The high of a
successful gig stayed with me for nearly an hour. Ramon paid me and asked me to
come back on alternating Friday and Saturday nights starting in January. That
was good. When I hesitated, thinking of my wheelchair basketball schedule, he
added a share of the entry fee to the pot. When I explained that I might have
basketball games on Friday and Saturday nights, he got that stunned,
jaw-dropping look on his face that I loved to inspire in people. Why did they
find it so hard to visualize a woman playing basketball in a wheelchair? The
Ezekiel's Wheels, my team, wasn't as popular as the Cavaliers, and we certainly
didn't make the money they did, but we had a loyal following. We got in the
papers. Not the front page, though. I wondered if I would have to bring my
scrapbook or one of our league trophies to my next gig, to prove my athletic
tendencies. Then Ramon shrugged and said we could schedule around my games. As
long as I got on stage by nine, that was fine with him. That worked for me.
Too bad the comedy
scene in northern Ohio was almost as depressed as I felt after getting my
sports beat taken away. Otherwise, I might have been tempted to quit my day job
and pursue comedy.
Remembering the bomb
that hit me that afternoon succeeded in dragging my spirits down as the boys
and I crossed the slushy back parking lot to my Jeep. I got into the front seat
while Pete took care of cleaning the windows of the crusty slush that had
accumulated while we were indoors. Harry got my chair into the back of the
Jeep.
"Okay, Lanie,
what's the problem?" Harry's demand was accented by the thud of the hatch
closing.
"Problem?" I fluttered my eyelashes at him as he slid into the front passenger seat. Anybody who didn’t know us might have thought I was flirting with this gorgeous Latina guy—who was seven years younger than me. Harry was my brother. Didn’t matter if all three of us were adopted, we were tighter than blood.
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