Lumpy, Monsieur Urinal, Slick, Ol' Blue, Frankentoilet, Drips, Ol' Blue, Stunt Practice, Slick, Lumpy, Guitar Practice, Computer Time, Monsieur Urinal...
I was getting antsy.
It was now more than a month after the surgeries and my legs were getting better every day. The incisions were coming together fairly well, but it was like the surgeon had warned... they were bad cuts into bad skin, so it was taking a while.
Super girlfriend was a constant fixture. She would do her day at work, take care of errands, obligations, etc., then come see me. She was young, younger than me anyway, and she had given up a lot to be by my side. She was a support group, a nurse, a protector, and a hot mama. I was starting to really feel like myself again, and I needed... um... certain things to keep myself "even". This is the first thing I remember (besides the cool stunts) that was an actual advantage to my condition. When it came to "relations", I didn't have to do much... just enjoy.
In actuality, I was noticing a lot of things that were apparent advantages to being this way, and I was going to take what I could get. Mostly, I just got to do nothing. I played the guitar a lot (learned how to do a mean cover of "Miss American Pie"), and just spent the days basking in my Speedo, eating my mother's cooking, and practicing tricks in Ol' Blue.
Before I knew it, the six weeks necessary to mend the bone in my hand was up, and the cast on my arm was gone. One down, two to go. The removal of the cast made it easier to use Ol' Blue, easier to play guitar, easier to wipe... sorry, but it did. As a matter of fact, a lot of things were getting easier. I could actually put some weight on the toe sections of the space boots and distribute the load into the shin area, giving me a few seconds of stability on my legs. What good does that do? Lumpy and Slick were done for.
I was ecstatic to get my old bed back. As a stupid side note; the bed happened to be the exact same height as the seat of Ol' Blue, meaning that I could probably have ousted Slick and actually slept well a month before. Oh well, que sera, sera... I was just glad to sleep on my side again.
Frankentoilet was the next to go. I probably kicked him out prematurely, but he had definitely worn out his welcome. With things getting so much better, my thoughts began to turn to the new job I had abruptly been removed from, and the new vehicle that had been abruptly destroyed. I called my boss and told her I was coming in... soon. I called the car dealership and told them to order me a new truck (V6 Automatic with the ExtraCab this time), and started getting ready to roll.
Once the incisions had healed enough, I was ready for some physical therapy. I had encountered PT before, but the way I was to go about it in this instance was "to the extreme". When you don't use your legs for months, you have to "re-learn" how to walk. They are able to start you on this path sooner if gravity is reduced, and a pool lends itself to the task nicely. It helped immensely and soon I was even able to rise to my feet outside of the pool (while firmly gripping two sturdy and stationary objects). I made bi-weekly trips to a venue that had a pool set up just for recovery from ailment, and continued down the road back to bipedal existence.
Soon, the predetermined date for my return to work approached, and I couldn't have been happier. Getting back to work a few hours a week was great. Because I was still technically on a short term disability plan, I didn't need to go from no hours to forty, and kind of "eased" into it. The new job was in a bank. I was a "Vault Teller" which meant I counted money, did audit stuff, and worked the teller line if necessary. The deal I had worked out with my boss was to come in just two days a week for about four hours and work up from there.
Everyone was happy to see me again. Although I was a relatively new employee, I am an outgoing lad, and had endeared myself to much of the staff and clientele before my absence. Again, as with my initial homecoming, my return to work was cause for celebration. I shook a lot of hands, gave a few hugs, showed off Ol' Blue, and a few of our tricks.
I was a bit of a... ah... we'll call it a "clown", and I had made that clear prior to the accident. I found it a bit odd that people were suddenly afraid to joke with me now that I was constantly accompanied by Ol' Blue. I quickly took to making silly comments during meetings, substituting phrases more conducive to my condition for the traditional. For example, if someone presented a good idea... I would say,
"Hey, I think that idea has wheels."
If someone was unsure of their position, and I felt it was the correct one... I would say,
"Hey, you've got to sit down for yourself."
"You've got to sit and deliver... A sitting ovation... You've just got to put one wheel in front of the other..." it was endless entertainment. It also seemed to make people respect me and the fact that I actually had a sense of humor about my issues. They caught on to the fact that I would rather have fun than seek sympathy, and began to play along. I have never been so satisfied that people were poking fun at me without fear of retribution.
Other advantages soon arose once I was out in the "real world", and I was not ashamed to abuse and publicly tout them. I was chauffeured to work and dropped off in the heated, underground garage at the bank while my counterparts had to walk in from a parking structure a block-and-a-half away. I was rarely asked to work the main teller line, as the counter was simply too tall for me to effectively process transactions from Ol' Blue. Also, there were the "other" benefits.
I am a dude. I am a dude who is like most other dudes when it comes to females, in that I am a pig. I like women, I respect a women's ability to make decisions, I accept women as my intellectual peers, and I objectify women sexually. I can't help it, that's just the way it is. One of the things I really enjoyed about my new job before I was crippled was the way the female employees dressed. It was a bank, and you would think that the main idea was to help customers, but it wasn't. In reality it was a retail environment, and the main focus was creating new business. If you are a female in that business, and you look good, you use it to advance yourself. This simple idea resulted in a lot of cleavage. I love cleavage. It was something that I was deprived of for months, and with my triumphant return to this working environment, I was very much looking forward to plenty of viewable boob upon my arrival. I was disappointed. It turned out that being in Ol' Blue left me at the very worst angle to view any available low-cut blouse that happened to cross my path. Luckily, I am a smart guy... and a pig... so I found a way around it. I took to "accidentally" dropping a pen, or a piece of paper, or whatever when I would encounter a lady showing off her ta-tas, and when she went down to pick up the item for a poor, vulnerable man, she would unwittingly reveal the show of breast more than she had ever intended.
I also enjoy looking at the female derriere. I realized early on that my position in Ol' Blue set me at the perfect height to look directly at the posterior of a young woman without shifting my normal gaze. Unfortunately, I quickly figured out that there are a lot more 300+ pounders with gastrointestinal problems out there, than hot chicks in their twenties... especially in the elevator. While the view was not always pleasant, I took advantage of my ability to easily gander at a booty whenever an acceptable specimen presented itself.
The other tellers used to roll me out whenever there would be an irate customer asking for a manager (Who's going to yell at a guy in a wheelchair?), and I even liked to play tricks on the bank guards. I would park my chair in front of the door to their office, then call in a "Code 7". A Code 7 meant that there was a suspicious person in the lobby, and Security's presence was required ASAP. They would get the call, jump up and run to the door, pushing it with extra muster. The door would catch the hard rubber on one of Ol' Blue's wheels and would stop dead while they smashed into it. Great fun.
After a while, I even got to trade in the "space boots" for a pair of "special" shoes. The shoes were crazy expensive, and a bit big, but, at first glance, they appeared to be nothing more than a generic pair of athletic footwear. I had to wrap my feet in a couple of extra ACE layers, and be extra vigilant not to abuse them while wearing the shoes, but they were a step in the right direction. (No pun intended.)
Shortly after I was fitted with my new "special" shoes, the car dealership called and informed me that they had my new truck. Not the new truck that saved my life in the wreck, but the one I had ordered as my next vehicle. Even though I had been cleared to attempt driving for a couple of weeks now, there had been little incentive to do so. Now that I had a brand new vehicle at my disposal, I decided that it was time.
I won't lie... There is no way I should have been on the road. My trips from "here to there" amounted to a motorized panic attack. I knew, though, that driving was something I would have to do to achieve any part of what I had previously considered my future to be. It had to be done and I did it, but not without ridiculous fear. The new truck was really nice, though, and on some level I was enjoying the freedom that driving brought back to me. Of course, I was always happy to get out and back to Ol' Blue.
My situation was improving and my schedule was getting more interesting...
New Bed, Ol' Blue, Regular Toilet, Drips, Special Shoes, Ol' Blue, New Truck, Work, Messing With Security Guards, Witty Banter, Inducing Cleavage, New Truck, Ol' Blue, Space Boots, Speedo, Guitar Practice, Stunt Practice, Super Girlfriend, Monsieur Urinal, New Bed.
Things went on that way for a while, and I was happy to let things do so...