Pops must’ve climbed into his van right after hanging up, because he was at my door within the hour. He didn’t bring the much-needed firearm, instead suggesting I flee and move in with him. It was obvious that getting the fuck away from that neighborhood, freebasing cocaine, and imminent threat was in my best interest. So after some cursory resistance, like forty seconds, I relented. He got busy loading and we were on the road by nightfall.
Even though Lebanon is the only Arab country without a desert, I often wonder if we got Bedouin in the family and was not surprised at all to find Pops lived in yet another location. The new pad, in Santa Ana near South Coast Plaza, was a newer single-story sitting on a corner lot. One thing made my new living arrangement quite enjoyable – Hassan and Omar were at the fun kindergarten-ish age. It was a blast playing with them, watching Dukes of Hazzard and reading nightly bedtime stories. Still not a fan of Barbara, I kept it to myself to maintain the peace. And as an unintended consequence, we actually got along great.
Being friendly with Barbara had a lot of benefits. Besides the complete lack of stress and tension between us, she’d often ride me around town in her kick-ass, red 1965 Mustang, windows down, enjoying top-forty hits as cool spring coastal air ruffled my mullet. During one afternoon cruise, I heard a very happy surprise: heavy metal on AM radio. It was Def Leppard’s “Photograph.” Sure, the song was commercial, but up until that day, I never would’ve believed Def Leppard would or could be played on a pop station. The music world had changed, and I just heard the proof. My initial excitement wore off once the song hit heavy rotation, but it didn’t stop me from acquiring Pyromania. Then, when Quiet Riot became the next metal band getting heavy pop radio play, I obediently banged my head as my folks worried about my Metal Health.
With no rent, while also receiving monthly SSI checks, combined with proceeds from the sale of my E&J power wheelchair, I soon bankrolled enough to buy a car. The eleven-year-old cars of my youth were far sweeter than modern junk. I scored a 1972 Pontiac Grand Ville convertible, with a 454 big-block engine that produced tons of asphalt-searing torque, for only six hundred seventy-five bucks.
I don’t understand why they even call us handicapped. We’re not very handy, and I rarely wear a hat.
Burning my left knuckles raw while changing my new baby’s spark plugs made me realize I could not feel hot or cold in my hand. With all the prodding, poking, and sharp pins at Rancho Hospital, you would think they’d have checked for something important like that. I never did get a left foot gas or steering knob as my license required, and I’ve always just driven a normal car with my left foot. Is that a movie about a handicap dude driving illegally? I don’t understand why they even call us handicapped. We’re not very handy, and I rarely wear a hat. POW! Don’t forget to tip your servers.
After getting stabbed, I never went back to physical therapy at White Memorial, nor gathered up three grand to buy myself a leg brace. But after I told Pops of my physical progress, he built me some sweet parallel bars out of plywood and 2 x 2s. I’d stand or do knee bends, and got stronger by the week. At my next Rancho clinic, to my great delight, that awesomely perfect, pint-sized, perky, and pretty PT, Jan, had transferred over to pediatric spinal injury. I cannot convey to you how awesome this woman was! When I told her about taking a few steps at White Memorial and my new parallel bars, she suggested some exercises to do at home. And at my next clinic, she’d reevaluate. It was all on me, so I began living a semi-normal, focused life of daily exercise, hanging around the house, and fighting the urge to smoke coke.
One afternoon, Pops came in super pissed off about getting a handicap spot ticket at work, when his restaurant was closed and the lot empty. I suggested we go to court and commit perjury by claiming I was with him and the placard was in clear view on the dash. He declined, but won in court because the restaurant’s lot was private property and not properly posted. Disabled spaces were a new thing in those days, meaning that there were far fewer of them, but they were almost always available for those folks who were actually disabled. Nowadays, there is an ocean of disabled spaces, and it takes forever to find one. I have a paraplegic buddy, Jim, and whenever he sees old folks, obese chain smokers, or anyone else who doesn’t require an extra-wide parking spot to fully open their door for equipment removal, he yells, “There’s a picture of a dude in a wheelchair on that sign!”
The Pontiac allowed me to hit L.A. a few days a week, to hang with Mike and show off mad driving skills learned from watching Jim Rockford
The Pontiac allowed me to hit L.A. a few days a week, to hang with Mike and show off mad driving skills learned from watching Jim Rockford while shredding the very same streets captured on the small-screen. At Pops’ urging, I signed up for summer classes at Orange Coast College, but rarely made it to school. Instead, I stayed out late clubbing, drinking, smoking, snorting, and whoring in Hollywood.
After a few months of being mobile, one afternoon at breakfast, Pops inquired about my life’s future plans.Early on after my accident, I had accepted that I would never be on stage as a performer, yet still felt an insatiable passion for music. I needed to be part of that world. Making music videos seemed like the most fun and creative outlet still available, with the highest number of dancing girls involved. When I told of my desire to make music videos, or any career in the music business, Pops said I needed a more “realistic goal.”
