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It was the week after Thanksgiving and I was sitting in the hotel's basement checkroom doing my crossword puzzle. I had just figured out that 5 down, clued as "One leaving space" was "indenter," when the phone rang. It was my bell captain at the desk upstairs.
"Dude, go to room 2416 and help this guy out. He's in a wheelchair and needs a little help with a few things, but then he needs you to push him down to a banquet room. He seems really cool."
"Shouldn't security do the pushing?" I asked.
"Well, since it's not that far and he's not leaving the hotel, go ahead and do it for him. He seems really cool."
I went to the room and found the door slightly ajar with the deadbolt holding it open. I knocked.
"Come on in Tyge!"
"Oh great," I thought to myself, "he already knows my name."
I have a thing about people liberally using my name when they've never met or even seen me yet.
"Hey buddy, how ya doing? I just need a little help with a few things, and don't worry, I'll take care of you."
"Yes sir," I answered.
"Call me Tyler."
"Okay Tyler."
Tyler explained that he was a quadriplegic, and although he had limited use of his arms, his hands were permanently clenched into fists and pretty much useless—just like his legs. He also said that he was a motivational speaker and that he would need my help getting him to a taxi after he spoke at the convention downstairs.
"Can you be back at the banquet room at 11:30 and push me to the front door and have a handicap taxi ready for me?" he asked.
"Certainly," I replied.
"Great, I'll take care of you then," he said.
In the twenty minutes that followed my entering his room, I went above and beyond the call of duty as a bellman—or at least I did things I've never done for a guest before, handicapped or otherwise.
I helped Tyler get dressed, which entailed very unique movements and positions on behalf of both of us. Tyler was at least wearing long-johns, top and bottom, so it wasn't like his balls were hanging out or anything like that. I buckled his belt, tied his shoes, and poured some Neosporin on his scabby elbow. I didn't TOUCH the scab, but only doused it with the salve, using the tip of the tube.
Looking at his shirt hanging on the door, Tyler asked how my ironing skills were. I drew the line there.
"I don't do ironing," I said, "but we can get a butler up here if you'd like."
Honestly, the whole time I was wondering why there wasn't a butler helping him, or even more so, why he didn't have his own personal assistant.
Tyler opted for a different shirt and after I helped him put it on—along with his wristwatch—we headed to the banquet hall.
"Thanks so much Tyge, I'll see you in two hours. Have that cab ready for me!"
"My pleasure, will do," I replied.
Two hours later I returned to the banquet hall. Tyler's motivational speech had started late so I was able to catch the last 15 minutes. Looking at the slide-show of photographs on the screen behind where he sat onstage, I got the gist of what Tyler had been through over the past 10 years. In a nutshell, he had been a happily married man, a father of three, and had a good job. Then, ten years ago, a car accident left him confined to a wheelchair, labeled as a quadriplegic. In the years since, he bragged, he'd accomplished incredible feats—tandem hang-gliding, wheelchair bicycling, wheelchair basketball and SCUBA diving, among other things.
"I've learned, by the Grace of God, how to type on the computer using only my knuckles! I've learned how to brush my teeth, to comb my hair, to wash myself, to put on spray cologne, and all these things without help from anyone!" Tyler proclaimed as the crowd roared with applause.
"And this morning, thank-you Jesus, I dressed myself in twenty-three minutes!"
For a brief instant I felt like I was in a movie or TV show, perhaps an old episode of Matlock, where someone yells from the back of the courtroom, "NO YOU DIDN'T!" and everyone gasps and turns their heads around to see who's making the accusation.
Except it would have been me making the accusation, and I wasn't about to rain on Tyler's parade.
The meeting adjourned and after Tyler posed for photos and signed his books for some of the guests, I pushed him to the front door where a handicap accessible van was waiting.
"Thank you so much for everything," Tyler said to me. "Open the top pocket in my backpack and take your money. You've earned it."
Tyler was true to his word, as he did indeed take care of me. I wasn't really expecting such a swell tip from the man, but then again, a thought crossed my mind that perhaps it was "hush money" —I guess I'll never really know for sure.
All I do know is that I'm thankful for having arms and legs and hands that work well, and that I can iron my own shirts like nobody's business.
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FiN.
