My recent ride from the airport with my former van company brought back a flood of memories about the two years I spent driving airport shuttles, this one among them, and yes, it's an update of an earlier version:
The baggage compartment of my airporter van was already heaped to the ceiling with luggage when an elderly woman in an electric wheelchair rolled out of the hotel doors and steered for the van.
"Are you going to the airport?" she asked, and mentioned her airline and flight number.
I was, but I would have to radio for a special van to accommodate her and her wheelchair. Should take about half an hour.
"But I’ll miss my flight," she cried.
No, she wouldn't. I knew her flight would not depart for another four hours. We could pick her up in 30 minutes for the ten minute ride to the airport. She would have plenty of time to be hassled by Transportation Security Administration and be personally wheeled aboard her flight ahead of the other passengers by an airport employee.
A good Samaritan among my other passengers decided to be helpful. "Why can‘t you take her?" he asked.
Because the Americans With Disabilities Act and the van company’s insurance policy says I can‘t, that’s why. That answer did not faze the Samaritan. "Oh bullshit," he said. He and another Samaritan got out and began rearranging luggage to accommodate the electric wheelchair, which I knew from experience weighed about 150 pounds. No way I could heft that thing by myself anyway. I radioed the dispatcher.
"The ADA van is in the shop," the dispatcher said. "Do what you can."
Ooookay. While the Samaritans rearranged baggage, I rearranged passengers, making room for the woman in the right front seat where she could grip an overhead hand rail to ease getting in and out, and off we went to the airport, where my first stop was the wheelchair lady’s destination airline. The Samaritans and I unloaded the wheelchair and the wheelchair owner, who started to roll away without paying her fare.
I asked her if she had forgotten something.
"Oh no, I’m fine thank you."
I told her she owed me $17.
"I thought this was a free service," she said. "The hotel said it was."
It is for the hotel van, I explained. This was not the hotel van, and a large sign at the hotel's front desk specified that fact.
"Well, I never heard of such a thing!"
She was hearing it now.
"Does your mother know this is how you treat senior citizens in wheelchairs?"
I said my mother is a senior citizen and meaner than I am. She would have collected the fare up front. The other passengers began grumbling about being late. "Let’s get moving," one of the Samaritans snapped. I bet he gave waiters a bad time to impress a date with his awesome powers of command, which is not a smart thing to do with food servers, or, for that matter, with easily rattled airport shuttle drivers who may suddenly lose all sense of direction and the ability to tell time.
"I want the name of your supervisor," the wheelchair lady said, "and you can be sure he will hear about this!"
Another day in paradise. I sighed and allowed that the woman was free to do as she wished, even roll away without paying, as long as she didn’t mind having some sheriff’s deputies from the airport detail intervene, even if it meant holding up her flight and hauling her and her wheelchair off the airplane to settle the issue. I did not like myself for having to be officious and threatening. A little man with a little power. What a prick.
"Your employer will hear about this!"
It would not be the first time. I gave her my boss’s name and an 800 number she could call to register a complaint. She peeled off a twenty from a roll of them in her purse.
"I hope you weren’t expecting a tip," she huffed when I gave her three dollars back. No, I was expecting her to just roll away and be a pest somewhere else, but I kept professionally silent.
While the elderly woman in a wheelchair was just a garden variety con artist, which is exactly what she was, I had a bigger challenge from a fussy young man with a bristling sense of entitlement carrying a fistful of documents and accompanied by a service dog.
The service dog was the more personable of the two; a Golden Retriever with all the rights, privileges and perks of a seeing eye canine, only the owner was not blind or otherwise physically impaired. He was just clinically insecure and the dog had been prescribed by some licensed quack for emotional support. He even had some official looking papers that said so, which he waved at me when he and dog boarded the van, taking up two seats.
"This says he can ride with me," the man said in a chip-on-the-shoulder tone, shoving the papers in my face in case my eyesight was failing.
Fine, I said. But the dog rides on the floor, unless the owner wanted to pay a double fare. Also, getting dog hair off the seat is a chore. It sticks to upholstery like iron filings to a magnet, not to mention the next passenger's clothes.
"You can’t discriminate against me and my dog!"
No, but I can charge for the dog occupying a seat unless the dog is on the floor. His call. He motioned the dog to the floor where it curled up under a seat, which it probably preferred. More room down there.
"I am going to file a discrimination suit against this company!" he said. Swell, in the meantime I wished he would kindly shut up. I wondered if he made his living by collecting out-of-court settlements. I guessed that the dog was his only friend as well as his partner in litigation.
Years ago the preferred breed of service dogs in America was the German Sheperd, but the Golden Retriever proved to have a more tractable disposition and was less prone to hip ailments than the shepherd. I read somewhere that Golden Retrievers in Russia are trained to nudge people out of seats marked for the use of the disabled on subways and buses if the such people are not accompanied by another Golden Retriever.
Made sense to me, only I sometimes wished I could nudge people with disabilities and attitudes to match off my public transportation; people like the disabled litigant who made a good living suing restaurant owners whose premises did not fully comply with ADA-approved curb and bathroom access until a judge started throwing out his cases. Then there was the wheelchaired guy in Sacramento who was arrested for keying the hoods of cars stopping over the white line in crosswalks, and I'm especially irked by grim Vietnam vets who still dress in cammies and whose Vietnam service was the cardinal event of their lives.
But one vet whose Vietnam tour was a cardinal event was also a hero of mine. He was the late Brien Thomas Collins, named for the O'Brien side of his family, and better known as B.T. He was a former Green Beret who'd left an arm and a leg in Vietnam. He put himself through law school after his army service, became the governor's chief of staff, and saved the then troubled California Conservation Corps from being disbanded by the state legislature in the late 1970s.
B.T. promised only three things when recuiting 17 to 25-year-olds to the CCC: "Hard work, low pay, miserable conditions," which became the official motto of the organization. In his introductory letter to new recruits, he wrote: "You will be at your job at 8:00 a.m. after you have run five miles, prepared breakfast, and cleaned up your area. If you are male and are 18 years of age or older, you will register for the draft and you will register to vote, and all of you will donate blood. You will do it my way or hit the highway, and the bus leaves every morning."
That Corps' motto of hard work, low pay and miserable conditions was the working answer to a question B.T. posed to himself as well as to others: "Is the world a better place because you were in it?"
Upshot: He gave those kids, many of them minorities from the slums, something they did not have: Pride in themselves and pride in citizenship. The kids loved the guy because they knew he loved them back despite his hardass Captain Bligh noises. They planted millions of trees around the state, cleared public parks, cleaned up urban areas and could always be counted on to help during natural disasters.
But it was not all sunshine and flowers for the CCCs. When a news article was published about a female corpsmember being raped in a training center, B.T. made sure the governor and leglislature heard about it first from him personally, thereby defusing a lot of potential criticism resulting from inaccurate third and fourth hand accounts. The Conservation Corps B.T. Collins built survived that crisis and flourishes to this day as a model for similar organizations nationwide.
B.T. had his own problem with the press. During late night drinking sessions with reporters at his favorite Sacramento dive, he was often critical of Jerry Brown for not having the common touch, for being "out on Uranus" instead down here on the ground, giving credence to Chicago Tribune columnist Mike Royko's branding of Jerry Brown as "Governor Moonbeam."
Veteran capitol reporters would no more quote B.T.'s ex cathedra comments about Jerry Brown than White House correspondents would photograph FDR in a wheelchair during his three terms as president. So the Los Angeles Times dispatched an outsider named Della Stambo to Sacramento to tag along with B.T. after hours. She accurately quoted every snarky thing he said about Brown. The resulting story caused B.T. to hide in his office, ashamed to face the staff and his boss. But the governor proved to be a bigger man than anyone had imagined. He and the staff prodded B.T. out of hiding and presented him with sheet cake decorated with a likeness of himself with a prosthetic foot in his mouth.
B.T. was a study in contrasts. One of his former parochial school teachers, a nun, decribed him as "the ornriest son of a bitch I ever loved." Of himself, he said, "I am not a professional veteran" and was critical of disabled anti-war vets who expected special treatment, especially Ron Kovic, whose story was made into the movie "Born On The Fourth Of July." While claiming not to be "a professional veteran," he lobbied the legislature and shook down donors to build the California Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Sacramento's Capitol Park.
More contrasts: He was a rock-ribbed Republican running an administration full of Democrats; a tireless advocate for the cause of battered women who occasionally pinched a female bottom with his prosthetic hook; a political conservative who practiced affirmative action in government; and a self-proclaimed male chauvinist who was relentlessly ruled by his tiny firecracker of a chief of staff, Nora Romero.
B.T.'s personal credo was to stop whining and start living, which he did with zest -- learning to skydive and to swerve down slopes on a one legged ski -- until a heart attack ended his life at age 52 in 1993. Over 5,000 people including two former governors attended his memorial service on the on the grounds of the state capitol.
So, cammie-clad vets still mentally stuck in the Vietnam war do not bring to a boil any Post Traumatic Stress Disorder simmering in my soul, but they do affect my Present Day Distress Disorder, which I would have developed with or without my military service. Anyway, the only thing fired at me in anger during the Vietnam war was a bottle of San Miguel beer hurled by a barmaid in the Philippines over some imagined insult. I wonder if I can get a Golden Retriever service dog as a result of that trauma?
Oh, and hey, if you have time for a very funny, very insightful and very worthwhile book, see if your library has a copy of Outrageous Hero - The B.T. Collins Story by Maureen Collins Baker, his sister, published by Bryce Hill Publishing. http://www.brycehillpublishing.com/.
And yes, B.T., the world is a better place because you were in it.
Comments & Critiques:
There are a lot of NICE disabled people....just sayin'....I always enjoy the Tomatoman Times and am glad you send it to me! Happy holidays! -- Eve
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Awsome story. Love you, Mike. Merry Christmas to you. Sending you blessings -- Jeanie
Good. I needs 'em. Could you include some cash with those? -- MB
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Another wonderful one -- Julisari
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YOU need to get published!!!! Great writing in so many ways. Funny, insightful, touching. Thanks for sharing. -- Mimi
Nag nag nag. MB
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Mike: I enjoyed this essay. My wife works at a call center for the Humane Society. She makes appointments at their veterinarian clinics and has some interesting stories to tell about rude,whining customers. She has to tell some of them that the clinics do not treat pets for free, and they do not provide rides for pets. The clinics make a lot of money that is used to rescue abused and suffering animals. The Humane Society also offers animals for adoption as you may know. -- Ken
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Inspired, as always. I continually look forward to mail form TomatoMike. It's like Mrs. Gump's box of chocolates. You truly never know what you're gonna get! -- Beaty
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My dad was one of those tyrannical assholes. and when he didn’t get his way, he would conveniently have chest pains and require hospitalization. which almost always were anxiety attacks, and when someone didnt fall for it all, he would claim a suit and the whole nine yards. Oh I know ALL about it. I loved him, but dayum, I was never so glad to see someone get on a plane. -- Dove
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Great piece...as ALWAYS...thanks Mike....you are so talented!! -- Soy
IthinkIloveyou -- MB
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Beautifully written, as always. Some of my favorite writings of yours include your inner conflict with a-holes. Silencing yours, and suffering theirs. -- Tracy
IthinkIloveyoutoo -- MB
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I have no patience for disabled who use their disability to win favor, win awards and win contests with the pity votes. Case in point DWTS. The guy was a disabled hero. Great. Thanks for your sacrifice, but you weren't the best and most improved dancer. Deaf Lady who acts in movies: You irritate the hell out of me. You aren't that good of an actress. You do a respectable job of acting like a deaf lady who has to use hand signals to communicate...oh wait... Shouldn't be winning awards! Paraplegic client who is working full time, yet collecting Medicaid: You are earning more per week than I am, and you have a hissy fit because I don't have time to do your claim first?
I know, I'm just evil, but I've lost patience with the "helpless" who are less helpless than I am, earning ten times what I am, and treating me bad because I make them wait their turn. Crippled client in wheelchair who has waited three years to file for divorce demanding I stop everything I'm doing to file her paperwork (not yet prepared) today (and it's 3:00 p.m.) already, and doesn't even say thank you when I accomplish it! -- Jana
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Yer doin' a fine job, Brownie!
By the way, I'm currently disabled. Can't walk due to seriously real, severe and painful back condition. I haven't left my apartment since the beginning of summer. I've been unemployed for three years, have gone through unemployment, sold a lot of belongings (like 6 guitars, a mandolin, three amps), and stock and savings gone. I'm currently on SS Disability, for which I am thankful (and for which I paid into over a career of 35+ years) ...
My Medicare kicks in this coming Friday. I plan to head immediately to a neurologist, neurosurgeon, orthopedist ... after years of physical therapy and acupuncuture (which I paid for myself) nothing has improved my situation, which over the last year has seriously declined. That's my disability story and I agree with yours.
By the way, are you syndicated or do you appear in any newspaper or that sort of outlet?
You should be! Is your blog monetized? Margie Summers has been trying to talk me into my own blog to monetize, for years now. I don't want to ... although I made my living until my involuntary and enforced retirement recently, as a writer.
Smoke 'em if you got 'em, troop. -- ML
Thank you, Mr. President. I’ve got my nose buried in the VA and Medicare public troughs too, although my little trubbles are not as severe as your back pain, and I hope you will receive prompt and effective treatment, sir.
I haven’t been published in the print medium in years, but I’ve been rewriting my limo stuff with an eye to finding a hotshot agent who can advocate my screeds to a mainstream publisher. Like you, I’ve been dragging ass. Also, Margie is smarter than we are. -- MB
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