Hey love
by Roger K. Johnson
New Center
The guy in the wheelchair looked like he had long since stopped measuring his life in years. He looked like he was a candidate for counting his remaining time on earth in days — more than likely he was down to hours or minutes. His right leg rested its foot on the chair’s footpad, its knee bent at a right angle. The other leg stretched indifferently out with the foot on the floor, as if letting the world know, I’ve been through enough, and I’m not sitting up straight any longer. His upper body diverged as well. While the right side of his body seemed at least to make an attempt at sitting up, the left was twisted and out of whack. His liver-spotted left hand twisted backward — palm up — as if waiting for some unseen jazz musician to slide past and give him five. An over-stretched elastic cord wrapped around his head and held a clear rubber oxygen mask that rested on his beak of a nose. His labored breathing had fogged it. A clear tube connected his mask to a canister of oxygen that hung from the handle of his wheelchair. Every now and again a cough would rattle around from somewhere in his chest, scrape its way up his throat, and explode out of his mouth, sending wet flecks of spittle spraying into the mask. As the cough subsided, he would bend over as if he were about to take his last breath on earth. He’d take a couple of deep swallows of air and lean back in his chair again, slumping to one side, waiting for the next cough to knock a few more moments off of his life.
He looked old, but he was probably younger. Illnesses have that annoying way of adding years to you. His hair looked to be the only thing that hadn’t aged. His goatee, eyebrows, and full head of hair were blond, not dirty-blond or white Scandinavian blond, just regular old Hollywood blond.
A light-skinned black woman pushed his chair. She could have been — probably was — mixed. I wondered if she was his granddaughter or another relative. I thought this more because of her looks — she looked mixed — not so much that she looked like him. She didn’t have his nose — I’m sure she was grateful for that.
I stood in the Motown Music Museum — Hitsville, U.S.A. — observing this. The house that was converted into a studio, which was eventually converted into a museum commemorating the Motown Sound and Experience. I was trying my best to keep my kids from staring at the guy, but wasn’t doing a good job of it. I found myself getting lost in wondering if he was going to actually check out, right there in front of us. My “kids” is a misnomer; I should have said my students. I’m an English teacher.
The public school system — in its finite wisdom — having given up on the theory that students might actually be motivated to learn something outside the confines of asbestos-laden school buildings, had developed a pretty laisse-faire attitude toward field trips. It was driven not by academics, but by insurance. As long as we were able to secure parental permission (a.k.a., insurance liability waivers), we could take the students on the Bataan Death March if we were so inclined.
The situation can lead to some fairly interesting and creative field trips if the teacher really cares — which I do. This was a trip for some of my students who showed more than passing interest or ability in poetry. Having tired of hearing why Puff Daddy should fear Suge Night, in between our discussions about how well Tupac, Biggie, and whoever was the hip-hop flav du jour could rhyme and flow, I decided to introduce my students to some musical and poetic roots.
That’s why I was standing in the Motown Music Museum looking at a dying man.
I say dying because you don’t look like this guy did on your way up the mountain of life. But he looked happy; you could see it so clearly in his eyes. Everything else about this guy said — was shouting — I’ve seen better days! His eyes, however, were right there; they were clear and wide. Both he and the young woman pushing him looked around the museum with an air of utter fascination and enjoyment.
I found myself taking a much longer look at the surroundings in the building. What were they seeing that I wasn’t? Was there some hidden magic that these faded album covers possessed? Was there a mystical power in the autographed black-and-white pictures of Smokey, Marvin, Michael, and Diana? These two people moved with an air of giddy reverence that intrigued me. The girl caught me staring at them as she wheeled him on the other side of a glass case that separated us. Caught and embarrassed, the only form of explanation I mustered was a smile.
She smiled back, not the least bit aggravated, a genuine Don’t you love this place? smile.
“Hi,” I said, trying to return a smile that I hoped was at least as bright.
“Oi yaself,” she said in a light British accent, still smiling.
“You know, you have a great smile. Thank you for sharing it.”
“Anytime,” she said.