Fair Enough

Tom looked up from the laptop and shook his head.

“Sorry, bro,” he said, “I’d like to have your back on this, but it’s just wrong.”

They were in the living room of Bill’s condo, which had floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the marina.

“Wrong? How is it wrong?”

Tom gave Bill his patented “older brother” look. It was one of his best, having been honed over the years to the point where Tom was able to convey judgment, condescension and moral superiority, all with just a slight tilt of his head and a raised eyebrow.

“You don’t even mention it.”

“And?”

“And, as we say in the legal game, the fact that you are in a wheelchair is a material fact.”

“You know what? Never mind. Forget it.”

“You’re pissed.”

“I’m not pissed,” said Bill. “I’m just…disappointed, I guess. But really not surprised.”

As much as Tom said he would have “liked” to have Bill’s back, he never had. Not even when they were kids.

“That’s not fair.”

“Look,’ Bill said with a shrug, “It’s my bad for asking you to understand something that you couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Then help me understand,” said Tom. “Explain to me why you think this is a good idea.”

Bill tapped the arm of is wheelchair.

“This. Isn’t. Me.”

“I know that.”

“But as soon as people see it, it’s all they see.”

“That’s not true,” said Tom.

“Do you want me to explain it not?”

“Yes, I do. Sorry.”

“As soon as people see the chair, it’s like I disappear and become that guy…the kid they knew in high school who crashed his motorcycle…or the brother who lost his legs when an IED exploded by the road in Fallujah...I’m not even a person. I’m just a fucking tragedy.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, Tom, it is. Trust me.”

“Okay. Assuming that it is…”

“Assuming?”

“Aren’t you just delaying the inevitable?”

“I don’t know. Probably. But at least she won’t prejudge it. At least she’ll show up with an open mind. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll see me before she sees it.”

“Okay. I get that,” said Tom, “But…”

“But what?”

“It doesn’t seem fair.”

“It’s not ‘not fair’…”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Bill. “It sounded a lot better in my head.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know, right?”

Tom laughed. As much as Bill didn’t believe it, Tom really did love his younger brother.

“So, who’s the lucky lady?”

“Her name’s Monica. She’s a physical therapist who likes spending time at the beach, gourmet cooking and mystery novels.”

“You hate all of those things.”

“I know. But did I mention that she’s smoking hot?”

He handed the laptop back to this brother.

“Damn, bro. She is so out of your league…”

“Facts. But go big or go home, right?”

#

Monica stood in front of the closet. By her count, she had at least thirty-five pretty much brand-new dresses hanging side by side, organized by color and fabric, and every single one of them was wrong.

She picked up the glass of merlot from the top of the dresser and took a sip. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but a few months ago, in the course of one of the weekly self-inventories that were an integral part of the perpetual self-improvement project she referred to as her life, she realized that she knew nothing about wine. This, she decided, was not acceptable. So, in an attempt to remedy that situation, she had signed up an internet “wine of the month” club. The first shipment had arrived that morning. And she had to admit, so far, so good.

“It’s just a date,” she told her reflection. But her reflection wasn’t buying that for a minute. And her reflection wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t just a date. It was more than that. It was a statement. No. Not a statement; a declaration. A declaration of war against every sideways glance and cutting comment that Monica had accumulated over the years and filed away in chronological order deep in her soul.

And if that war resulted in casualties or collateral damage, then so be it.

She reached into the closet and pulled out a flowing silk dress she had bought at the Farmer’s Market in the Marina. The top of the dress was a deep shade of purple that slowly faded down to lavender at the hem. It had been expensive, and she had hesitated, but finally bought it because the Indian woman who showed it to her had raved about how it highlighted her auburn hair and bright green eyes.

“You look good, girl,” she said to her reflection, and maybe it was the wine, but she almost believed it.

#

Toscana was a small, family owned “neighborhood gem” tucked into the corner of a non-descript strip mall on a quiet stretch of Culver Boulevard in what had used to be called Mar Vista but was now known as Del Rey. The restaurant had been around for just over a decade, serving some of the best Northern Italian food this side of Milan. And its wine list, heavy on reasonably priced California and Italian varietals, was reputed to be one of the best in the city. It was also one of the few of Bill’s old haunts where he still felt comfortable.

The parking lot was already filling up when Bill pulled his Mustang into one of the handicapped spots and muscled the wheelchair out of the passenger seat and onto the pavement. The car was a classic Shelby convertible that Bill had found in a junk yard in Torrance back when he was in high school and that he had bought with the money he had earned flipping burgers at In and Out by LAX.

The car had originally been owned by a guy in Malibu and had gotten torched hard in one of the wildfires that swept through that area on a frighteningly regular basis. The paint had blistered and cracked, and the top and interior were beyond salvageable.

Tom had laughed at him when he had it towed into their yard, but Bill saw its potential. He and his Dad had spent every weekend for nearly two years rebuilding and restoring it from the wheels up.

He had seriously considered selling it after the accident, but instead used part of his settlement money to have it fitted with hand controls. It was one of the best decisions he had ever made. Driving up PCH with the radio up and the top down was like stepping into a time machine. For moments at a time, he could forget the accident and the surgeries and the chair and remember what it was like to have legs.

The dining room was already about half full as Bill rolled through the door. Sarah, the hostess, immediately came over to him.

“Hey, stranger.”

She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Table for one,” she asked, picking up a menu from the stack next to the hostess station and instinctively heading toward his usual table, a small two top in the back corner.

“Actually, no. Table for two.”

“You’re meeting someone,” she asked. “Oh my God. Is it a date?”

“Could you at least try to pretend not to be so shocked.”

“I’m not. It’s just…It’s good. I’m happy for you.”

It had been just over two years since Bill had been riding his bike down Temescal Canyon toward PCH, doing about twenty-five miles an hour, when some TV agent in a Tesla swung open his drivers-side door without looking. According to witnesses, he had flown nearly fifteen feet through the air. He had no idea, actually. All he knew was that when he woke up in the ambulance, he couldn’t feel his legs.

Bill’s doctors were top shelf. They had done three separate spine surgeries, inserting enough rods and plates to light up the airport metal detectors like a pinball machine. They couldn’t do anything for the damage he had suffered, just try to make sure that it didn’t get any worse. Which was something, he guessed.

Rehab had taken months, followed by additional months of depression, anger and self-loathing. He had always been a physical guy. It was a big part of his identity. As a kid, e had been a surfer and skateboarder, with a couple of broken wrists to show for it. He had played tennis in high school, had hiked a large part of the Pacific Crest Trail when he was in college and had run the L.A. Marathon twice. At the time he got hurt, had been training for his first triathlon. But that was all gone, taken way in an instant, and he had nothing to put in its place.

It took just over a year, including months of counseling, before he finally felt up to dating. The barriers weren’t physical. He was just profoundly skeptical about any woman who would be willing to settle for a guy in a wheelchair. But finally, urged on by his counselor and badgered by Tom’s wife, Janine, he decided to give it a shot.

His first date had been with Donna, a yoga instructor he had dated casually before the shooting. They had gone to the Cheesecake Factory in the Marina. It had seemed to be going well, but then Donna broke down sobbing in the middle of desert and literally fled the restaurant. Not awkward at all.

After Donna, Bill didn’t date again for six months. But then, at Christmas, Janine and his niece, surprised him with a membership in LASingles.com, an internet dating site. They even prepared his profile, which featured a photo of him sitting in his wheelchair in the backyard of Ted and Janine’s house in Santa Monica. Under “likes” they had put “reading,” “classic movies,” and “long drives up the coast.”

Bill thought the whole thing was kind of pathetic, but he started getting hits, almost immediately. Unfortunately, the hits all fell into one of two baskets.

The first basket contained the ones who “didn’t see disability.” Like Maria, who was an executive at Disney who ran marathons in her spare time. Or Sadie, who was a teacher in a school in East L.A. who spent her weekends leading hiking trips in the Santa Monica Mountains for special needs kids. Or Veronica, who had played basketball player at Stanford, before becoming the youngest assistant district attorney in the history of Los Angeles. They were all great. Really. But they all believed, with an almost religious furor, that life was about overcoming obstacles and that if Bill just had the right attitude, he could do anything.

The second basket was worse. Those were the one who didn’t see anything but his disability. Like Gladys, who had gone on and on about how brave he was. Or Kim, an attractive Korean woman who looked deeply into his eyes over sushi at Sakura on Centinela and told him that God never gave us more than we could handle. The date ended early after he told her that her that God had seriously overestimated him.

The strange thing was, he had never been one of those guys who needed a relationship. If he was being honest, or after some wine or some weed, he’d have admitted that he was just too selfish for a relationship. He liked to do what he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it, without having to take anyone else into consideration.

But the accident had changed that. After the accident, his surgeon told him that he had been very lucky. “You could have very easily died.” At first, he hadn’t wanted to hear that, but eventually it sank in, forcing him to confront not only his fragility, but also his mortality. And, for the first time in his life, he was able to admit that he didn’t want to go through it alone.

But he also didn’t want to go through it with someone who saw him as a “project,” or worse, a “victim.”

When he and Tom were kids, their dad used to take them out fishing on the weekends. They would head out from the Marina just as the sun was cracking the eastern horizon and spend the morning cruising up and down the coast and the afternoon anchored off of the Palos Verde Peninsula. His dad would drink beer and sleep in the captain’s chair, while he and Tom fished off the back of the boat.

He loved those memories and loved the things he had learned on the water. Like the kind of bait that you used determined the kind of fish you would catch.

Figuring he had nothing to lose, he replaced his profile picture with a shot from the chest up and answered every question as he would have before the accident, figuring that was a better representation of who he really was.

It had worked better than he could have expected. And worse. He got a half dozen messages his first day. And they were all markedly different from the women who had previously responded. The women tended to be younger and seemed to be looking more for a good time than a long-term relationship.

He rejected most of them out of hand. But Monica seemed different. And it wasn’t just because she was gorgeous, though they didn’t hurt. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something about her profile that had resonated with him. It wasn’t enough to actually get his hopes up, but enough that he had reached out to her and asked her out to dinner.

The restaurant had just barely survived the pandemic, pulling in just enough take-out orders to keep the lights on. But now that restrictions were being lifted across the state, it had come roaring back. Tonight, it was filling up with couples of all ages and a few families celebrating special events and the simple of joy of just getting back to normal.

Bill glanced at his watch. It was seven-thirty, on the dot. He realized for the first time that he was nervous. What if Tom was right? What if this wasn’t fair? What if she walked in, took one look at him and turned around and walked right out?

Sarah came over and refilled his water glass.

“Can I get you something while you wait,” she asked.

“I’m good, thanks. She should be here any minute.”

#

Monica was already running a few minutes late when she pulled into the parking lot. The drive from her home had only taken about ten minutes, but she had managed to pack it with about three hours of doubts and second thoughts. Her earlier courage had evaporated. She wasn’t a warrior. In fact, she hated confrontation. She was just a person who had fought really hard to learn to like and accept herself and just wanted to find one person who appreciated her for who she was and not for who they thought she could be. Was that too much to ask?

The lot was full, so she had to find a spot on the street. She checked herself in the mirror, gave herself a slight touch up, and stepped out into the warm spring night.

#

The bell over the door tinkled a new arrival. Bill looked over to see and a full-figured woman in a beautiful purple silk caftan step into the restaurant. The women took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then surveyed the room. Her eyes fixed on Bill and a small smile formed on her face.

“Bill?”

The way she said it made Bill think that she knew him, or that they had met before, but he was fairly certain that they hadn’t.

“Yes?”

“I’m Monica.”

Monica noticed the flicker that passed across Bill’s face and gave him credit for covering it quickly with a smile that seemed only partially forced.

“Your picture doesn’t do you justice,” he said.

She glanced down at the wheelchair.

“Likewise.”

“Touché,” said Bill. “Is that a problem for you?”

Bill gave her credit. She didn’t just respond automatically. She actually thought about it.

“No,” she finally said. “I mean, I don’t think so…”

“Fair enough.”

“And what about this,” she asked indicating her body. “I mean, I know it’s not what you were expecting.”

His instinct was to go with the same kind of automatic denial that he hated getting from other people, but he caught himself, knowing she deserved better than that.

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

Monica nodded. “Fair enough.”

Sarah approached the table with a warm smile.

“You made it!”

“I did.”

“Welcome. Can I get you something to drink?”

“A glass of merlot?”

The answer was for Sarah. The question mark was for Bill.

Bill shook his head.

“Actually, um, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The two women looked at him, confusion in Sarah’s eyes, sad resignation in Monica’s.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about. We’re definitely going to need a bottle.”

Sarah smiled.

“Fair enough.”

End