Short Bus Hero (20 page)

35. Tropophobia /
tropˈ
-
ō-fōˈbē-ə
/
fear of moving or making changes

“J
ust drop that
anywhere for now,” Lois says to Stryker as he wrestles Earl’s worn old recliner through the front doors of the new group home. She turns in a slow circle as she gazes up at the massive crystal chandelier suspended high above their heads. “Wow, Ally, this really is beautiful, isn’t it?” Even though they’d been staying at the house for almost a week, she’d been so wrapped up in all the bad stuff lately, that she hadn’t had time to notice much of the good.

You humans are always like that. More inclined to focus on the negative aspects of your wondrous lives. Call it being ungrateful.

“Yeah, I know,” Ally says, pushing past her with her iPod and notebook computer. “When’s the couch going to get here? There’s still no…place to sit,” she shouts from the formal living room. Lois reflects that her daughter had perfected the diva act in record time. (In all fairness, though, the couch was supposed to be there three days ago.) She knows Ally is trying not to think about Jason, too. She knows Ally is doing her best to cover up and protect herself from what is to come.

“The furniture store said they’d be here between one and four, and they’re bringing everything,” Earl says, running his hand along the grand staircase’s shiny mahogany banister. He looks around the wide open rooms, wondering how long it will take Lois to pile shit to the ceilings. “You got someone to clean this place?” he asks Lois, looking up the stratospheric staircase.

“Yeah, you.” She throws him a roll of paper towels from the box she was ferrying to the kitchen before she became entranced by the sunlight filtering through the crystal chandelier.

“Ha ha,” Earl says, taking the box from her and walking off toward the kitchen. He imagines the enormous mansion absolutely crammed with Lois’s stacks of magazines, mountains of clothing, unfinished knitting projects, books she’ll never read, and piles of junk they “might need someday.” He shudders. He’ll leave her if she makes a landfill out of this place.

Stryker huffs through the double door with another large cardboard box. He drops it on the marble floor with a muffled thump and stands up, hands reaching to the small of his back. “I really hate moving, you know that?” He smiles at Lois and looks up at the stained-glass window set high in the three-story open foyer. “This is really a gorgeous place. I hear the neighbors are a real drag, though.” Lois knows that Gemini lives close-by, but she doesn’t really think of him as a neighbor. Her family living in the same neighborhood as someone famous. How about that? Even after they’d been all over the news and television magazine shows, she never once thought of her own family as “famous.” Good thing, too, or she’d be saving every single item they came in contact with: soda cans they’d drunk from in limos,
TV Guides
listing the shows they appeared on, plastic knives she’d used to spread cream cheese on a bagel in some green room, crazy stuff like that.

“Stryker,” she begins. She hesitates, not quite knowing how to broach this topic of conversation. “You, um. That place you live in Braddock?”

“You know where I live?” He’s shocked. And more than a little embarrassed.

She sits on the marble stairs and looks up at him. “When you disappeared, Ally and I went looking for you.”

“Oh,” he says, taking a seat next to her. He never thought of that, them looking for him.

There’s a reason some people never become brain surgeons, you know.

“I’ve never been inside, obviously, but, maybe it would be better, you know, business-wise, if you didn’t live there.”

What’s this, Lois trusting Stryker enough to let him move in with them? Say, what?

Could this mean she’s listening to me again?

Stryker doesn’t know what to say.

“I, um…I know what you’re saying, Lois, but—” he looks at his Saucony running shoes and licks his lips, “I don’t really have too much of a choice.” He hasn’t been this poor since ever. He’s never been this poor.

He thinks she’s telling him to get a better apartment, which he can’t afford yet.

“This is really none of my business, and I feel funny even asking, but what happened to all the money you made in the last couple of years, when you were big in the AWG?”

Stryker felt his face get hot. He hates it that he was so stupid that he didn’t save a single cent. What had he been thinking in those couple of really good years? Damn.

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, but—” Lois is still working on the trust thing. But, for Ally’s sake, she’s trying. Hard.

“I spent it,” he says quietly. “Same as the money I took from Ally last month.” He thinks of telling her, yeah, I spent every penny I made in the AWG on cars and boats and broads. And I spent most of Ally’s half mil In Vegas. He is stupid beyond words. Call it his new self-awareness.

And it’s about time.

He laughs a little, at himself. “I spent it. And, oh, it was a fantastic ride.” He laughs a little more, then a frown seizes his lips and regret shadows his eyes. Faded memories cloud his head. Noticing the change on his face, Lois feels bad for asking the question. She feels sorry for him, even though she wants to slap his face and tell him how foolish he is.

“We talked about it last night, my family and I, and—” Lois sighs, thinking somewhere in her mind that she might come to regret what she is about to say, yet another part of her, yes, influenced by me, tells her that this is the right thing to do. “We’d like you to move in here with all of us.”

Stryker is absolutely floored. He’s never heard of such generosity. Forgiveness is a new concept for him.

Yes, I whisper to him, people can be forgiving.

And he’d stolen half a million dollars from her family. He knows he doesn’t deserve any such compassion.

Yes, I whisper, you can be forgiven. For everything.

Her words gather in a mass blocking his throat. He chokes on her kindness.

“I, um,” He wipes his eyes on his jacket sleeve and laughs. “Really?”

“Sure. There’s plenty of room, even with all the Cool People moving in tomorrow. A couple of them have asked to share a room, so we’ll have an extra bedroom or two. I mean, I don’t know if you’d want to live—”

He laughs. “I’d be honored to live with them, are you kidding?” The dark cloud still floats around inside his head, but it’s breaking up, and I can see through it. He is truly touched by the Formans’ kindness.

Oh, you humans, with your undying capacity for compassion. Call it a god-given gift.

This is just the kind of thing I need.

“Not a permanent thing, you know, just until you get on your feet, when the WWP starts making some money.”

Lois appreciates the expression of stark gratitude that shines from the man’s entire being.

He hugs her and feels real hope.

It’s been a long time.

For all of us.

36. Plutophobia /
plooˈ-tō-fōˈ-bē-ə
/
fear of wealth

T
rish is in the process
of chewing off her bottom lip. Jeff is throwing things at the unfinished walls in the garage, the din punctuated by profane drunken outbursts. Thankfully, Jason is asleep in his room, upstairs.

It arrived today, with the Land’s End catalog and the gas bill.

“To Whom It May Concern.” Yes, it concerns them, all right, Trish and Jeff. And Jason.

The state has rejected their claim. They will not pay for Jason’s chemotherapy. His salary exceeds the regulatory cap, which disqualifies him from the government-sponsored disability program that always paid for his medical care. Jeff and Trish owe twenty-two thousand dollars for past tests and treatment, plus another eight thousand for this month and for every future month their son clings to precious life. Jason has about four thousand in the bank from his new position with the VNO, but that isn’t even close to enough. They’ll have to sell the house, Trish thinks. The cars are beaters, barely worth fifteen-hundred bucks a piece. There is no savings account, aside from the seven thousand Jeff has in his 401k. They’d always lived paycheck-to-paycheck, and Jeff has been out of work for almost a year. The house is really all they have. And they still owe about thirty thousand on that.

Trish collapses on a kitchen chair, whimpering and pleading with God.

Yes, of course, the Formans could lend them money. But, asking them for it would be an exercise in humility, which Jeff would strongly oppose. What else could they do? She reaches for the phone with a trembling clammy hand.

“Lois, hi, it’s me.”

“Well, hello, stranger.” Lois sounds as though she is in a good mood — that works for Trish. “What’s going on? How’s my handsome boy?” Lois thinks this might be The Call and she feels the daily phenomenon of her bones steeling themselves against the impact of Trish’s news. Every time she calls, it might be The Call.

“He’s okay,” Trish says, trying to remain upbeat. “He’s, um, he’s sleeping.” Trish can’t help herself and she starts sobbing.

“Oh, honey,” Lois says, “what’s going on over there today?” Of course, she’s used to these weepy calls, since Trish has called her every day for the past, oh, eighteen years or so.

“Lois, it’s…it’s…money. The state’s taking away Jason’s benefits because of the new job. They’re refusing to pay for the chemo, and he just got his first check, and we have to sell the house, and…and…” She bites her tongue to cut off the rapid fire of hysteric syllables. Panic swarms her.

“Okay, calm down,” Lois says. Trish always said that her mother had some money, so maybe she could ask her for a loan. Although, Lois can’t help feeling responsible for their situation, since it was Ally who had given Jason the Vice President’s job at the VNO. “What about your mom? She has some money, right?”

Trish’s embarrassment is compounded by the fact that she lied to Lois about her family’s financial status. She always said that, while her mother wasn’t exactly rich, she had a little money set aside for Trish. Certainly not enough to keep Jason in a group home for years on end, but some. “No,” she says quietly. “Lois, my family doesn’t have any money or property or anything. Jeff and I are both from poor families. I’m sorry I said otherwise. I just wanted to be, you know, not poor.” She sniffs.

“Don’t cry, Trish. Listen, let me see what we can come up with, okay? You’re not going to have to sell the house. You stop thinking that right now.”

Lois hangs up and dials Tony Clifton’s number. Of course they would give the Gibsons the money. Not a loan, just an outright gift. There was no question about that. Lois feels bad for Trish being ashamed to be poor. It’s bad enough to be poor, but to have to be ashamed of it, too? Oy. Money sucks, she thinks as Tony answers. Especially if you don’t have any.

“I’m sorry, Lois, but we just can’t do it right now,” Tony says into his new iPhone. He is in the middle of dining with friends at a swank new restaurant on the hill.

“What do you mean we can’t do it?” Lois nearly falls off her chair.

“You guys bought all that new furniture, the house, cars, the VNO. But, I’ll tell you, most of the money’s tied up in the new WWP deal. It’s just not a good time. Belcanto wants to know that you’ve got the funds in the bank. We just have to keep everything where it is for a while, okay? Listen, I gotta run. My prime rib just showed up. I’ll holler at yinz later.” He hangs up.

Lois picks her lower jaw up off the floor and pours herself a tall glass of Jim Beam. Straight up.

How is it they’ve spent two-hundred-and-some million dollars??? Is he serious? They can’t afford to give the Gibsons fifty grand? Really? She’ll ask Ally how much she’s got in her “fun” account.

You humans have really horrible money management skills, you know that?

No wonder that Dave Ramsey dude is so freaking rich, selling you idiots common sense.

37. Philophobia
/ fī-lō-fōˈ-bē-ə /
fear of falling in love

“W
hat kind of petition?”
Anger pushes blood into Lois’s cheeks and water into her eyes. Tony Clifton stands on the front porch of the Cool People’s group home as parents brush by him, carrying their children’s worldly possessions.

“Can we go inside and talk about this?” Tony asks, watching Wendell’s dad, Glen, walk up the grand staircase with a framed poster of Lestat Graves. Samantha, another of the Cool People, pushes through the door with a stack of pillows. “Excuse me,” she says.

Lois walks Tony through the foyer and the family room to the kitchen, where they sit at the breakfast table. He opens his briefcase and takes out a thick manila envelope. “It’s the zoning laws, Lois. The neighbors don’t want a group home in their neighborhood.” He shows her a sheaf of papers covered with tiny type and scrawled signatures.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Tony has seen this kind of thing before. It usually blows over. He bets that, in this case, as soon as they find out who Ally is, the neighbors won’t mind at all anyway.

“How can we not worry about it? People don’t want us here,” Lois says, squinting at the names on the petition. She wonders if she’d recognize Gemini’s real name, if it was on there.

“There have been problems with this sort of situation in the past, up in Slippery Rock and a couple of other places. What it boils down to is that neighbors are, I don’t know, afraid of mentally retarded people or something, but the Fair Housing Act says sellers may not discriminate.” The law is on their side. Always a plus. Though the kids are not retarded. Well, not all of them. Lois takes offense at the term.

Mara executes a clumsy pirouette, falling into the kitchen and banging the swinging door against the granite counter. “Hi, people,” she says, dancing to the refrigerator to grab a drink. “Don’t you just love my beautiful new house?” She giggles and dances back toward the front of the house, where her mom, Sylvia, is shouting to someone about Mara’s bean bag chair.

The Cool People who are moving in—Mara, Wendell, Donald, and Samantha—are a blur of confused activity. One minute they’re gushing about the marble in the bathrooms and the indoor basketball court, the next they’re hugging their parents and crying like babies. No one mentions Jason. It’s not that they’ve forgotten him—it’s more like they’re afraid any mention of his name will bring The Call (yes, they all know about The Call).

Why does something always have to spoil the Dear Ones’ good times?

Damned human condition again.

See why I’m so sick of my job? There are so many freaking downers in the world.

Lois allows herself to be comforted by the lawyer’s minimal experience and goes back to helping everyone carry their stuff inside.

“No! You can’t have this room!” Ally screams from somewhere above. She’s standing on the landing at the top of the grand staircase, shouting at someone in the master suite. Her face glows purple, her teeth are clenched, and she’s pulling at her hair.

Mara charges through the doorway and slaps her across the face. The smack echoes through the hall. Ally’s hand flies up to her cheek.

“Mara!” Sylvia yells from the foyer, where the parents, Debra, and Stryker all stand watching the squabble. “You tell Ally that you’re sorry this instant!”

“This is my room,” Mara shouts. “I called it!” She slams the door in Ally’s face.

Lois mounts the stairs and climbs toward the girls. She brushes past Ally and opens the bedroom door. “Mara, don’t you think it might be a good idea to choose a different room?”

“Why should I?” Mara wants this room. It’s the biggest and most beautiful. Plus, it has the biggest bathroom, and she spends a lot more time in the can than anyone else.

“I…I…I’m sa-saving this room for Jason,” Ally says. Tears flow down her face and drip off her jowls. No one says anything below.

“Jason’s not coming. He’s going to die, you dumb poop-face,” Mara says.

Silence.

Ally runs at Mara and knocks her to the floor. Lois grabs Ally’s arms and hauls her to her feet as Earl and Stryker rush up the staircase to help restrain her.

“You d-d-don’t say…say that,” Ally cries, taking a swipe at Mara.

Stryker grabs Mara’s suitcase from her and takes her hand. “Come on, honey, let’s find you an even better room down the hall, okay?” He can’t believe he’s doing this, interacting with them, helping them. He’s surprised. Where he used to feel disgust and pity and loathing, there’s understanding and a willingness to assist. Huh. Where did that come from? Mara lets him lead her away, looking over her shoulder at Ally.

Ally sticks out her tongue.

That’s my girl.

Finally, everyone gets settled into the house.

No one wants to say goodbye.

But they have to.

* * *

When he walks into the kitchen, he looks like someone threw him into the swimming pool or turned the hose on him. His light blue tank top is a dripping navy, his red shorts have become maroon, his shoes give an audible squish, and his dark hair hangs in wet clumps over his eyes.

“Did you have a nice run?” Debra asks as Stryker opens the huge fridge and pulls out a bottle of neon-colored sports drink. She watches beads of sweat trickle through the stubble on his throat as he tips his head back and drains the bottle. He feels Debra’s eyes on him, as usual. It makes him feel like giggling. But he doesn’t. Instead, he drapes his towel over his head, hiding his smile from her. She is a little older (not to mention heavier) than the women he normally finds himself attracted to, but there is something real about her, something genuine. He sees it in her earnest green eyes, her careworn facial expressions, the way she cares for the Cool People who share their lives.

“Hi, Stryker,” a low sing-song voice greets him from the sunny hexagonal breakfast nook across the room.

“Hey, Wendell,” Stryker booms, stepping across the kitchen to leave a sweaty paw print on the kid’s flannel-robed shoulder. Debra joins them at the round table nestled in the oversized bay window, bringing with her a damp cloth with which to scour Wendell’s cream of wheat dripping visage. Wendell’s eyes roll up to the ceiling, his elbows rest on the wheelchair armrests, holding his palsied hands skyward. His head lolls back in the chair’s custom headrest. “No, no, can’t…shit…” He does not have to go to the bathroom—“shit” is just one of his vocal tics. At the dinner table, when everyone in the house eats together, that one word can get everyone screaming and crying with laughter. Yes, the Cool People bond over “shit.”

“Shit” brings them closer together.

“Shit” made Stryker glad to be alive.

Stryker sits down next to Wendell and looks into his strained asymmetrical face. This is a huge step forward for the wrestler. Since moving in, he never really minded the Dear Ones who shared their living space so graciously with him, he even enjoyed doing things with or for them. Unless he was called on to help them eat or go to the bathroom, that was a whole different game. A lot of the time, Stryker was just plain grossed out by the way their mouths could not contain their slimy tongues, and the way they spit whenever they talked, and how they got stuck when they talked, chewed food spilling from their lips. And, the bathroom… I’m not even going to talk about that. Let’s just say that one of the Cool People, not naming any names, enjoys using inappropriate materials as art supplies. Anyway, Stryker also used to feel an urge to laugh at their speech patterns, and not only Wendell’s Tourette’s, but, thankfully, that has passed (mostly). And, since moving into the house, the wrestler has weaned himself off the hand sanitizer. It was really drying out his skin anyway.

“What’s going on, my man?” Stryker asks with a grin.

“Shit,” Wendell replies, cream of wheat drying in grainy clots on his cheeks and chin.

Debra wipes the young man’s face and hands, smiling as she does. Wendell is a challenge for her, but she loves working with him. It brings her a kind of peace she has always lacked.

“There,” she says, “doesn’t that feel better?” She smiles and takes an extra little swipe at his button nose. She notices Stryker watching her with a smile and she blushes. She likes the attention.

It makes Debra sad that Wendell has to go through life with this broken body and an underdeveloped and neglected mind. She’s been secretly teaching him multiplication in the evenings, when everyone’s out at wrestling or wherever. No one has ever taken the time to teach him much of anything before. And he’s proven himself to be a good student. He even read an entire Junie B. Jones book to her last week (with only two or three “shits” per chapter).

“Crap,” he says, laughing. Debra laughs, too, meeting Stryker’s eyes over the top of Wendell’s head.

“Good morning, everyone,” Ally sings from the doorway. She is dressed in a white silk robe and slippers. A feather boa encircles her thin neck and large black Gucci sunglasses cover her eyes. “Re-re-ready to get…get to work, Stryker?” She peers over her shades at him.

“Already got my five miles in. I’m done.” He flexes his muscles. Debra blushes again.

“N-n-not ssso fast there, hot…hot shot,” Ally says, hands on hips. “Today, s-someone special is coming to…help you work out.” She laughs. “He should be here any time.”

What? Stryker is not stoked. He was all set to go out and see a movie this afternoon, maybe he’d even ask Debra to go along.

A few hours later, the special guest arrives. He turns out to be a famous Hollywood trainer, the star of a new series of workout DVDs favored by celebrities. Ally saw him on some infomercial last week and thought that Stryker could use his help. She called the toll-free number at the end of the program and asked how to get in touch with the man. Late last night, he’d flown out to Pittsburgh to work with Stryker. Stryker, though he would never admit it, is totally intimidated the second he opens the door, but he figures it’s for the best, and he doesn’t have to pay for it, so what the hell?

That first day, Stryker runs until he pukes. He lifts until his arms shake and can bear no more. He squats until his quads twitch and spasm and his kneecaps pop and grind. At dinner, he doesn’t have the strength to lift a fork, but that’s okay—he’s not hungry anyway. In bed, his back seizes up. He’s never felt such horrible cramps in his life. He crawls to the bathroom and swallows four Advil tablets with water slurped directly from the faucet. He sleeps like the dead.

His transformation to superhero does not end with the physical training, either. Before the sun even cracks the horizon, the wrestler is woken by a large loud man. Screaming in his face.

“Get up out of that bed, brother,” the man yells. “It’s a brand new day and we’ve got serious, serious training to do.”

Stryker’s eyes fly wide and he recognizes this man immediately. He is one of Stryker’s boyhood heroes, an old-school WWC wrestler by the name of American Bear. Starring in his own reality show, he has become more of a joke in recent years. But, if anyone can help him build a bigger personality, it’s definitely the Bear. This dude is way larger than life, over-the-freaking-top. He is like a real live parody of a professional wrestler, stereotype to the
n
th degree. Ally did all right, he thinks. Stryker could definitely use the Bear’s help. It’s too bad that the guy had to show up so damn early, though. Stryker’s not very personable at 4:30am.

“You like it, right?” Ally has been anxious to hear what Stryker thinks of her choice of trainers. She is sitting in the kitchen at the breakfast table the next day, Rice Krispies reflecting in her Gucci shades.

Stryker hobbles over with a cup of coffee and eases his sore-ass butt onto a chair. His hamstrings hurt like hell. His hands shake. Bags weigh heavy under his eyes. He hasn’t shaved. As he sits hoping Debra won’t see him in this sad condition, she walks in and says good morning.

“Coffee!” The Bear screams in Stryker’s ear. He is beyond loud. Stryker jumps and spills his coffee all over the table and his lap. It burns.

“Remain calm under all circumstances, brother, it’s the key to mastering anyone and anything,” Bear says at a much lower volume, throwing a dishtowel at his student. Debra stifles a giggle. Stryker is not only burned but embarrassed. Bear walks out, probably to admire his reflection in the mirror. Ally, after laughing at Stryker, clears her dishes and heads out to the pool.

“So,” Debra says. “Think you can handle all the abuse, tough guy?” She smiles at Stryker, feeling just a little foolish for trying her hand at flirting. She’s never been much good at that stuff. Under normal conditions, she would not have dared to approach any man as buff and handsome as Stryker Nash. But, nothing is “normal” anymore, is it? What the heck, she thinks. She’s caught him looking her way more than once or twice in the past few weeks, too.

“Of course,” he says. They’re silent for a moment. They can hear Lois wheeling Wendell through the foyer, Wendell’s “shit” echoing off the marble. Stryker decides he’d better bust a move. “So, um, the other day, when the trainer showed up? I was going to ask you to see a movie.”

Debra smiled, watching the door for Wendell’s entrance. “Yeah? I was kind of hoping.”