radio, and it's more of an ensemble show. Anyone who wants to can do a solo, and of course I want to. I'm singing an Andrews Sisters song, "Bei Mir Bist du Schon," with two of the mean girls, and a solo, "My Heart Belongs to Daddy," which is not great for my voice type but I'm trying to sell it on a hammy sort of sex appeal. I also took the opportunity to check out the vintage shops and buy a real 1940s dress and costume jewelry.

I throw myself into practicing for the concert as a way to distract myself from being dumped. When I think about how much I let my life contract while I was dating him, I feel pathetic. I used to run around with crazy artistic people and do weird, creative things all the time. Now I've just wasted almost two years watching TV and eating takeout. Well, no more. I research vintage hairstyles online like crazy.

My attempt with the two chorus mean girls to sound like the Andrews Sisters is only marginally successful. After rehearsal, the alto teases me mercilessly for being dumped by Rollerboy. Whatever, she's the one he was bitchy to at my birthday party last year. But the soprano is surprisingly nice to me, and even compliments my voice. It turns out that she's in the Lester State Lyric Opera company as well. I didn't realize that even though the leads are all professional, the Lyric Opera chorus is mostly amateurs, and anyone can try out.

"You should audition," she tells me.

"Seriously? I haven't had lessons or sung real opera since I was a teenager."

"Sure, I think you could get in. Just try it." She gives me the contact details.

The concert is a lot of fun, even though my solo is not great. It's so exciting to get dressed up, and see everyone else's costume too. I haven't done something like this in forever.

As we are milling about backstage afterwards, one of the baritones catches my eye. He's tall and handsome, in a square-jawed, blue-eyed, all American kind of way, and he's wearing a GI uniform that fits him perfectly. He bows to me in a very formal manner, and I flick the hem of my blue chiffon dress at him. Still playing a part, he puts out his hand and I take it, then he leads me in a few lindy hop dance moves, ending with a dip.  

"Thanks," he says, and hurries off to change out of his costume.

I stagger a bit, and turn to the alto mean girl who just witnessed the whole thing. "Who was that?"

"Seriously? You've been singing together for almost two years and you don't know him?"

I just shrug. I swear I've never seen him before this moment. It must be the uniform that made him stand out.

"That's Kevin," she continues. "He's a great guy. You should go out with him."

So at the next rehearsal when Kevin asks me out, I say yes.

Before I realize what is happening, I seem to have fallen ass backwards into another relationship. Being with Kevin is like the polar opposite of Rollerboy. The fact that he's able bodied is the least of it. Where Rollerboy was a high school dropout who only enjoyed playing videogames and watching TV, Kevin is intellectual and artistic. I can talk to him about more than just what to eat for dinner. He appreciates gourmet and ethnic food; he doesn't think of McDonalds as a default "normal" meal. And he lives half a mile away, instead of three hours. But most of all he's kind to me. He tells me I'm pretty and smart and he likes spending time with me. I feel like the parched desert soaking up the rain every time he says something nice. I deserve to be with someone who doesn't bust my ass for letting my armpit hair grow to a quarter inch, and who doesn't complain that I'm not really his type.

I finally start to realize just how bad my relationship with Rollerboy was. True, in the beginning he would call me sexy nerd girl. But from the start we never had anything in common and it just got worse and worse, until he was even angrier and more closed off than when we met. I have to admit that I was not good for him. I still deny that I was only into him for his disability. But for whatever reason, I couldn't be the one to save him.

"I think I'm going to call Rollerboy and tell him he was right to break up with me, " I tell Sarah.

She rolls her eyes. "No! That's a terrible idea. Why would you do that?"

"I just want to let him know that I'm ok. I made such a big deal about not wanting to break up, but now I see it's better this way."

"Ugh! Don't do that! Just let it go," she says impatiently.

But I can't let it go. About a month after he dumped me, I call Rollerboy. He sounds shocked to hear from me.

"I just wanted to let you know that it was the right decision to break up," I say. "It's really better for both of us."

"What? No! I didn't mean it! I just got really drunk one night and called you. But then I thought I totally fucked up and you would never speak to me again. I want to get back together! I miss you!"

I'm completely, utterly floored. I never in a million years would have expected him to say that. Now I'm doubly grateful for Kevin, because if it weren't for him I would take Rollerboy back in an instant. But now that I've been reminded of what a healthy relationship should look like, there's no way I'm going back to how things were, no matter how great the sex was.

"No," I say firmly. "I don't think that's a good idea." He begs some more but finally I get off the phone. Dammit, Sarah was right. I should never have woken that sleeping dog.

Rollerboy calls me again the next day, and the next and the next. For two weeks, I get daily phone calls that last hours. I try to help him focus on how he can help himself, improve his outlook and make his life better on his own, rather than relying on me to fix his problems for him. These calls start to feel like free therapy, but I'm the world's worst therapist because I'm also the one who is hurting him. I know how he feels, because it's exactly how I felt when he dumped me, and when K dumped me. You desperately want to feel better so you turn to the person who has been your main emotional support, but that's also the person who is breaking your heart. It's an endless negative feedback loop with no resolution as long as we keep talking.

I try to explain this to him, to let him know gently that he can't keep calling me like this, but he's not having it.

"I'm self destructiiiiiiiiiive," he whines, as if that excuses everything.

"I know," I say. And I really do know. He is self-destructive, that's why he took drugs as a teenager, why he got drunk and stole a car, why he broke his neck, why he will never get a job, why he sabotaged our relationship. "But that is a problem you're going to have to solve on your own. Goodbye." I hang up the phone, with a huge rush of relief.

But that's still not the end. The next day, he sends me an email.

Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I won't be calling you ever again. I should have known better than to hook up with some random chick from the internet. I was never more than a wheelchair to you, just some cripple to fulfill your sick devotee fantasies. I don't know what your parents did to you as a kid to fuck you up so badly, but you are sick in the head. Please get help. There's something wrong with you.

I stare at the message in disbelief. At first it's like a gut punch. You're sick. Your parents fucked you up. It's like my worst fears spit back at me, there spelled out on the screen, and by the man I loved.

But a minute later, I just start laughing. That message is so over the top in its nastiness, it's hard to even take it seriously. He's angry at me and lashing out, saying the things he knows will hurt me the most. But it doesn't hurt anymore. I don't care what he thinks of me. I know none of those things he said are true, and he's only saying it to get back at me. If that's what he needs to do to get closure on this terrible relationship, so be it.

I'm actually grateful that he sent me that email. It's like the final blow. The spell is finally broken. I feel like I'm waking up for the first time in two years. Enough. I delete the email and get on with my life.