A Happy Shut-In

A fictional short-short story

I had been proud that at age 72, I still could ride my bike all over the place, including with a bag of groceries.

But then a parked car opened its door into me, which shoved me into the middle of the street, and another car ran over me. So, I’m in a wheelchair for life.

I’d never been very social but have been a member of a couple clubs, chat with people in the supermarket, and so on. And I promised myself I wouldn’t let being a paraplegic stop me. So, for a while, I did as much as possible while wheeling myself around.

But little by little, that was tiring, psychologically more than physically and so, more and more, I became a shut-in and, to my surprise, I liked it. I found myself taking pleasure in, for example, trying to garden from a wheelchair, looking up lots of stuff on the internet, and listening to music while cleaning my cottage to perfection.

The problem was my neighbor, Harriet. As she saw me spend more and more time at home, she went on a mission to get me out.

To appear progressive, she suggested I take a salsa class. “So what if you’re in a wheelchair? They have Special Olympics, don’t they?!” No way.

Then she asked, “How about a Sierra Singles hike? Some are on paved paths so you won’t fall over on some rock.” I’m not that social nor into nature — It’s boring.

Finally, she tried the nuclear option: “Okay, you’re coming with me to the Queen tribute concert. I just bought our tickets. It’s almost sold out so we’re in the left balcony, Row X, and Ticketmaster acts like a scalper: When I looked two days ago, the seats were 60 bucks. Today, I had to pay $118 times two but I figured you only live once and if I bought your ticket, you’d feel you had to go.”

I did go and it was ridiculous. Not only was the band deafening, so was the screaming crowd. And as in cults, the audience followed the band leader’s urgings. They sang along and so many knew the words, like at the Rocky Horror Picture Show. And when told to, nearly everyone pulled out their phone, turned on their flashlight, and waved it around. I have to admit that looked kind of cool, but for most of the two hours, I faked having a good time, swaying and clapping when other people did, sneaking glances at my watch. I was so glad to get back in the car.

She said, “So, how’d you like it?” I shrugged and she said, “Okay, I give up. Just sit there and rot.” I said, “Just because I’m not living your way doesn’t mean I’m rotting.”

But in the coming weeks, her pain-in-the-ass urgings got to me. In the mail, I got a booklet from the adult school that listed upcoming classes. I flipped past the likes of Intro to Mandarin and the eight-session square-dancing course, but just maybe I could see myself taking the music appreciation class?

I read this aloud on YouTube.

Marty Nemko is an award-winning career and personal coach, and author of 34 books including Senior Stories. Reach him at mnemko@gmail.com