If at Birth You Don't Succeed (31 page)

In one episode, called “Your Best Shot,” I try to shoot baskets, missing dozens of times, but moving closer and closer, until I finally find the net, exclaiming to the camera, “See? I told you you could do it!” In the comments section below the video people wrote things like “He makes me feel better” and “No offense, you suck at basketball—Love your winning spirit though!”

It's not that impressive that after shooting hoops for two hours on a hot patch of asphalt, I finally scored two points. What's important is that seeing those attempts helps my audience take people like me off the sidelines. I'm able to encourage others because someone taught me how to appreciate the tiny victories a long time ago. Now I know why Mrs. Fatta rewrote every rule of fourth-grade gym class; it's because she understood that in order for me to succeed in life, I'd have to change the game entirely.

 

CHAPTER 16

A Wedding, Two Meat Loaves, and a Lobster Funeral

In July 2014, after a decadelong courtship, my childhood friend Kevin was finally getting married to Kate, his high school sweetheart. But enough about them, let's talk about why this wedding was important to me. I'd be settling into several new roles at these nuptials. Along with my best friend Andrew and Kevin's brother-in-law (confusingly, also named Kevin), I was one of three anointed best men. But this would also be the first wedding where I'd have a date who wasn't just a dance partner for the electric slide or a girl friend who'd agreed to come to enjoy the open bar and serve as my wingwoman, but a real live, legit, compound-word girlfriend, who'd come all the way from Germany to Buffalo just to be with me.

For once, when I busted moves at the reception, people wouldn't be asking “Is he drunk?” but rather “Who's that smokin' hot lady dancing with Zach?” Gillian and I had only been a couple for five months and we'd been on separate continents for three of them, but for someone who had absolutely zero prior experience dating, I really felt like I was killing it as a boyfriend. Not to brag or anything, but we'd already managed to exchange “I Love You's,” and I'd gotten the prestigious distinction of being the best man Gillian had ever met—her words, not mine. How did I do this, you ask? Well, after years of watching other people's relationships flounder, I knew in my heart that I could be more thoughtful and romantic than any of my friends. Not that I'm saying it's a competition, but if it was, I'd win. This was finally my moment to shine.

Some of my best boyfriend achievements to date included, but were not limited to:

•
Oh, she's had a tough day? I'll send flowers with a personal note!

•
Oh, she's just finished a tour in Italy? I'll text a series of photos of me holding up signs expressing how proud I am of her!

•
Oh, she just organized all her favorite books from childhood into a library at the farmhouse where she grew up? Well, since I can't be there on her birthday, I guess I'll just contact her mom, get a list of those books, purchase a set, and donate them to a children's hospital in her name! Oops, I forgot to get the far superior British editions of Harry Potter … wait, no I didn't!
Philosopher's Stone
away, you brave little soldiers …

•
Well, we both agree that Valentine's Day is overcommercialized, but I still wanna do something thoughtful. Good thing I remember the name of one of her favorite charities and the fact that she loves animals; so, here you go, African villager in need, take this goat as a token of how much I pay attention to my girlfriend!

•
Oh, and what's that? The seminal Joni Mitchell album
Court and Spark
inspired her to be a songwriter? I'll go to the ends of the earth to find a signed copy on vinyl. I don't care how many niche record stores I have to visit. Wait, it's just right here on Amazon. Well, whatever, still counts!

Just so you guys don't feel shitty, I'll admit that I made some mistakes too. After all, this was my first relationship and I was learning on the job. In our first few months together I was getting life lessons all over the place and figuring out not just how to be a better boyfriend but how to be a better person all around. Obviously, there are some things you can only learn from experience. For instance, no matter how hot you think it looks when your girlfriend's mascara runs, you should make her aware of it, because to her, it's not sexy, but unkempt and sloppy. Likewise, if you love absolutely every single outfit your girlfriend tries on, your opinion doesn't hold a lot of weight. And, even if you think the analogy is accurate based on scale alone, you should never refer to one of the country's largest, oldest, and most prestigious greenhouse conservatories as “the Walmart of gardens” because that assessment belittles something that has great sentimental meaning to your girlfriend and her family (okay, so that last one is pretty specific, but just in case it comes up…).

I also learned that no matter how nervous you are, subconsciously touching your crotch in public always sends the wrong signals,
especially
if you're at an amusement park surrounded by children. Granted, I should have known that already, but it was nice to have someone in my corner discreetly pointing it out instead of calling the cops.

All in all, even taking these minor missteps into account, I'd still give myself a solid 7.8 as a significant other. I felt like the role of boyfriend was one I was born to play. There's no denying that I'd arrived on the scene pretty late, but remember, Harrison Ford didn't play Han Solo until he was thirty-five. Everything about being somebody's somebody was a new and exciting first for me. First time getting to share meals off the same plate. First time holding hands—gotta set the right speed for my wheelchair so that I don't run into my lady's amazing legs when we're walking!

My mind was blown on a daily basis by even the tiniest revelations. Like, did you guys know that once you've kissed somebody, sharing gum or candy with them doesn't feel gross? It even sounds gross to write it, but in the moment it's like … yeah, that totally makes sense! After decades of ignorance, I was finally getting the romantic education I'd always hoped for.

This transatlantic trip to Buffalo was the first time Gillian would be meeting my family. I'd never brought a girl home before, so this was uncharted territory for everyone in my house. When you're in a long-distance relationship and haven't seen each other for three months, the thing you're looking forward to most is privacy. We'd have to make a few minor adjustments to ensure that Gillian felt both welcome and comfortable because in my house privacy is not really a thing.

“Hey, Mom? You know how I haven't had a door on my room for the past two years? Do you think we could put one on before Gillian gets here?”

“You remember the reason you don't have a door, don't you?” she replied, pointing out that my door was off its hinges because I'd rammed into it so many times with my wheelchair.

“Yeah, but still,” I said. “It would make Gillian and me feel a lot better if we had at least some privacy.” She gave in to that one, ensuring that everyone who walked to the bathroom wouldn't first be popping their heads into my room to check in on the happy couple.

I was a man to Gillian, but no matter how old I got, I'd always be a son to my parents. For me, growing up with a disability meant that, while my family encouraged my independence, there were nurturing habits that became established routines that I never fully grew out of. Others would call it coddling, but I just knew it as life. This codependent comfort came at the expense of boundaries. It didn't matter what I'd accomplished in my professional or personal life—when I was home, I was someone who was taken care of. I was the one in my family who didn't have to sweat the small stuff because he had the big dreams. So when Gillian came to Buffalo, not only would she be meeting my family and childhood friends for the first time, she'd also be meeting my childhood.

She'd love my family, and who wouldn't? They're warm without being fake, they have a grossly inappropriate sense of humor, and all of us are artistic in different ways. An indie harpist who loves to laugh and adores me should feel right at home. Even so, it would still be weird for her to walk into the bedroom of the man she was considering a future with and find a Kermit the Frog plush toy propped up on the bed staring back at her. We tossed Kermit onto the floor, but the next day, after we'd returned from lunch, we discovered that he'd found his way back to my pillow.

I was not the most obvious match for a woman who'd had numerous relationships, moved to Switzerland when she was fifteen, and traveled around the world by herself. Hell, I didn't even learn the truth about Santa until I was eleven. But we shared an enthusiasm for the little things in life, and that made some of the bigger differences seem less daunting. Gillian attempted to ingratiate herself to my family right away by cooking an exotic breakfast dish called a “frittata” with what she referred to as tah-mah-toes. They ate it, cautiously. I took her to all my favorite Buffalo hangouts, and even though she'd been to palaces in Italy and could whip up croissants from scratch, she was still able to appreciate Lasertron and sponge candy.

Though there was no lack of fun things to do in my hometown, the one thing we couldn't find was the alone time we so desperately needed after three months apart. A private island would have been perfect. Luckily, Gillian had one of those in her back pocket. It was a place called Vinalhaven off the coast of Maine where her grandmother had a summerhouse. Time alone was such a precious commodity that Gillian was willing to drive us the ten hours from Buffalo to Maine—a tall order after having taken a transatlantic flight and an overnight bus ride to get to Buffalo in the first place. Then, after a short ferry ride from the mainland, Gillian could finally relax and I could finally continue relaxing, but with the added bonus of lobster.

This had all the makings of a stress-free romantic getaway. So I hopped into the passenger seat of the van to wait while Gillian struggled to master the vacation Jenga that is packing two suitcases, a wheelchair ramp, a harp, a manual wheelchair, and a particularly squirrelly electric one, into a single vehicle. She'd focus on the logistical stuff—like packing and driving, and doing everything to get us out the door—and I'd focus on the romantic boyfriend-y stuff, like buying wine I knew nothing about and remembering to bring my Bluetooth speaker in case I needed to set a sexy mood. Since we wouldn't have Internet access on the island, I preloaded my phone with plenty of Michael McDonald.
Whelp, I've done my job!
I thought. But as we pulled out of the driveway, Gillian entrusted me with another responsibility.

“I'm gonna need you to help me navigate.”

Since Gillian was doing 100 percent of the driving, this request seemed reasonable, but it still flooded me with fear. My sense of direction is so poor that I can't tell you with confidence which side of the street my own house is on. I'm the person who, when the doorbell rings, will rush down the hall to welcome my guests and mistakenly open the door to find, not my friends, but my shirts, because I've opened a closet instead. I tried to temper her expectations.

“I don't know if I can do that,” I said, “but I can trrry?”

“Well, if you're riding shotgun, that's your job.”

I refrained from mentioning that I'd once hosted a show called
Riding Shotgun
and had managed to escape this responsibility entirely. But there were three other people with me on that trip who had accepted early on that I couldn't be trusted not to route us to Boston by way of Mexico. Despite my inexperience, I resolved to do my best to honor the faith Gillian was placing in me. After all, how hard could it be to follow a little blue car on your phone and say the names of roads?
Never Eat Shredded Wheat
, I recited to myself, realizing that I didn't know which way was Never and which way was Wheat.

It was on that drive that I got my first whiff of what it's like to be a less than baller boyfriend. My navigation skills were even worse than I'd anticipated.

“Okay, so you're supposed to turn left in point five miles … now it's point four miles…”

“What's the name of the exit?” Gillian asked.

Confused, I looked down at her phone.

“It doesn't say,” I shrugged. “Siri, what is the name of the exit that we're supposed to turn on in point two miles?”

“Just hand it to me,” she said, exasperated. “You're not giving me enough warning, I have to merge across four lanes of traffic to make these turns.”

By the time we finally got to Maine, her exhaustion from a week of near-constant travel finally caught up with her, and, for me, ten hours of making an already stressful situation worse was also pretty tiring.

The only way from the small town of Rockland, Maine, to the even smaller island of Vinalhaven is via a ferry that goes back and forth from the mainland, six trips a day in summer and a generous two trips in winter. It was the first time I'd ever ridden in a van on a boat. The foghorns bellowed as we pulled into the harbor, and I could see the rocky shores of Vinalhaven poking through the thick mist. It took about ninety seconds to drive through the tiny town center. I saw streets lined with quaint white clapboard houses, a handful of charming storefronts, and a gas station with only a single pump, but two tanks filled with lobsters for sale.

Seven minutes outside of the village, nestled in among the trees and facing the ocean, was Gillian's grandmother's summerhouse. It had the rustic woodsiness of a cabin but the warmth of a home. We were the first people to visit that season, so there was a coating of dust and a fair number of cobwebs inside. Somehow a small tree's worth of dried leaves had blown through during the fall. The pantries were stocked with nonperishables and a surprising number of spices to cook with. The best find though, from that initial inventory, was not only a VCR but a VHS of
You've Got Mail.
When I saw that, I was convinced we had everything we needed for a great week.