This Road I Roll

C.R. Reardon's Webste

Article, 12/11/15:

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Part I: Getting There

             The winter of 2015 was a tumultuous one in Beverly, Massachusetts, thirty miles north of Boston.  So tumultuous in fact that I, the writer of this article, in a wheelchair since age ten, now a twenty-nine-year-old, could not leave my house except when trudging to my ten-hour a week job in the sports information department at nearby Salem State University.  One hundred inches of snow in a month, snowdrifts that disappeared the eight-foot high fence in the yard, dirt, gas, and salt-imbedded mounds plowed into street corners that drivers couldn‘t peek over or around, frozen corridors for kids walking to schools, the tops of their heads below the snowline—it was a glorious time.

            Since you have been wondering since the third sentence (if you made it past the fact that I am from Boston), I will tell you that I was diagnosed with a brain tumor at age eight, had proton radiation to kill it at age ten, and loss my balance, some hearing, swallowing/ talking abilities, etc. as a result of swelling on my cerebellum.  I went on to graduate from one of the better private high schools in Massachusetts (Pingree), to the University of Arizona and Stonehill College for my B.A. in English, and to Salem State for my M.A. in English.  I have self-published three books which have earned me approximately fifty dollars, and have several pieces published in minor literary journals.  This may seem self-masturbatory, and I’ll admit that a tad of it is, but as of 2015, someone like me has to do this to earn readers’ trust.

            Anyways, the snow trapping me in my house gave me the opportunity to write a screenplay, an idea that had been bouncing around in my head for years.  So, I wrote Lagom, (the Swedish word for ‘just the right amount’) a fractured story that follows the stories of Iraqi immigrants, a militant left-wing couple, a banker and cartoonist, a cop, a janitor, and a world-renowned scientist on an October day in Stockholm, Sweden.  I felt that I could write about Sweden because, starting in my senior year of college, I was denied a Fulbright scholarship there four years in a row.  Four.  Although, I think it had something to do with the facts that 1) I have a neurological disorder that makes it hard for me to learn new languages (which the Fulbright committee is big on doing, but is also a convenient way for me to fulfill the stereotype of  ‘dumb American’) and 2) that I received a C- as an undergraduate in medieval literature, a class in my major—though, I cannot be sure these were contributing factors to my denials.  Regardless, I read a 2009 article declaring that Stockholm was taking the initiative to make itself the most accessible capital city in the world—something that, at the time, I had not heard of a major city doing.  I took great interest in the city, did copious amounts of research on the country, culture, and its writers like Strindberg and Transtromer, and the more research I did the more enamored I became with Sweden.

            Unexpectedly, I was notified on August 26th that Lagom was one of fifteen finalists for best screenplay at the Catalina Film Festival—I had forgot I had even entered it in the competition on www.withoutabox.com.  I kept the news to myself for a few days, teetering back-and-forth between whether to go or not.  Could I afford it?  Was it physically doable?  I can do a good amount on my own—I lived on my own when I was away at college—but having a friend go with me that would have to help me button a shirt and tie and put a bi-pap mask and tape my eye shut at night, might be too much.  Needless to say, when I told others about my news, they were excited—I tend not to get riled up about accolades, celebrity, and things of this nature—and after deciding to dip into my savings account and facing the fact that, like most things, nothing substantive would come of this trip but that it would be a singular occasion in an ideal setting that might not happen again, I decided to attend.     

            Logistics in an unknown location are the most anxiety-ridden aspect of traveling for those in wheelchairs—I’m surprised they don’t cause more aneurysms.  Is there a connector flight so I can pee?  Why can’t I use the bathroom without humiliating myself and having everyone watch me as my friend walks/drags me down the aisle?  Why should I have to pay more for a connector?  Why should I have to pay more for a shuttle to pick me up from the airport?  Is the ferry accessible?  Will the docks be too tough for me?  Can I get an accessible room on the island?  That is, a room with a roll-in shower?  (A disabled person can never trust the hotel industry, or any industry really, because, in the most shameful incarnation of capitalism, industries that advertise something as ‘accessible’ are trying to get customer’s money and don’t care if that customer can utilize the product.)  When I get to the island, can I get around?  Are there things I can do?  Are the film festival’s venues accessible?  I am the one dipping into my savings and traveling 3,000 miles.      

            Once these questions were answered, I booked the ferry and plane tickets.  However, after my friend and I had purchased non-refundable plane tickets, I made a final call to the hotel to book a room and asked to make sure they had a roll-in shower.  In a series of prior emails the owner of the hotel told me the room was handicapped accessible and had a roll-in shower, but the owner thought this meant that one could access the room and roll a wheelchair through the bathroom’s doorway—the toilet and shower still inaccessible, and the room and bathroom still too small to maneuver.  To be fair, the owner seemed like a nice, honest person (as I have found most able-bodied people to be toward the handicapped)—the type of hotel owner who answers every review on Tripadvisor.com with a pleasant response—and gave me a full refund and felt sorry and was happy for me when I found a room at the hotel down the street.  So, I choose to look at this as a genuine misunderstanding.  But isn’t this indicative of a larger, more deep-rooted problem? 

              Indicative of an ableist type of thinking that is so engrained in the public’s subconscious—presumably from centuries of not having to deal with the handicapped—that this alternate perspective teeming with physical obstacles is not adopted, which is understandable, but is also not even considered, which is not understandable?  The problem isn’t some sinister hotel owner trying to bamboozle me out of money; the problem is that the owner, like ninety-nine percent of people, wasn’t even aware of this circumstance.  Examples of this thinking can also be seen when someone holds the door open for a handicapped person when there is a step to the entrance, when there is not enough room for someone in a wheelchair to move around in a store, restaurant, bathroom, residential home, etc., etc.  Another example that has always stuck with me occurred in college when I was going back to my dorm from a class with a friend.  When it came time to cross the street I had to backtrack to find a curb cut to get down to the street provoking my friend to say, “Wow, I never thought of that.  I will never take stepping down a curb for granted again.”  The failure to recognize that such an issue exists is an example of this thinking.  The finger can’t be pointed at my friend or the public, though, because this particular aloofness is passively accepted as it is passed down from generation to generation instead of being actively pursued.  Perhaps this inability to consider the world through the eyes of someone in a wheelchair comes from the public’s fear of life in said wheelchair, and that their unwillingness to consider such a life is a psychological defense mechanism.  I do not know. 

           In the weeks before my departure to a beautiful island and my first big film festival, I buy a suit and matching bow tie, see the movie Black Mass, work my job at Salem State, continue to work on my book of short stories, and continue on in my life.

Part II: A Gimp in Catalina

            The first Catalina Film Festival took place in 2011, 2015 being the fifth anniversary.  Like the onslaught of unproven literary journals, a myriad of film festivals are popping up all over the world.  The weaker festivals (like newer literary journals) that fail to gain traction, sustain funding, attract submissions, etc. will be weeded out over time.  I believe the Catalina Film Festival will endure, though, for three reasons: 1) its proximity to Los Angeles makes it easy for filmmakers, actors, and celebrities to get to, 2) its colorful, idyllic location with a comfortable climate and picturesque views makes it a destination people want to go to, and 3) because of its rich cinematic history: it lays claim to the Avalon Casino which is an art-deco theater built in 1928 that seats 1,154 and was the first sound theater where Charlie Chaplin and D.W. Griffith screened their first talking movies.  Stars like Marilyn Monroe and Cary Grant also once lived or worked there.

9/24/15    6:05 am: 

I go through airport security.  Because I cannot go through the metal detector in my wheelchair, I receive a pat down.  This has been happening to me since before 9/11.  However, the pat downs have gotten more stringent.  This morning the TSA agent fingers the inside of my waistband while I lean over (which is a new tactic), then cups my thighs with both hands and runs the tops of his hands down my legs (this is not new, but it somehow feels different, like a personal violation, not in a painful way, but in a squeamish way).  I had always thought people who complained about being patted down at the airport were sissies—I am reevaluating that position.

6:39 am:  

I wait ten minutes because a janitor is relieving himself in the lone handicapped stall.

6:56 am:  

Transfer out of my wheelchair, into an aisle chair, and then into my seat in the first row. 

7:28 am: 

The stewardess, who is short with auburn hair, mentions that she is from Alaska.  She asks me where I am going.  I smile and reply, “Vacation in California.”

7:50 am-10:30 am (West Coast Time):  

I finish reading This Is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz and sleep. 

10:45 am:  

The stewardess asks where in California I am going, so I say, “Catalina.”  She asks what I am doing there, and I say that I am a finalist for best screenplay at the film festival.  Her face lights up.

11:10 am:  

I catch a cab to take me to the Catalina Express at Long Beach where my ferry will depart at 2:00 pm.  I notice the multi-colored containerships as we pull into the parking lot.  They all have white Chinese lettering on the side.  I go to check-in for my ferry at a front desk where I am told that I am at the San Pedro port.  I order an Uber to take me to the Long Beach port.

11:52 am:  

I arrive at the Long Beach port.  I have time to get lunch so I go in a small, dark restaurant where a young Asian girl, who looks underage, is my waitress.  I have a hot dog so thick and tough-skinned that it reminds me of the buffalo penis Tyrone devoured in the Fear Factor skit from Chapelle’s Show.  

1:43 pm:  

A young, bearded employee in sunglasses wheels me backwards down a ramp to the dock, then up a ramp to the boat.  I sit in the aisle next to the first row.  A family with two girls sits next to me.  Away from the shore, the Pacific’s water is cerulean, opposed to the Atlantic’s water back home.

3:19 pm:  

I arrive on the island.  It is gorgeous: colorful homes like the Caribbean stretch on ribbons of pavement like vines laid on mountainous topography.  The city of Avalon on Catalina Island is a mix of the quaint, oceanfront shops, restaurants, and hotels like on Bear Skin Neck in Rockport, Massachusetts, the laid back yet wild atmosphere of Key West, and the posh, hilly terrain of San Francisco.

4:20 pm:  

Fortunately, Avalon is flat at its base where its main street—Crescent Way—rubs against the coastline.  Perpendicular to this main street are four primary streets with hotels, restaurants, shops, etc.  At the beginning of one of these streets is the Catalina Island Inn Hotel where I wound up finding a room.  Like many things in Avalon, it is upscale, a bed and breakfast type.  On its website, the room is clean, modern, decadent, and has one hell of a spacious handicapped bathroom with a roll-in shower, grab-bars, and a sleek shallow sink.  I check-in and unpack.

6:37 pm:  

The town is dead on the weekdays, and I go to an empty Mexican restaurant and have two cheese enchiladas.  I start my vacation off by imbibing a pina colada.  After dinner I am tired from jet lag and expending more energy than I usually do.

Note: the term ‘vacation’, when applied to someone in a wheelchair, is a loose, relative term because there is little that is relaxing about maneuvering foreign, often inaccessible surroundings that one is not accustomed to.  Thus, vacations are typically more work for the disabled, but to deprive oneself of vacations is to deprive oneself of new experiences.

9/25/15    7:31 am:  

For some reason I wake up early.  I go to a breakfast spot named the Pancake Cottage and have pigs n’ a blanket.  It is a small place with wood floors; a woman wearing a hijab sits in front of me.  A mosquito keeps landing on my skin and l keep hitting myself like a gimp that has a mysterious tick.  On my way back to the hotel, I purchase a ticket for a tour of the island at 11:45 am.

11:35 am:  

I have to walk onto the tour bus with assistance because the tour company’s one accessible bus has broken down.  My driver is Charlie.  He is a swell guy: full of life, humor, and always smiling as most tour guides do.  

I learn that the island is twenty-two by eight miles at its widest point.  The owner of Wrigley gum used to own the island, and the Cubs had spring training on the island for thirty years.  As we drive on you can see the effects of California’s drought i.e. the lack of vegetation, the dusty landscape.

We stop on the daunting single road to look at a bison—the blue Pacific is behind it.  It is a surreal sight.  Charlie tells everyone that the island’s conservatory—which pretty much controls the island—has brought in bison, bald eagles, and peregrine falcons.  I feel conflicted about this.

12:50 pm:  

I arrive at the island’s airport.  It has one runway, one hanger, an adobe-style restaurant, and looks like a set from Indiana Jones.

1:33 pm:  

On the drive back into Avalon, Charlie tells us that he is divorced, but that he and his ex-wife still joke around on the phone.

2:47 pm:  

I am asked what I will say if my screenplay wins its category.  This is the first time I realize I may win.  I formulate a speech in my head: ‘I recently came across the blog stylishlyimpaired.wordpress.com, which is written by a girl in a wheelchair who was awarded a scholarship to the London School of Fashion to earn her Ph.D.  She had the notion that a handicapped person taking a selfie of themselves is a radical act because, if you think about it, every image we see of someone who is in a wheelchair is taken/recorded by someone who is not handicapped.  This blogger argues that the selfie is, for the first time, putting the power to dictate how the world perceives them in the hands of the handicapped individual.  This conflict of perception is something I think all filmmakers should contemplate.”

4:56 pm:  

Dinner is consumed at Coney Island West.

5:09 pm:  

I receive a call on my cell phone telling me to be at the Avalon Casino at 5:30.

5:30-6:30 pm:  

I do not have to be at the Avalon Casino so early.  I sit by the front steps because the theater doors are not open yet.  Actresses and actors gussied up in gowns or tuxes walk up the red carpet on my right.

6:42 pm:  

With my filmmaker pass, I get to sit in the fourth row.  I feel underdressed.  I am wearing a thick-striped evergreen and white Izod with a pair of khaki slacks.

6:49 pm:  

A man and his significant other sit in front of me.  A festival volunteer asks if the woman would like anything, the woman asks for Mike and Ikes.  When the festival volunteer comes back minutes later saying they have no Mike and Ikes, the man throws his head back in laughter.

7:02 pm:  

Festival director Ron Truppa starts the show, and gives the Maverick Award to Billy Zane.  Mr. Zane is modest, so much so that it makes my insides shrivel and I feel vulnerable even though Mr. Zane is the one on stage in front of hundreds of people.

7:08 pm:  

Director Gary F. Gray, fresh off the release of his movie Straight Outta’ Compton, is awarded The Stanley Kramer Social Artist Award.  It turns out that the man sitting in front of me is Gary F. Gray.  Mr. Gray goes up to receive his award, and tells a story about how he was detained at the airport, thinking it was because of his race but then finding out his passport had expired.

7:20 pm: 

The feature movie Car Dogs is screened.  The movie takes place at a car dealership in Phoenix, Arizona, and includes actors like Patrick J. Adams, Josh Hopkins, Dash Mihok, Octavia Spencer, Nia Vardalos, and George Lopez.  It has racist and misogynistic elements, but has high production value and is expertly paced and is quite entertaining.  The motto for the car dealership is ‘Whatever it takes.’

9:12 pm:  

In a Q & A with the film’s director, I learn that he is a professor in the film department at Arizona State University.  He used the students from his program to help produce the film in order to cut costs and give each student a film credit for his/ her C.V.

9:47 pm:  

I roll back to my hotel along Catalina Bay.  There are big, glowing green lights under the water.  Near my hotel, I pass the festival’s after party.  There is a long line to get in and it is crowded and noisy, which means I’d be stuck in one spot all night and no one could hear me because I have a weak voice.  The after party is outside on a deck up a flight of stairs—there is no elevator.  I go to my hotel room and go to bed.

9/26/15  9:04 am:  

The weather is glorious yet again: temperatures in the seventies, bright skies, a bit humid, the island now buzzing with energy from the weekend’s visitors.  I go down to the end of the street to rent a golf cart for a few hours to go around the island, but the line is long and there are only a few carts left so the wait could be really long.  I stroll around downtown for a while and then go back to my hotel room to watch TV.

10:01 am:  

On ESPN’s Sportscenter, I watch the story of a girl who functions in every day life with no legs.  She is adopted and her favorite athlete is former American Olympic gymnast Dominique Moceanu.  One day the adopted girl asks her adoptive parents who her biological parents are, and, in a twist so shocking movie audiences wouldn’t believe it, a twist so shocking it would make an atheist consider the existence of a greater force, the girl with no legs turns out to be Dominique Moceanu’s sister.  Moceanu’s parents come clean and tell Dominique when they were young they made a mistake and regretfully put her up for adoption.  The sisters reunite and hug and kiss and laugh and gab as one would expect long-lost sisters to do.  As I am watching, I can’t help but notice that the piece or anyone in it—including the disabled sister—is not confronting the fact that she was put up for adoption because something was ‘wrong’ with her, she was too ‘different’, or, my personal favorite, ‘it would be too difficult.'

When the piece is over and I am watching LSU’s  Leonard Fournette run people over like a freight train, I think of the word ‘inspiration’.  Disabled people hate this word and its overuse (and rightfully so), but it is my opinion that when someone achieves a goal it is ‘inspiring’, especially if the individual struggles, as disabled people often do.  However, in the weeks prior to my excursion to Catalina, I read a New York Times article about a quadriplegic entrepreneur who was starting an Air B&B for disabled people with accessible houses and showers all over the world (the service is called Accomable in case you’re wondering.)  The article’s title was ’Inspiring Entrepreneur…’ which undercuts the achievement and shifts the reader’s and the article’s focus onto the quadriplegic’s back-story.  ‘Inspiring’, although accurate, is dismissive when it is used in the same manner that the racially charged ‘all lives matter’ statement is used.  Saying a disabled person is ‘inspiring’ or that ‘all lives matter’ is reductive and so asinine in its obviousness that it is offensive to handicapped people and black people whose starting point is far down society’s totem pole, and is a clear attempt for the white, able-bodied majority to be a part of something they’re not—a minority.

1:19 pm:  

The crab cakes are delicious.  I have them for an appetizer: I don’t know how they are moist and succulent on an island during California’s drought, but it tastes good, and is one of the rare foods with a consistency like custard that is easy for me to swallow.  I am at the Bluewater Grill, which has the island’s prime location as it is located on the center of Crescent Way on the water.  The restaurant was recommended to me by my aunt whose brother-in-law is the owner.  I have seared scallops as my meal. 

1:37 pm: 

“If I was mayor I‘d introduce bats to the island to take care of these flies.”

2:15 pm:  

I shower and shave and brush my teeth and change to get ready for the night’s event. I put on a tailored dark blue suit—this is the first suit I have ever owned.  Similarly, a bow tie purchased under the guise of ‘being easier to put on’, has matching, lighter blues and is the first bow tie I’ve ever worn.

6:15 pm:  

I arrive at the red carpet, which is about fifty feet long.  My attitude is apathetic: the red carpet is not terrible (as many celebrities would have you believe), but it is not fun either.  Three cameras flash; an older female photographer who is wearing glasses and sitting down says, “I like the bow tie.”

7:03 pm: 

The program starts, and a teary-eyed Alexis O. Korycinski wins her second award of the festival for her film The Haircut.  She calls for more diversity behind the camera.

7:12 pm:  

My category of best screenplay is announced.  I do not win or get an honorable mention, but when the winner Loveband is announced I get a little excited by the sound of the ‘L’.

7:20 pm:  

The departed master of the horror genre, Wes Craven is honored.  The actor who played Freddy Kruger informs the audience that Mr. Craven hated real blood and loved bird watching.

7:33 pm:  

Lucas Till is honored as an up-and-coming actor, and says two sentences.  On the other hand, Mena Suvari, who is honored for her contributions to film, has a long, prepared speech about the definition of an actor as ‘someone who is pretending to be genuine.’  She seems sweet and authentic in her nervousness.  I hope she is not acting.

7:46 pm:  

The movie The Benefactor starring Richard Gere and Dakota Fanning is screened.  It has an odd story that makes one ponder the urgency to tell such a story, but, in the end, is a well-made piece of film.  The scene of Richard Gere suffering withdrawal pains in bed resonated with me because I had such pains coming off prescribed steroids.

9:40 pm:  

Not knowing the layout, and factoring in the noise at the festival’s after party at the island’s conservancy, I opt to go back to my hotel room where I change into more comfortable clothes. 

It is a little after 10:00 pm, and there is no place serving food.  I go back to my hotel where the island’s only grocery market, Van’s, is next door.  I purchase two apple turnovers and consume them in my room.  I go to bed.

9/27/15  9:10 am:  

It seems early because ESPN’s Fantasy Football Now is on TV, and it doesn’t start on the east coast till ten or eleven.  I see Josina Anderson reporting from somewhere: her chocolate-y, silky hair complements her skin, but today she has blonde highlights for some reason.  I think of ESPN anchors Nicole Briscoe, Lindsay Czarniak, Jaymee Sire, Jade McCarthy, Britt McHenry, Kris McKendry, Samantha Steele, Sarah Walsh, Michelle Beedle and come to the conclusion that ESPN has a thing for blondes.

9:59 am:  

I go into a musty sports bar that has a stench, but is most likely the only sports bar on the island where I can watch the Patriots play the Jaguars.  Apparently, this is the time the drinking begins out west.

11:43 am:  

The Patriots are crushing the Jaguars.  I look around at the other TVs and see groups of people gathered around each one—each TV showing a different game.  I have an idea for a short story: Thomas Jefferson as a time traveler.  Jefferson is taken to a football game by a young, white male; Jefferson confuses the team owner, perched in his luxury box, for a plantation owner, the coaches for slave masters, and the players for slaves.  I will mention how the work causes severe bodily harm, how players can be cut and traded like chattel at any moment, how Darwinian the sport is, and somehow tie in a report I saw on Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel about illiterate players whose college’s forced them to take easy classes so they would focus on their respective sports.  I will end the story with the young, white male telling Jefferson, “I bought him in my fantasy auction draft.”

1:07 pm:  

I stroll two small blocks down to Luau Larry’s for my last meal before I leave the island.  It is a tiki-themed restaurant, and I have clam strips that are hearty—some kind of tropical colada tastes fresh and sweet washing my food down.

Side note: A few years back, I received the Alumni Award from my grammar school St. John’s The Evangelist in Beverly, Massachusetts, and the program coordinator kept asking me for a song to play when going up to receive the award and the most suitable one I could come up with was “Today” by the Smashing Pumpkins.  My friend, who is accompanying me on this trip and was my neighbor since before I could remember, suggests the song “Por Ti Volare” which is the song Will Ferrell sings at the Catalina Wine Mixer in the movie Stepbrothers.  Since I did use Andrea Bocelli’s version of the song because it would ‘be hilarious’, this has made the whole trip such a wonderfully meta experience that I can’t think of a worthy analogy with which to end this sentence.

3:22 pm:  

I board the ferry to go back to Long Beach and see Freddy Kruger in line.  When I make it to Long Beach I order an Uber to bring me to LAX, and the driver is   an articulate, retired gentleman who, later in our conversation, tells me that he wouldn’t be surprised if the government was controlling the weather.  I go through the customary pat down at airport security.

8:29 pm:  

I have my last piece of fried calamari at a restaurant in the airport, which, for some reason was served in a large martini glass, making it hard for me to lift my arm to the calamari.  I go to the bathroom before I board the plane.

12:04 am:  

The computers on the plane weren’t working so I have been on the runway for two hours.  I am freaking out inside because I know I have a five-hour flight in front of me with no way to use the bathroom and a bladder that’s filling up.   I wonder if anybody has gotten an ulcer or had a heart attack this way.

(Exact time unknown while flying):  

I spend the next several hours sleeping, watching TV, and trying not to think about peeing.

6:12 am:  

I make it Logan Airport in Boston.  My mother and sister are excited, waiting for me when I get off the plane.  They rush me to a bathroom where I go into the men’s room—the handicapped stalls (2) are occupied with construction workers giving their ritualistic morning salute.