There he was, staring at me, from 150 yards away as both of us grip the tires with a lit cigarette hanging out of our mouth. The entire bar was now standing next to one another talking as the bar tender opened the door and asked, “what’s going on.”
Instead of getting any sort of verbal answer, he just had to sit there and watch what was about to unfold. Everyone standing outside of the bar listens and watches as a guy dressed in military fatigues shouts, “GO” as he quickly lowers his arm in a blurred arc.
One of my many friends is named Scoot, his name is Scott if you ask his birth certificate. He is a tall guy, about six-foot with a very muscular but fat look to him. He is covered up and down, both arms, full of tattoos. All small individual tattoos, nothing that seems to go into anything else, and the majority of them being black and white.
He now has the number 88 on his chest covered up another tattoo of two koi fish that are in the water with plants and shit. He used to hang out with the wrong type of people and has now covered all of his questionable tattoos with ones of a better and more appropriate designs.
Working as a logger in Washington State he typically dresses as if he is a redneck at a motocross race or a motocross racer at a redneck convention.
We were hanging out with our other friend Eric at the local sports pub that does not exist anymore, or maybe it does — maybe someone bought it in the past two years, or however long it has been.
Eric was a skinny yet average looking kid that grew up listening to punk music and thoughtout the years has turned into seven different types of stereotypical characters while he was trying to find himself, which didn’t happen until he moved to Colorado.
At the time he was into country music and wore cowboy boots, tight jeans, a blue flannel shirt, with a black cowboy hat — that has a hole going thought it. One drunk night he pulled out his gun — that he legally owns by the way — and shot his cowboy hat; the bullet making it out the other side and hopefully going into the dirt.
We were all at my apartment bored out of our minds. Trying to figure out something to do as Scoot spoke up and said, “hey man, can we take your other wheelchair to the bar with us”.
After we all pile into my car and spend the next 15 minutes driving about 2 miles south, passing nothing but strip malls, residential neighborhoods — of houses that ranged from three to five-hundred-thousand dollars –, and coffee shops all mixed in with tall evergreen trees, we ended up at my parents house. After parking in the driveway and opening the garage door we see my dad sitting inside of the drift boat that he was trying to manufacture out of carbon fiber.
My dad was born in the 50’s and had grey hair with brown eyes. He is over-weight, but carries it really well, I would not call him fat — he has lost about 20 pounds after moving to Nebraska… again.
He was sitting inside the frame of the boat, made out of wood, with a cigarette in his mouth as Scoot was standing next to the wooden frame on wheels and talking to my dad about fishing.
While this is going on I get slowly walk back into the drivers seat as Eric is pushing my second oldest wheelchair over to car before folding it up, popping off the wheels, and throwing it into my backseat.
Scoot says goodbye to my pops and is walking back to my car as my dad shouts from inside the garage holding a piece of sandpaper with a block of wood rolled up inside of it and says, “have fun guys, don’t be too stupid, and if you need a ride home don’t be afraid to call me.”
Were now heading the opposite direction on the main street that runs though town filled with a bunch of other cars as the sun is starting to go down past some evergreen trees that are to the west of us. We pass the mall before descending a 400 foot hill leading into downtown, passing nothing but commercial, apartment, and office buildings.
We keep following the road before the name of the avenue turns into another name of a road that leads you into the industrial section of Tacoma — known to many others as the port of Tacoma. However we are not going that far, after passing Fred Meyer in a huge parking lot filled with other commercial buildings in the same area we turn into a connected parking lot as I jerk the wheel to the left and park in a handicapped parking spot in front of the sports pub.
As I’m pulling into the parking spot Eric Clapton is playing on the stereo — that is connected to my iPod — as Scoot speaks up over the song Let It Rain and says, “man, I love you Dan,” after pausing to take the last drag of his cigarette he continues to say, “you fucking get to park right in front of the buildings man, you get the best parking.”
While heading into the valley known as downtown, a few minutes ago, Scoot was talking to Eric and telling him, “okay man….so, I got into a motocross accident and fucked up my leg.” I speak up while stopped at a red light and say, “I don’t know man.”
“No, man, trust me,” Eric is now talking and goes onto say, “Poot –– another name he goes by — is the best at this shit, he can make everyone believe it.”
Scott goes onto say, “okay Tuck — one of Eric’s nicknames — the doctor told me that if I want to walk again I got to stretch out my right leg every half hour.” He then continues to say, “so you got to act like you’re helping me every 30 minutes.
“And I’ll act like I’m in pain.” He then addresses me and says, “So, Dan… don’t fucking say anything.”
As soon as my thumb pushes the button to the side and I move the shifter up into park Eric says to me, “okay man get your own chair out today because I got to help Poot.”
“Okay man whatever.”
Whenever Eric was hanging out with me he would usually get my wheelchair in or out of the car for me, not because I couldn’t do it… but it did save us a few minutes every time — and if he wants to do it for me, I’m not going to stop him. However on this day he had to help Scott appear to be the one who actually needed a wheelchair.
He pulls out the older wheelchair with bald tires and black rims that were made out of a dense plastic. Pops on the wheels and rolls it around the back of the car as I sit down in my new wheelchair made out of Titanium with wire spoke wheels.
I’m now sitting there in my wheelchair and watching in amusement as Eric puts the breaks on the wheelchair and appears to be helping Scoot slide his upper body into place, pulling himself over the seat with one hand one each wheel holding him up and sliding his butt over the left tire — Scott was doing most of the work, he didn’t need Eric’s help, but, damn… it looked convincing.
We are both rolling into the bar as Eric holds the door open for us. We slide under the table as Eric goes up to order a nine dollar pitcher of Rainier. We get to talking to people, Scoot is a really captivating guy — with or without the wheelchair — I guess having that many tattoos and being dressed like a stereotypical skater made it appear like he was more of a inviting guy in the type of crowd that was packed into the bar that night.
The owner of the bar as well as most of the workers there already knew Eric and I, due to it being one of the few bars the we would frequent. But we never took Poot before, so he was a new face to everyone but a girl and her mother that he already knew from a previous occasion. Even they believed that he needed the chair — he didn’t break character the whole night.
After finishing the pitcher of Rainier I reached in my pocket to pull out some cash handing it to Eric so he can go get another pitcher of Pabst Blue Ribbon. While I’m sitting there drinking the last few chugs of my beer I listen to Scoot sitting next to me talking to some chick about his “accident.”
“Yea I feel off of my bike while it was in the air and broke my bone when I hit the dirt.”
“Awwww, I’m sorry baby.”
This chick was hot, way out of my league, but… Scott was very good at taking home random action. She was about five foot three, a pretty short and petite lady with a smile that could kill — you girls like tall men, we like short women.
She has a chest that she was not afraid to show off with the nice tight white v-neck shirt she was wearing. Her chest was tatted up with a new school heart above the center of both breasts. The heart that was in the middle of her chest was designed in such a way that the bottom of the heart was leading down in-between her perky C cups and stretching below her shirt. The heart was in the middle of a symmetrical design that was completed with a pistol, roses, skulls, and vines.
She even had on tight jeans that made her butt pop out like a pimped out turner car in a garage full of late 60’s to early 70’s muscle cars. It was so hypnotizing to watch her walk away, watching each perfectly bubble shaped ass cheek bounce up and down as her hips swing back and forth, the only thing I could think was…, “Oh, my, god. Becky, look at her butt.”
After listening to this chick feel so bad for Scott, Eric came back and filled up each class to the brim before setting the pitcher of PBR back down on the table. After taking a drink of beer I decided I needed to go outside for a smoke, Eric followed me out to the front of the bar — this particular bar did not have a beer garden, and the smoking ban just passed a year prior to this, so we had to leave our beer inside.
It was now dark outside, all the lights were on. As we smoking and talking we were also staring at River Road about 100 yards away from us watching yellow and red lights crisscrossing each other at high rates of speed, some of them faster than others. The front of the bar was held up by pillars of stucco and brick reaching up from the sidewalk, the same sidewalk stretched on to every other neighboring commercial building that was in this tiny strip-mall type of complex.
The sidewalk only went on for… about, five feet or so before a curb that was painted yellow dropped half of a foot into the parking lot.
“Dude that girl totally wants my dick,” Scoot comes outside and asks me for a smoke. After lighting the smoke the bar seemed to have some sort of evacuation order because all of the people — who smoke — came outside to do the same thing we were.
After sitting there smoking for a bit and watching Eric stretch Scott’s leg while he acted like he was in pain. Eric comes back to bull-shit with me as Scott wheels off in the other direction and talks to some people about his accident… or something else.
“Daniel, come here man,” Scott is now talking to a bunch of people from Ft. Lewis, one of who is still wearing his military fatigues. I’m rolling towards him, he was now about 50 feet away, on the same sidewalk.
“What’s up man.”
While looking at this group of five military guys, all of them who spent some time in Iraq, Scoot says, “it would make this guys night if he could watch us play chicken.” I now look up at a blond haired kid who appeared to be 21-years-old wearing a white DC shirt with a white flat-billed baseball cap still with the gold sticker still glued to the top of the bill, and he says with a really excited tone to his voice, “yea, dude, that would be so fucking dope bro.”
“Whatever man, I’m not turning away,” I say this as we both turn around and head in opposite directions from each other.
We both turn around when we are a football field and a half from each other. As we were rolling away from each other the guy must of yelled in the bar or something… because, after turning around and lighting another smoke I came to notice that the entire bar was empty and no one other then the owner was still inside.
Every single person in that bar was now standing against the wall or on the edge of the yellow curb, some were even standing in the parking lot. Scoot and I were able to see each other, as we had a clear path between the both of us, with the guy in military fatigues standing in between us acting as if he was a hot chick at a illegal street race.
His hand flies down in an arc as he yells, “GO.”
This guy backs into the crowd like a pen being dropped onto a table. Scoot and I are staring at each other while smoke is quickly drifting behind our heads, as if our lit cigarettes were polluted exhaust on the back of a car. Our hands are trying to take us so fast towards one another that you would think our hands where like gerbils running on a exercise wheel.
Neither of us turned away, we just keep speeding towards one another like magnets.
We made impact… both of our back wheels lift off of the ground and slide out from under us as the right side of my face impacts with the right side of his face. Because of the fact that we were both smoking a slight second after impact sparks go flying every which way, like a exploding electrical fire that was quickly put out by water.
We’re both laying on the pavement staring up at the ceiling above us as we both say in unison, “that was fucking awesome,” while we can hear the intoxicating sound of 100+ people screaming and laughing.
Eric runs over to us and grabs Scott under his armpits and lifts him up as someone is doing the same thing to me and two other people roll our wheelchairs under us.
We then light another smoke, because we didn’t get to finish the other one that flew into oblivion in a series of sparks. We sit there talking to the others while finishing our smokes and going back inside.
I felt like a goddamn celebrity for the rest of the night. Everyone was now talking to the both of us like we were a D list celebrity in a small town that doesn’t get any famous visitors. Eric just sits at the other end of the table and smiles at us as we all continue to finish our beer.
At the end of the night — this hot chick is no longer talking to Scott, apparently we are terribly childish. I think that is one of the reasons Scott is so attractive to multitudes of women, because he does his thing and does not care if they like it or not.
Eric is now helping Poot back into the car as I’m putting my chair away and walking over to get in the drivers seat to drive us back to my apartment. It was about two-thirty in the morning when we got back to apartment.
Once again Marcus was having another party, so we just continued to party until the sun came up.