Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Where the Sidewalk Ends


Our luxury sidewalk. Note the dirt pile across the alley. Yeah, you can't walk on that.

I no longer own a car. It is a temporary move, as we fully intend to get a nice truck when we have saved up. But for now, we are unable to pick you up at the airport, so please delay travel plans.

We no longer have a car because we very suddenly sold our Volvo to a man named José. He called within hours of its debut, even though we posted it on Craig's List as "for parts." Even though we told him everything that was wrong with it. Even though we warmed it up for half an hour and it wouldn't shift out of first. He still wanted it.

We asked a measly $600, hoping to get $500, but really just not wanting to have to pay to have it towed away. We needed to sell it in a hurry for two reasons:

1. We received a ticket for having expired tags.†
2. We received a ticket for parking in our "driveway," which is apparently not a legal parking space because it crosses the sidewalk.†† Thus we had to park in the street, which made our expired tags very easy to see.

As I mentioned in a previous post (Birthday Blowout), I am not a good haggler. Well, I could learn a thing or two from José. Perhaps he could sense the urgency of our situation. At any rate, he never once kicked the tires. Instead he made me carefully repeat exactly what was wrong with it a few different times, and then asked how much it would be to get a new transmission. When I told him a mechanic quoted me $2900, he whistled. "Is expensive."

It all put me in a very remorseful position, as though we really had no business asking for any money at all. Graciously, he offered $400. What a good guy.

Darby was unmoved. "450," she shot back. After a beat, José agreed.

I admit, I was impressed. Darby had heard the exact same angles as I had, and still had the wherewithal to net an extra 12.5% on the bid. As he drove off to get the money, I felt very proud of my wife. No one could just show up and screw my family out of a deal. We were smarter, and tougher than that. We didn't need his money. We had tons of other people who couldn't wait to see our '95 Volvo sedan if it was still available. We made the terms here. $400? Who did he think he was anyway?

After an hour, some of the post-haggle high wearing off, I was pretty sure he wasn't coming back. But come back he did, and José still had another trick up his sleeve.

"I'm sorry for bad news," he started. Bad news? "The ATM would only give 400," he explained. "I tried to get more at gas station, but they would only give 20... is ok?"

"Yes. Is ok."

Here is the part where I tell you that not owning a car is the greatest thing that ever happened to me, that I have been liberated from myriad municipal fees and the crushing price of petrol, that my carbon footprint is now smaller than my calf muscles. It is what I've wanted and threatened to do for years. Instead, I have to say that I am a little freaked out, and this is because there is no longer even the option to drive. I am realizing that there is a big difference between choosing to bike and having to bike.†††

There is also a weird (and absolutely unforeseen) social aspect to it, and that is that I feel like I have regressed slightly. Owning a car is a symbol of independence.†††† It is part of being an adult, and being able to go where you please, when you please. It is a symbol of financial stability, and perhaps even mental stability. There is even a safety issue to owning a car. Without one, I will have to bike or bum a ride to the ER the next time I chop the tip of my thumb off,††††† like a common teenager.

Sadly, it may be a while before we can save up to buy another auto. For now we will just have to wait out the thunderstorms and double up our errands. Biking to the store is not always the most convenient way to spend an evening, but it's kind of romantic–the fiery sunsets burning over the west mesa as we return home, our backs bent under the heft of fresh produce.

Despite my dreams of being totally self-sufficient, I know we will have to own a car again. We have even begun trolling Craig's List, getting an idea about the market values, avoiding the ads signed José.



† Our tags had been expired for some time (as in they still said "Land of Lincoln") and we didn't want to pay to get new ones because we don't really drive, AND we were pretty sure that we would fail our emissions test anyway (for the record, we still consider ourselves "environmentalists").

†† It is the only sidewalk for several blocks in either direction. It is our own personal sidewalk.

††† I swear to god, these revelations I have while blogging just seem so obvious once I write them down.

†††† Despite the fact that the freeway is our country's only viable transportation superstructure, one that relies hopelessly on imported and finite resources.

††††† About a month before I dislocated my finger, I had an accident while chopping celery. What an asshole.

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Monday, September 8, 2008

The Injured Stranger




A lot of people wouldn't consider Ultimate Frisbee to be dangerous. It is a co-ed, non-contact game that doesn't require referees. Look across the pitch at the opposing team, and the line-up will hardly appear intimidating. You will see people in bare feet, sleepy teenagers, and the token beginner made obvious in cargo shorts and loafers. It is meant to be an inclusive game that doesn't privilege strength or power or all those yucky masculine ideals. It requires patience, finesse, and the ability and will to run and run and run forever.

I began playing Ultimate Frisbee this spring as a way to make friends and get a little exercise. It is a good workout, but sometimes the games lack the competitiveness that one normally equates with playing sports. Part of this is due to the impeccable manners of the Frisbee community* which promotes fun and fairness always–try too hard and you are viewed as some kind of violent sociopath–but the truth is that the teams are populated mostly by people over 30, a threshold that introduces you to both your own fragility and the wisdom to heed its warning. Sprinting as hard as you can, preparing to dive headlong into the end zone for the winning goal, you find yourself thinking about work and whether you will get fired for calling in sore.

As I watch my teammates blow coverages, or high five each other after every play no matter what, I admit I feel a little disheartened. It is obvious that I am past my prime. I am no longer competing at the level I once did. I have resumed my place in the natural order of things. I will never be an all-star, or have my name in the paper again. I will never be called gifted or dominant. Here on the Frisbee pitch, I line up among people that were never athletes in the first place.

The punchline is that in the course of a few months I have seen some truly brutal injuries–concussions, collisions, bloody scrapes that run the length of your limb. I heard a guy's ankle actually emit a 'pop' like the sound of ripping out handfuls of sod as he pivoted and collapsed in agony. It's true, we don't tackle each other, but the game takes its toll nonetheless. This may be explained by the relative unfitness of the players. Naturally, if you are not in great shape, you are more prone to overextend yourself. But a lot of the injuries occur because of the object of the game, which involves running as fast as you can after a hovering plastic disc without looking where you are going. Once the Frisbee is cut loose, all eyes move skyward, and suddenly the field of play is transformed into a huge atom smasher, 14 heavy objects rocketing blindly around. The potential for impact is great, and two Sundays ago it was my turn.

As we warmed up I joked with my teammates about my absence of late. I hadn't been out to play in over a month and the many excuses revolved around the difficulty of the game, and the toll it can take on one's body. Things like I was too sore, or the game is too physical were repeated in turn by every friendly face, the joke getting funnier with each telling. Oh, how we laughed! But inside I was I trembling with strength and ferocity. I was rested and healthy. After a month off, I was going to run faster and jump higher than anyone these assholes had ever seen.

We lined up in opposing end zones and I took my position across the field from a new guy. I studied his movements to see if I could detect anything. He had on a shirt whose sleeves had been removed, but whose armholes were plenty large to fit his arms (dramatic weight loss?). He was thin and wore sunglasses, suggesting good speed but a weakness for bright lights. I would have to remember to lead him sunward.

Within seconds of play it was obvious to me that he was over-matched. My calculations had been way off. The lad possessed nothing near the quickness it would take to stop me. His field sense was also poor, weaving absentmindedly toward the back of the stack, far from the action. As his team advanced up-field I began to play a softer coverage, my hope being to bait his teammates into throwing a pass I could easily overtake. I allowed him a good lead and kept my eyes open for anything close that I might be able to poach as well. Much to my dismay the little bastard took off on me. I turned to see him darting for the far corner of the end zone, wide open. His teammate also saw the break and quickly cut loose a beautiful pass. I could only watch the two parabolas, man and disc, drawing ever closer to a single point in space where they would unite in triumph. Or would they? Still running hard I began to hope. The disc had hung up longer than expected. It floated lazily as my man waited beneath it, no longer moving away from me. The distance between us evaporated. I leapt and swung hard. The disc caught on my fingertips as I spiked it down. I had done it. Incomplete pass.

I was commended by my teammates, but my opponent had angered me. I decided to show him with whom he was dealing. The disc now in our possession, I broke toward the passer allowing my guardian to follow. As his stride came parallel to mine I turned and exploded away with the speed and grace of a man 15% younger than I.

Nathan held the disc. I knew that he would see me. Nathan only throws long, high-risk passes. He didn't disappoint. As I turned to glance back, Nathan's arm was already cocked into his huge wind-up. When guarding Nathan, one must be careful that they don't get right hooked in the face on his follow through, so powerful is his release. And this pass was no different. Streaking towards the goal, 10 yards beyond any defender, I watched the disc angle towards me with frightening speed. It overtook me so quickly that I began to wonder if I was not the target after all, if there was someone yet beyond me. The pass was off the mark and I would never be able to run it down in time. I had to jump. It was awkward and the disc crashed into my outstretched palm, sending my arm backwards, empty. It was a tough chance, but I should have held on. Incomplete pass.

Now I was boiling. Two plays, two fuck ups. I would have to make a statement. Back on defense, my enemy was up to his old tricks–pretending to be confused, running lazy routes, getting in his teammates' way. But I would not be lulled so easily this time around. I stuck close, heading off his angles, keeping my hips squared to his. As his team worked its way toward the end zone, he retreated. Always at the back of the stack, never cutting toward the passer, he was a non-factor until a quick pass to the outside opened a lane along the boundary. My charge was off again, heading for the same far corner, but this time I had him. I read the pass perfectly and broke to the inside. My position would force an interception at best, an incompletion at least.

The pass was high again. I used the angle to push him close to the sideline. If I jumped he would have to fall back to make the catch, and by then he would be out of bounds. As I left my feet something went very wrong. There was contact between us. He hadn't retreated. Was he insane? Couldn't he see that he was beaten? We jostled in the air for a moment, but my read was good. The disc sailed above our reach and lightly landed outside the end zone. I, on the other hand, came down hard.

My neck. The elbow-first landing had jammed my shoulder upward, wrenching my neck in a very unpleasant way. I sat up to assess the damage. My neck was very sore and my head began to hurt. I decided I was okay and began to push myself up. It was then that I noticed my hand.

If there isn't excruciating pain, an injury can occasionally inspire wonder and fascination. Like a surrealist work, the strange new contours and angles of your body register as foreign objects, unconnected from the whole. It is gruesome and surprising. You stare and wonder how this thing could possibly be part of you. Alas, this moment was fleeting as I quickly realized my pinkie finger was badly bent. I walked toward the sidelines to sounds of my teammates asking if I was okay.

True to form, my Frisbee friends exhibited compassion and concern. Since no one had an ice pack, Chuck offered me the chance to dunk my digit into his thermos of iced Gatorade. Someone removed my left cleat for me. Someone I've never met before offered to drive me to the emergency room. People applauded as I left, like I had accomplished a great thing by getting hurt, like I was in little league.

...

At the sign-in counter in the ER I was greeted by a young man who took my name, complaint, and asked me to rate my level of discomfort on a scale of 1 to 10. I gave it a 4. He then asked how I had injured myself. I told him that I was playing Frisbee.
“You did that playing Frisbee?”
“Ultimate Frisbee,” I explained.
“Ohh,” he nodded, obviously having no idea what that was or why it was more dangerous.

After taking all of this information he gave me an ID bracelet and handed me a clipboard to fill out. He then disappeared, forever I think because none of the information I told him seemed to transfer over to the other people I encountered throughout the night. It is as though each computer is connected only to its own database. None of this information is shared unless you go to that computer.

As I attempted to fill out the forms with one hand on what I have deemed the slickest counter top in the Southwest, a young woman smiled and asked what I had done. I showed her my hand and said that I thought my finger was broken. She gasped and turned to the others behind the counter to look at my finger. In turn, they all stared and exclaimed something extremely reassuring like, "Wow, that doesn't look good." I don't know what they're used to seeing in this particular ER, but apparently it is never anything as bad as a broken finger.

Next she asked when the injury had occurred.
"Just now, " I said.
"Really? You were just walking by? That's lucky!"

If I had, in fact, just been casually strolling by an emergency room when my finger was suddenly made to jut strangely in two opposite directions, then yes, I suppose one could detect kind of a silver lining, but I had trouble understanding how this person could look at my hand and consider me to be “lucky.”

Next, and by next I mean an hour later, I was admitted to the Triage, where a male nurse tended to me by taking my temperature and asking me how I was injured.
“Playing sports,” I said, not wanting to repeat the earlier confusion.
“Sports?” He seemed incredulous, despite my Umbros.
“Frisbee,” I clarified.
He looked up from his clipboard and narrowed his eyes at me for a moment. “Sports sounds better,” he determined and gave me a Percocet. I thanked him and asked if I could also get an ice pack.
“Oh yeah. Knew I was forgetting something,” he laughed and shook his head. As I waited for my pill to kick in I made a list of the pros and cons of leaving.

Pros:
1. I wouldn’t have to pay an ER bill
2. I wouldn’t have to watch Kingpin with a man with a bloody face
3. Chicks think injuries are hot
4. I’m not convinced the employees here have medical training
5. I don’t like needles, and there might be needles
6. It is only a pinkie

Cons:
1. My pinkie would probably never work again
2. Throbbing pain
3. Paranoia that, without medical attention, it would some how spread (gangrene?) to other digits and limbs, making it the worst Frisbee accident of all time

I decided to stick with my original plan and hope that I would eventually see someone who had obtained a medical degree. Graciously, my wife joined me in the lobby where we watched a fascinating game show in which the object is not to vomit. I almost lost.

Five short hours later I was called back to get x-rays. After the x-rays I was admitted to a hospital room where a nurse offered Darby coffee and water, and told me that he was not allowed to offer these things to me until they knew the extent of my injuries. The extent of my injuries were thus: my finger was by now very purple and very crooked. I didn't see how coffee could really hurt, but I am a cautious man, so I stayed put.** As we waited, Darby decided that she needed to see my finger again, even though it had swollen in place several puking contestants ago. I only mention it because as she leaned from her chair across my hospital bed to examine my finger our waiter returned, and for a brief moment he believed that my loving and dependable companion was "helping me to relax." He said nothing as he realized that my pants were still fastened, but I think he might have just spun back out of the room had they been otherwise. So, if you're ever in need of a quick hotel room, the ER on Central Ave. is available for a very reasonable $1800 for a six hour block.

Eventually I did see a doctor, a droll woman with two pairs of identical glasses in her breast pocket. When I told her I had been injured playing Frisbee she said, “Oh yes. I’ve heard that’s dangerous.” She showed us the x-rays that revealed a badly dislocated joint, but no bone breaks, and even though the middle and distal phalanges† were no longer anywhere near each other, she seemed relieved by this news. After some shots, she massaged the joint back in place and sent me home with a lot of bandages and a prescription for painkillers. She also complimented my signature, which looks a lot like the signature of a person with a severe hand injury. Doctors.

Two weeks later, my hand is healing nicely. There does not appear to be any permanent ligament damage, and the mobility is returning to the finger. I hope to be able to make a fist by Christmas. In the meantime, I am adjusting to life without a left pinkie. As it turns out, it comes in a little more useful than I gave it credit for. For instance, without a pinkie I can’t play guitar, type 40 words per minute, or drink tea. But as long as I have Percocet, who cares?

As for Frisbee, I believe I will be able to return in a few weeks, pending I don't have a severe narcotics addiction. But I wonder if I will be able to play with the same intensity and "heart" that I did on that day. More and more my body and mind begin to wear out. Where I could once stay up until midnight on a work day, I go to bed right after Law & Order: Criminal Intent. I will be 30 myself very soon, and I feel every bit of it. I have been told that this would happen–that I would slow down, that things would get harder. I just didn't believe it. It's one of those lessons you can only learn by going through it first hand. I never thought I'd say it but as I think about having children or maintaining a career, the ability to swat a plastic disc out of the middle of air seems, frankly, a little silly.


* Community with a capital C. There is an Ultimate Association, complete with member dues. I didn't join, but I am on the list server, so I get several emails a week regarding everything from tournaments in far flung cities to offers to purchase used skis.

** False. I am accident prone, and very skeptical of safety features such as bike helmets and sealed packages.

† Editors note – In the original publishing, my injuries were said to be with the carpals, which are apparently in my wrist and not my finger. My friend Chris, who described himself as "a bone guy," pointed this out. You can never have too many bone guys around.

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