Broken Expectations

or "A Leg up, A month down"




I am sitting at the doctors with one foot uncovered and my sock and shoe lying next to me. I am staring at my toes and realizing that maybe I should have cut my toenails before I decided to come in. A week and a half has passed since my foot started aching. It swelled up midweek and became barely walkable for a couple of days. I am not a huge fan of doctors, but I realize that maybe something is going on with my foot that I should check out. They examine it, poke at it, and take x-rays.

The doctor walks in with the x-ray results.

“Oh,” he says casually, “There’s the problem. Your foot is broken.”

He hands me the x-rays and begins to show me the various visible bones on the screen. I have never broken anything before and I certainly have never examined an x-ray before. As he points at various key areas on the slides, I nod with the conviction of an experienced radiologist. I want my nodding head to demonstrate that I clearly know exactly what the doctor is talking about and could have easily have read the x-rays without him present.

I lie on my stomach as they fit me with a temporary cast. It feels kind of warm as the cast begins to mold around my leg and harden. The set me up with a pair of crutches and give me instructions. It is important that I make an appointment with an orthopedist as soon as possible to receive a permanent cast. I feel a little bummed out, but also slightly curious about the whole procedure. My first broken bone, my first cast, and my first crutches.

We head to Paul’s parents house and I hobble up the long gravel driveway.

“I BROKE MY FOOT!” I yell proudly to Paul’s dad as I walk through the door. I give a demonstration of the crutch walking techniques that I learned at the hospital.

“That isn’t the correct way to walk in crutches.” says Paul gauging my every footstep. I racked my brain, but I couldn’t ever recall Paul breaking either of his feet or ever needing crutches. I wasn’t aware that he was an expert in art of crutch walking.

He takes the crutches and makes a graceful walk across the living room tile. He walks back towards us and then he repeats the walk again. He is feeling quite proud of himself. He is like the runway model for crutches. Hospitals everywhere should hire his assistance in the demonstration of the fine gait of the crutch-way walk. I want to knock the crutches from underneath him, but I have too many calls to make.

I first start calling work. Broken foot means no work for some time. This part really frustrates me because I haven’t been able to work much this past month. I was really looking forward to getting back to making some coffee and having fun. I make numerous calls and send various texts attempting to cover all of my shifts for a week. It is a pain to do last minute, but thankfully after two hours I have it covered.

Next, I try to set up an appointment to see an orthopedist. The first one I call isn’t available for five days. That’s too long to wait, so I make several more calls and finally find one who is available in three days. With the appointment set, I sit and try to envision what my next month will look like.

I had lots of plans to get back into the swing of things after a great summer of laziness. I was ready for a strict workout regime. I had a step-by-step work plan to prepare of us for some audits in October. My birthday resolutions of arduous efforts were going to come true. Unfortunately, most of them involved moving my feet.

I tried to now envision plans with me and my non-moving foot. The doctor said to keep my foot elevated, so I planned lots of activities sitting on my bum. I guess I could catch up on some television. I had some videos games I had yet to beat. Worst came to worst, I could even catch up on some reading. I was sitting there imaging this new month of restful activities when the phone rang. It was the doctor and he sounded slightly flustered. “I’m sorry. I was wrong, your foot really isn’t broken. It’s just sprained. You can cut your cast off now.”

I stare down at my cast. So much for my imagined month of relaxation.

Cake Walk Capsule

or "Underpass Undertones"



It is finally time for the opening of the underpass and Paul and I are making our way there slowly. I say slowly because my foot is a little sore. I am sure I sprained it last week at the gym. We are going to meet Paul’s family there to see the tile of Paul and his mom. Unfortunately, when we get there, we notice that only one quarter of the tile project is completed. I feel bad because we invited Paul’s brothers and their families, his dad, and his uncle and aunt. Instead of looking at the heart touching picture, we are staring at a blank grey concrete wall.

It is probably better that way though, because when we look at the pictures that are up, we see that there are notable mistakes on the tiles. I think the tiles are supposed to be sepia, but unfortunately some of them are black and white. The artist left a note posted stating that any problem tiles will be replaced but have been temporarily marked with a large red dot. I notice a friend of mine on the wall…with a huge red dot on her face. I apologize to her tile and hope they are able to make a copy of her picture and not just replace it with a stranger whose tile came out correctly. I feel relieved that Paul’s picture isn’t up yet. Hopefully they will work out any bugs before they set up the rest of the walls.

So there we are, with our group, and no tile to look at. We decide to enjoy the rest of the festivities that are going on around us. The opening of the underpass was tied to the city’s birthday this year. Nearly every store, pub, and restaurant within two miles have some “birthday special” going on. Birthday samples, birthday music, birthday drinks, etc. Fourth avenue and downtown are incredibly packed with people swarming back and forth.

“Man,” I say “there is a lot of people out!”

“Well,” says Paul’s uncle” it’s the city’s birthday!”

I have mixed feeling about this. On one hand, I love seeing so many people congesting our downtown. It is nice to see faces about and I am surprised when people leave their homes to be a part of the city. Normally, the only time a big crowd storms downtown anymore is during the street fair or club crawl. Yet, there is a small part of me that is annoyed. The city has birthday events every year and every year it is ignored. No one barely bats an eye when the annual date occurs. When I worked for a newspaper downtown, we would always use ‘birthday week’ as a chance to sell more ads.

“Hey,” I would say “It’s Tucson’s birthday week! Don’t you want to buy an ad to wish the city a happy birthday! I am sure you would, we have special birthday rates and birthday ad space!” Most of the business’ weren’t aware of the birthday but would buy ad space anyways to make sure their business appeared supportive of the downtown community that they were apart of. I felt that most of the people celebrating on the street were barely aware of the cities birthday for the first time in their lives.

I was busy giving passerby’s dirty looks weighing my conflicting feelings, when I saw a sign above Hotel Congress that read, “CITYWIDE BIRTHDAY CAKE CONTEST: FREE SAMPLES TO THE PUBLIC”.

“Yeah,” I shouted loudly, “ It’s Tucson’s Birthday!” I pulled open the doors and beckoned everyone in.

To the left of the entrance, inside the hotels private ballroom, was a scene reminiscent of the Food Network. There were at least fifteen vendors set up at various tables, each with a display cake showcasing attributes of the city and also a spread of cake samples for the people to taste. Each cake artist stood proudly behind their creations and described what they were giving samples of. The ballroom was covered in balloons and decorations, slightly marring it’s usual upscale art deco feel. (Coincidently, we celebrated Paul’s birthday a few years back in this room. I am sure Paul would think it appropriate that the city is celebrating it’s birthday in the same space.)




I tried as much cake as possible, even though I am not a big fan of cake. I even took the samples that Paul didn’t like. It was hard to turn it down when the chefs were explaining the cakes with such passion and detail. Most were chocolate, although some were mixed with berries, others with lemons and the best one , (I think) with hazelnuts. Outside, in the hotel’s new courtyard, bands were playing to good natured crowds.

After the cake fest , we continued our walk downtown with Paul’s family in tow. As we passed each shop and building, everyone had stories to tell about certain shops. Shops that still stood or shops that had long been destroyed and built over. Paul’s dad mentioned a photo of Bettina and him taken nearby. I remember the breathtaking black and white photo clearly from their house. It was a picture of young lovers oblivious to the future. He talked with Paul’s uncle and aunt about all of the buildings they used to know, including the time the Mickey Mouse club was held downtown on the weekends.

As we passed an old wig shop, Paul’s aunt mentioned how they used to go and pick out wigs for the weekends sometimes when the ladies would go out. She still remembered several of the styles and described them to us exactly, including the original color names. She also mentioned how they would pick out wigs for their drag queen friends and fix up their hair. I laughed and it seemed strange that I didn’t think that drag queen’s existed back then.

Around us, there were men in kilts playing bagpipes. Musicians played guitars and sang with microphones, a women was singing very loudly although I couldn’t say pleasantly. Cafes were open and most shops had their doors wide open to invite patrons in. We walked by and saw six men getting haircuts peeking out into the crowd. A man was passing flyers out for a new phone store that would soon be open. It was an invitation for the senses but I seemed too distracted to enjoy it fully. The best part of the night wasn’t the noise, but the stories.

We ended up back at the newly expanded and lit underpass that took two years to build. I remember going through the previous underpass for my twenty first birthday. The old underpass was small and you had to walk single file if anyone was coming in the opposite direction. Somebody always had too much and felt the need to test their vocal cords in the acoustics of the confined space. It had this odd smell and you had to try to hold your breath while you walked quickly under it. Now it was gray, beautiful and large. It smelled like fresh paint, although I can still smell faintly in my mind those nefarious odors of yesteryear.

I thought to myself, you can build over the rubble but you can't build over the memories.

BONUS: Some extra pics

Tarantula Lady

I am in the self-checkout lane with my arsenal of flu remedies and medicine. I have Emergen-C, Theraflu, Tylenol, Gatorade, etc. Basically, I have the entire Walgreens Sunday ad in my basket. I am moving in that sort of sick zombie walk, where my body is moving slowly and my eyes are glazed over. One foot in front of the other.

I start to pass the front of the registers, close to all of the sale items. There is a large woman sitting in one of those electronic three wheel scooters with a basket. As I pass by she speaks up at me, “Would you like a tarantula postcard?”

I pause. If I had been more alert and less sick, I would have zoomed by her so fast that she never would have had a chance to stop me. Normally, I would have seen someone coming a mile away. I shrug my shoulders.

“Sure,” I say in my zombie voice.

“How many would you like?” she asks fanning out what appears to be at least 20 tarantula postcards.

“One would be great.” I say .

She hands over one tarantula postcard.

“Thank you,” I say and continue on my way. I turn the postcard over and it has two informative sentences about tarantulas. I have no idea who I am going to send it to.

Head I win, Tails I lose

or "3 in 7,000"

Being sick is different for everyone. For me it is spiritual cleansing, the spring cleaning of the soul. Whenever I am sick, I always recall a story from the Bible about Jesus healing a sick person. In the story I remember, which I profess to not having the greatest memory, Jesus goes to the house of a sick person. He heals them, and then forgives them of their sins. Then Jesus sends them out into the world, asking them to go and sin no more. Or something like that. For some reason the story always equated in my mind, that whenever I am sick, Jesus is purifying me of sins. He is burning away my sins, one degree at a time. Then, after I am done being purified, I am sent on my way free of all sins.

I know that the logic there makes absolutely no sense, but I concocted that theory when I was nine. It has been a long month and I am glad to finally be home. First it was my operation, then San Diego, and lastly Las Vegas. No sleep for the wicked. I get out of bed and realize that my calves are unusually sore. This is to be expected from all of the walking we did up and down the strip at all hours of the night. I stand up. They are more than just sore, I have body aches. I feel my head, I definitely have a fever. I get the thermometer to double check. 102.4. Yep, definitely sick.

I hate being sick, but thankfully I am never sick too long, usually 24 hours max. I lie in bed trying to sleep away most of the sickness. I wake up the next day, only to discover that I am still sick. I still have a fever. This is longer than usual and I am disappointed, although I know my body has had a rough month. I am sure that my immune system is down to zero from the traveling and the stitches on my stomach. As I lie there, I start to speculate that maybe since I had a milestone birthday, perhaps I am catching up on all of my sins from the past decade. My thoughts are interrupted by a much needed break to the bathroom. I start to make that trip frequently that day and before I know it, my bottom because best friends with the bathroom. “What sins are these!” I think and during the next three day I live upon the toilet of purgatory.
If there were any sins left in my body, surely they were flushed down the toilet. I should be as pure as fresh fallen snow and baby lambs now.

I could also use some good news.

The good news comes in the form of a phone call from Paul.

Earlier this year, we were able to participate in a photo shoot for the city’s portrait project. For those of you who don’t know, the city had set up several photo opportunities around the city during the early part of this year. At select events, there were booths set up where people could sit and have their portrait taken. From there, 7,000 of the pictures would be selected and made into tiles. The tiles would be placed in the new underpass, which is opening soon and will connect fourth avenue to downtown. The entire underpass project has taken about two years and has been inconvenient to say the least. Walking from fourth avenue to downtown has always been a favorite pastime of ours, but has been impossible during construction.

We had heard about the project but hadn’t thought too much about it. It wasn’t until Paul’s mom passed that Paul became determined to attend a photo shoot. He tucked a large frame under his arm and we made our way to one of the events. He signed up, filled out the paperwork, and sat for his session. “This is a picture of my mom.” said Paul balancing the large frame on his knee.

“ I would like to take my picture with her.” said Paul ,” if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course.” said the photographer and took several snapshots.

This happened several months ago and I had forgotten about it until I heard Paul’s excited voice on the line. “They accepted the picture!” he said and directed me to the website showcasing the chosen pictures. I searched the site and found it. It was perfect. The picture Paul had chosen in the frame was a picture where Bettina was looking at Paul from a distance with a huge smile on her face. In the chosen tile picture, Bettina is still looking at Paul holding the framed picture.

All in all, 7000 photographs were chosen, but this was the only one that really mattered to me. Paul called his Dad, who was equally excited and genuinely touched. We made plans to attend the grand opening of the underpass on the 20th.

“Oh yeah,” said Paul, “They also selected your picture.”

I stopped for a second. I sort of expected Bettina’s picture to be chosen, but not mine. It was a bonus surprise, to find out that I get to be a part of the downtown city that I have loved so much since my youth. It was the hangout of my high school years, food sustenance of my college years, and disco dancing and friends during my adult years. Considering I almost thought I was dying earlier this week, it was nice to be immortally placed somewhere. Tally score for the week: Head (shots) I win, Tail (side) I lose.

UPDATE: I looked up the bible story and Jesus was actually talking to a prostitute and NOT a sick man. I guess my nine year old brain was wrong. Ah well

PAUL'S PICTURE: http://www.tucsonportraitproject.com/ and search for "Paul Gastellum" in the search box under "Explore Panels"