Bill

By Marty Nemko

1

Where Do I Belong?

“Oh no, she’s taking out the belt again. Mommy, no! Mommy, what did I do wrong? It didn’t hurt anything.”

I was four and had ridden my tricycle on the wet concrete in front of our apartment building.

That was far from my last welts: Come home late: welts. Play with a tennis ball in the house: welts. Talk back: lots of welts.

School was no safe haven. It was boring and I couldn’t sit in my seat: I stared out the window at the Esso clock, happy each time the clock changed to the next minute. I’d get up and wander the classroom. Teachers kept telling me to sit down. Bored again, I’d do things like tilt my chair back to the maximum point and occasionally beyond: Crash. No surprise, I got Unsatisfactory in “conduct and social behavior” and more welts.

The kids didn’t like me either. I was a show-off. I didn’t realize that showing your abilities would piss kids off. My head became a noogie receptacle. A noogie is a punch to the head in which the middle joint of the fist’s middle finger is raised to concentrate the impact.

Atop the physical pain was the emotional. I hated being a reject: not getting invited to birthday parties, getting the fewest Valentine’s Day cards, getting chosen last if at all for basketball even though I was pretty good.

I coped by withdrawing. By the time I was in high school, I felt like a boxer who had been pummeled round after round—I was reluctant to come out for more. So I played basketball by myself, even bowled alone. I read most of the 45 Hardy Boys books, then anatomy books in a failed attempt to quell my fear of death.

I think that fear stemmed from my mother being the 20^th century’s first health-food nut: She sprinkled wheat germ on everything and wouldn’t take me to restaurants because “You don’t know what junk they put in.” She even warmed the orange juice because “cold isn’t healthy.”

In college, I still had a hard time finding my place. There was no major I loved. Fraternities seemed too juvenile. I wrote for the student newspaper but never got into the “in” group. I felt safest in the gardening club. Its focus was less on the social and more on the plants. That felt good.

That brings me to work. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a doctor but then there was the hypochondria and all those hard science courses. Lawyer? I like to talk but not argue. The business world? I don’t care much about profit. Non-profit? Too slow. Government job? Even slower. Self-employment? Like I said, I don’t care much about profit but maybe that’s not so bad—If I cared about profit just enough to make a decent living, maybe I could develop a following.

But self-employed at what? I don’t know anything. It’s not like my parents had a business I could take over. Sell coffee from a cart in an office building? I’m no status-seeker but that’s a step too low, even for me. I wish I could be a singer, writer, or actor but don’t like the odds. Besides, I have no talent.

They tell you to do what you love and the money will follow. Well, what do I love? Not much. I like a lot of stuff, but love? That’s a high bar.

Okay, what do I like? I like food but a career in food would be dangerous. I’m already a little overweight and Bill’s Chocolate Cheesecake, oh-oh. Shaw said that food is the sincerest form of love, but his BMI must have been 100.

I like music but what am I going to do, open a nightclub? Too much investment, too much risk. Besides I like classical music. Not much demand for that. And listen to hip-hop all day? I’m not that cool.

I like roses. Back East where I grew up, roses bloomed just two months a year and you need to spray them with an arsenal that would have impressed Saddam Hussein. But when I came to California, I was amazed that that many roses, that romantic flower factory, don’t need spraying, bloom eight months a year, and a plant can last for decades.

But how in the world could I compete with the megacorporations whose economies of scale let them sell roses cheaply to granny.

Wait a minute: granny. Hmm. Grandmothers buy lots of roses but many more don’t because growing them is physically demanding or they’ve downsized to a senior-living apartment.

I remember seeing small pots of tiny rose plants in the supermarket and they’re not marketed at all—Without any signage, the micromini roses are mushed between the ferns and the philodendrons.

And because micromini roses are so small, I could grow thousands in my small backyard. I’d buy the best varieties from leading rose breeders as cuttings and root them. I could multiply them for pennies a piece and sell them for dollars apiece—Even cocaine doesn’t have that big a profit margin. (And I thought I didn’t care about profit?)

Let me tell you how it played out over the years. I tried to pitch the big-box chains but got screened out before I got to talk with anyone. Their questionnaire asked whether I had a $10 million insurance policy. Hah! Indemnification? I didn’t even know what that was.

The independent nurseries also said no… until I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. I’d let them have the first dozen plants for free and give them a sign “Granny’s Roses: small effort, small space, big pleasure,” with a picture of a grandmother tending roses in a window box.

Fast forward. I’m now 70. I did well enough that my little business outgrew my backyard, so I found a grower two hours away, Romance Roses, that would grow them in quantities for a buck apiece.

And recently, I allowed myself something well-suited to a not-social person, especially as we get older: a doggie. Because my puppy has a mind of her own, I named her Hillary: Bill and Hill.

2

The Choir

Hillary, a puffy tank with corgi legs, became my “on-the-other hand” conversation partner.

For example, in bed, I said to Hillary, “On one hand, how could anyone be against peace? On the other hand, violence works. If we didn’t fight the Nazis, today we might be shouting Sieg Heil. On one hand, shouldn’t we blow up Putin’s army? It would stop that modern-day Hitler. On the other hand, it could cause nuclear war—We should let the sanctions work. What do you think, Hill?”

My next “on-the-other-hand” related to my little business: “Hillary, on one hand, Romance Roses grows quality roses and only charges me a buck apiece. On the other hand, they just claimed that a whole field of my I Love You rose burned in a fire. It was my very best rose—odd coincidence. Should I change growers?”

Hillary tilted her head trying to understand, then turned away and went back to sleep.

As befitting a 70-year-old, I creaked out of bed. Stepping over the strewn New Yorkers, I picked up my phone and started filling orders for roses, those so small that even infirm people can grow them. With each plant, I include a heart-shaped stake.

I’m far from rich but live decently thanks to some thrift: “Why live in a fancy neighborhood when serviceable ones are half the price? Why buy a new car when an old Toyota with years of reliable life left is 90% less? Why pay a fortune for a painting when you can get a wall calendar with 12 prints of priceless art for the price of a frozen pizza?”

My self-congratulation evaporated when I saw the pop-up on my phone: The lab results from my wellness exam were in. I thought, “Everyone is just one blood test from a death sentence.”

“All normal!” Even though I’m agnostic, I exhaled, “Thank God.” I’m too aware that few 70-year-olds get “all normal.”

“Now, Hillary, to your health: It’s time to make that spay appointment. Sorry to have to nip you in the bud.”

Hillary finally toddled out of bed, looked at me with feed-me eyes, and giving her breakfast became top priority.

Next, it was time for a walk. Hillary sniffed the dog park’s gate. “After you’re spayed, Hill.” But she tugged and the park was empty so I chanced it. I monitored her for a while and when she still had the dog park to herself, I turned back to my phone, writing cute thank-you notes to customers: “You chose the Sexy Granny rose. Hmm. 😊”

Not a minute later, I looked up in horror as Hillary was enjoying a cocker spaniel’s rhythmic attention. I had been immersed and so didn’t notice Casanova’s arrival. I tried to reassure myself: “Hill is just five months old, probably too young to get pregnant. But I thought, “Hot Stuff, the party’s over.” It wasn’t easy to get Hillary back on the leash—She preferred cocker company but finally, homo sapiens prevailed.

During our walks, I’d often look at my phone and, for months, all was fine. But one day, as we turned onto a street, a stealth-quiet electric scooter slammed into me and I crumbled. After three weeks in the hospital and a $20,000 bill despite being “insured,” I would, below the waist, be permanently paralyzed.

To distract myself from my future, I stayed busy—no more strewn New Yorkers, no dishes in the sink, no laundry piling up, everything company-clean: Like in The Glass Menagerie, I was preparing for a gentlelady caller who’ll never come.

Embarrassed to see people, my social life consisted mainly of PrisonerPenPals.com and yet more on-the-other-hand talks to Hillary. For example,

“Why do I keep my shipping guy? He’s lazy and makes lots of mistakes. Maybe I should pay him to not work for me. On the other hand, he comes from a tough background and if I fire him, he’ll probably go back on drugs. What should I do, Hill?”

“Why do I work so hard? On one hand, I’ve always believed that life’s value lies mainly in productivity. On the other hand, my work means little: So what if fewer people buy roses? Should I have more fun? What would be fun? I still have most of the oxycontin from the hospital. On the other hand, I don’t want to risk getting addicted. What do you think Hill?” Hillary stared, then padded away.

My healthy diet gave way to new food groups: chips, pizza, and chocolate. The baby carrots rotted. I drank yesterday’s coffee. My apartment got so cluttered that my wheelchair sometimes stalled. Once, it toppled and I might still be on the ground if not for the pizza delivery guy.

When I ran out of the oxycontin, time having chiseled away at me, I found a doctor who’d give me a prescription for something even stronger: fentanyl.

One night, while sleeping, I heard Hillary groaning and then a choir of whimpering. I woke to see Hill having given birth to four squirming puppies that were nuzzling aside her. I stared, experiencing one of life’s few events that deserve the word “awesome.” And I cried. It somehow triggered a flood of gratitude for the miracle of life.

I reached for the bottle of fentanyl, crawled out of bed, into my wheelchair, and flushed the pills down the toilet.

3

Iris

Opioid-free, the carrots were fresh again and the New Yorkers weren’t strewn but piled. Guilty about not reading them, I considered cancelling but didn’t. I nurtured Bouncy, Bella, Einstein, and Jumbo the sweet runt, and posted on my neighborhood forum, “Four sweet, poodly-corgiyish puppies, free to good homes.”

My vetting process was worthy of Harvard but I had an easy pick in Iris. Seventy-three, she was home a lot, had an enclosed yard, had dogs all her life, lost her Daisy after 17 years, and wanted one more dog. I also liked that Iris’ first choice was Jumbo.

Iris walked with a cane, which made me feel less embarrassed at being in a wheelchair. I also liked her understated look: the short gray ponytail and just a little peach lipstick. Plus, for the first time in many years, a woman showed interest in me: She looked into my eyes just a fraction more than required. She asked me an unnecessary question: “You keep your apartment quite nice. Do you do it yourself?” And then another: “May I ask how you ended up in a wheelchair?” I explained and then asked, “Iris, would you like a cup of coffee?”

She cradled Jumbo and lowered herself into a chair.

“Iris, what do you enjoy doing?”

“Well, I’m in a short-story club. We’re all older and when we read novels, we tend to forget what we read, even just yesterday. With a short story, we can finish in one sitting.”

Because she couldn’t think of anything to say, she asked the same question: “And what do you like to do?”

“I’m still working. Let me show you. I wheeled to the few roses I still kept in my backyard and gave her one plus a heart-shaped plant stake on which I wrote, ‘Iris.”

Embarrassed, she changed the subject and found it easy to just ask, “What else do you like to do?”

Looking down at my now useless legs, “I used to hike but now I talk yet more to Hillary. I like to express multiple sides of an issue.”

“For example?”

I decided to show Iris how I talk to Hillary. “Hill, come here.” After just two requests, she waddled over. “Hillary, on one hand, billions of people have faith in a loving God and have done so for thousands of years. On the other hand, if God is all-seeing, all-powerful, and loving, why would that God let me get run over while walking my dog? Why do millions of people die of natural disasters? Then there are the babies born with a horrible disease and die leaving grieving parents.”

Iris said, “Even my priest said that she sometimes wonders if God exists. Yet don’t we all need to believe in something bigger than ourselves? And when you look at nature, couldn’t there be a grand design? Bill, what’s another example of your on-the-other-hand talks?”

“On one hand, it hurts me to see fat cats have mansions, yachts, and luxury penthouses while other people starve. On the other hand, when we redistribute money and effort from society’s contributors, we all suffer. The people most likely to cure cancer, to be wise leaders, to invent the next Google, will likely be people who already have contributed a lot. I mean, if you had ten solar farms, wouldn’t you invest more in the farms that produced the most?”

Iris said, “My head says to invest in the best but my heart feels for the least among us.”

I was feeling something I hadn’t felt in decades: infatuation. And, stressful by nature, I had to air my most worrisome concern. “Iris, I’m paralyzed from the waist down, with all that implies.” Iris sighed, “To be honest, if we were to get intimate, I’d consider that a relief. I too am not what I used to be.”

After an hour of conversation, light about family, friends, and pop culture, heavy about mortality, the meaning of life, and that we both had secrets that could go to the grave, she led my wheelchair to the bed. We kissed, hugged, and fell asleep, butt to butt.

4

Romantic Roses

I woke up surprised to see another person in my bed but then remembered and dropped back onto the pillow, musing, “Yesterday was lovely but do I really want a relationship? I’ve gotten used to sleeping just with Hillary, being mainly with Hillary, doing what I want, when I want. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe Iris will get up and say she regrets the whole thing.” But when she awoke, she smiled at me.

Over a breakfast of chocolate croissants and rich coffee, I shared that dilemma about Romantic Roses, which claims that a field of my best rose had burned. I could find another grower but it would be more expensive.

Iris asked, “What do you think of our driving the two hours to Romantic Roses to check them out?”

When I called there for an appointment, the owner hesitated before too-enthusiastically saying, “Sure!”

The monotonous drive down 101 into the Central Valley gave Iris and I plenty of time to talk. For example, we revealed the top item on our bucket lists. Mine was to give a two-minute talk on the pros and cons of Cancel Culture.

Iris asked, “What are they?”

“Pros: Fewer lies, less malevolence. Con: Censorship of politically incorrect ideas. It reminds me a little of Stalinist Russia.”

At the top of Iris’ bucket list: “Dinner with Louise Penny, who wrote a novel with Hillary Clinton. Penny’s novels are comforting: simpler times, wise protagonist, always-solved clever mysteries set in a close-knit village.”

After snaking through farm roads, we arrived at the sign: “Romance Roses Inc.” with a logo of a man on bended knee, offering a bouquet of roses.

The rocky path to the office was less inviting. It would have been tricky even if I wasn’t in a wheelchair. The office was a shack with the office sign askew. There was no doorbell so Iris opened the torn screen door and knocked. The owner’s voice demanded, “What?’ When we identified ourselves, he transformed: “Oh, welcome. Come on in.”

The owner ushered Iris to the plastic patio chair in front of the dented metal desk. I wheeled aside her and the owner parked himself behind the desk, a moat.

I said, “Tell me about the burned roses.”

Too casually, the owner said, “Oh, an employee lit a cigarette, tossed the match, walked off, and by the time I saw the fire, it was too late.”

Iris asked, “Would you mind showing us the area?

“You’ll see it. Walk wherever you like.”

Iris and I bucked along the path and tractor tracks, she steadying my wheelchair. And yes, one of the fields was burned, the plants unidentifiable. I sighed, “Let’s have lunch and go home.”

Iris said, “We hadn’t seen a place to eat but maybe if we drove a little further.” We did, and a half mile later, set back from the road, was a field of rose plants—mine.

“I should sue the bastard. On the other hand, it would cost me a fortune for a lawyer and Romantic Roses, Inc. probably can afford a fancy firm that would paper me into submission. It’s just a few thousand bucks of roses. Maybe I should just find another grower.”

Iris said, “I like that other hand” and took his.

5

Secrets

We strolled the riverfront, I in my wheelchair, Iris with her cane, Hillary the furry tank, and Jumbo, Hillary’s and Casanova’s love child.

Iris said, “How nice that they’ve developed this area. It has created jobs and fun for tourists.”

“On the other hand, there have to be better things to build than yet more gift shops, wine bars, and frou-frou bistros.”

Disliking conflict, Iris changed the topic. “My reader’s group focuses on short stories but we just read an essay, Go Gentle into That Good Night, by, of all people, the movie critic Roger Ebert. It began with something like, ‘I’m not scared of death. After all, I was content before I was born and I’ll be as content after I die.’”

I admitted, “What I’m afraid of is dying. Most people have to endure so-called ‘procedures’ and drugs that have side effects worse than the…”

That was the moment that Iris tripped on a crack and dropped to the sidewalk. The passerby didn’t respond to her cry, perhaps because he was wearing headphones. I pulled her up while she pushed down on the wheelchair wheel.

“How hurt are you?”

“I’m not. It’s just that the arthritis has made my legs weak.” She exhaled.”

“What?”

“It’s progressing—What an inaccurate word, “progressing.”

“Fast?”

… “Well, that’s a secret I wasn’t ready to reveal. Fair’s fair: Talk.”

“Well, I’m PC on many things: I’m pro-choice, pro gay marriage, and not very materialistic, but there’s one thing: I believe the world is worse when we have reverse discrimination.”

“But do we?”

“Today, commercials and the entertainment media usually portray white men as evil or clueless, shown the way by a superior minority or woman. And many employers and universities see white men as undesirable, their accomplishments tainted by ‘privilege.’”

“But shouldn’t we compensate for the legacy of slavery and lingering racism and sexism?”

“Iris, that cure is worse than the disease. When we allocate resources on anything but merit, not only do the applicants resent being unfairly rejected, the coworkers suffer, all of us suffer in the quality of everything from customer service to airline pilots, health care to our leaders. The three words I most believe in are ‘merit above all.’ I’m afraid to say that to anyone, even you.”

“But Bill, isn’t there another hand? Shouldn’t we give extra to the least among us? Or less lofty, won’t being generous prevent—forgive the sanitized term— social unrest? ... Well, you and I have tough secrets: I with my progressing arthritis, you with your verboten view.”

I opened the front door, Iris held my eyes, and we went in.

6

Marry?

There were a few months of river walks, on-the-other-hand chats, and septuagenarian sex: lolling in bed, playing as much with the snuggly Jumbo and feisty Hillary as with each other. There were the gin games and the guilty pleasures of pizza, cinnamon rolls, and my favorite: chow fun—greasy, delicious noodles.

Of course, there were arguments:

There was the bedroom temperature contretemps: “Why don’t you get an electric blanket?” “They’re not safe.” “Come on, the chances of an accident are tiny.”

There were the discussions triggered when we were watching TV or a movie: Has wokeness gone too far?

And the debate about who Iris should leave her money to: “Your kids already have plenty of money, plus they treat you like crap. Give it to a charity with big ripple effect, like that low-income school’s mentoring program for gifted kids.”

But mainly, our relationship was good, very good, and I wondered whether it was time to “shit or get off the pot.” What a horrible expression, I thought.

As we were making coq au vin, I mused, “On one hand, we’re not getting any younger and it would be good to count on each other in our old age. And I do love her. Plus, as a 70-year-old paraplegic, it’s not like a horde of amazing women will be knocking on my door. On the other hand, what if, like in so many marriages, things change after the wedding. Divorce would be so painful and expensive. Why not just continue living together?”

I decided that, rationally, marrying didn’t make sense, but one night after a gin game filled with lots of laughs, a little gin, and Jumbo particularly nuzzly, to the background of Alexa playing Abba, I succumbed to the other hand.

“Iris, I wish I could get out of this wheelchair and down on my knee but … I was sure I’d spend the rest of my life alone and then, this kind, pretty woman walked through my door to adopt a puppy. Now, how would you feel about our adopting each other?”

The wedding was at the river walk in front of a sculpture of an old couple holding hands on a park bench. It wasn’t your typical wedding:

The guests included mere acquaintances who made our life a little better. There were clerks at Trader Joe’s who not only broke the law in allowing Hillary and Jumbo in but petted them. There was the butcher who cut beef bones into slivers so that Hillary and Jumbo could enjoy yummy gum massages without too many calories, and the Amazon driver ever delivering pleasure, who used her income to support her true love: writing a novel about a delivery driver.

The officiant wasn’t a cleric but Iris’ daughter.

And here were our vows:

Me: I promise to take care of you after your hip replacement.

Iris: I promise to take care of your prostheses and wheelchair.

Both: We promise to stay together as long as it’s wise.

Me: I promise to try to work out our differences and not let fights unnecessarily escalate.

Iris: Me too. And I promise to look for the good and not unduly dwell on the other hand.

Both: And we promise Hillary and Jumbo that we’ll be a loving mommy and daddy.

Me: I love you, Iris.

Iris: And I love you, Bill.

Iris petted Hillary as I picked up Jumbo, whereupon Iris’s daughter announced, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” And the five of us hugged as the guests clapped and then stood.