Last nights obligatory bar story:
The bar/club that I work at is grandfathered into Florida state law that since it was built pre-1960 (I believe) that it doesn't need to be retrofitted with an elevator to meet the Americans with Disabilities Act.
On the side of the owner, this can be a blessing. We're talking $50k easy to have one installed and serious structuaral modification to a building built in 1930.
On the side of the employee, this sucks ass. This means that anyone with a wheelchair --INCLUDING the 400-pound electric monsters-- has to be lugged up two flight of stairs by myself and some of the security staff. Check my pictures, folks, I'm not a big guy, about 155 tops. Granted, I built like a Greek god (did someone just say Geek god, aww) but this still taxes my back like a bastard.
Well, as luck would have it, we have a patron who frequents on a regular basis. He happens to travel in a wheelchair but he is able to make it up the stairs on his own. The gentleman has a significant limp but he makes his way up under his own power and that makes things much easier, as I can take his wheelchair (one of the cool, ultra-light types) up right behind him and we're done, 15 seconds tops.
I appreciate the hell out of this guy.
He's always extremely polite, quick with a smile and patiently awaits the clearing out at the end of the night so we don't have to fight the crowds to get him down the stairs. Truth be told, I'd have the entire club wait and tell them to go fuck themselves sideways even if the guy wanted to leave the very second the lights went on and the music went off simply because he's a polite, well-mannered guy that looks at his lot in life and accepts it without complaint, dealing with things on his own, allowing minimal assistance from others and always grateful for the help when it is needed.
And you know another thing? The kid can dance -- with his wheelchair. That motherfucker can dance better than 95% of the people in that club.
It puts a lump in my throat just typing this. It's the fortitude that he exhibits that impresses me. I admire him. It impresses the hell out of me and makes me wonder that if I had an affliction similar would I be able to exert the same kind mental discipline; to look and react positively to life on a daily basis?
And I'm pretty damn sure the honest answer is no.
You know, I don't even know his name but I plan on rectifying that the next time I see him.
So, last Saturday he showed up. I met him in the lobby and he deftly hopped right out of his seat, quickly making his way up the stairs. I grabbed his chair, misjudged my grip on it and it rotated, slamming the entire weight of the chair into my right shin.
I bit my lip, grimaced in pain and limped as fast as I could right fucking after him.
And he still beat me.
Props to you, my friend, props to you.
The bar/club that I work at is grandfathered into Florida state law that since it was built pre-1960 (I believe) that it doesn't need to be retrofitted with an elevator to meet the Americans with Disabilities Act.
On the side of the owner, this can be a blessing. We're talking $50k easy to have one installed and serious structuaral modification to a building built in 1930.
On the side of the employee, this sucks ass. This means that anyone with a wheelchair --INCLUDING the 400-pound electric monsters-- has to be lugged up two flight of stairs by myself and some of the security staff. Check my pictures, folks, I'm not a big guy, about 155 tops. Granted, I built like a Greek god (did someone just say Geek god, aww) but this still taxes my back like a bastard.
Well, as luck would have it, we have a patron who frequents on a regular basis. He happens to travel in a wheelchair but he is able to make it up the stairs on his own. The gentleman has a significant limp but he makes his way up under his own power and that makes things much easier, as I can take his wheelchair (one of the cool, ultra-light types) up right behind him and we're done, 15 seconds tops.
I appreciate the hell out of this guy.
He's always extremely polite, quick with a smile and patiently awaits the clearing out at the end of the night so we don't have to fight the crowds to get him down the stairs. Truth be told, I'd have the entire club wait and tell them to go fuck themselves sideways even if the guy wanted to leave the very second the lights went on and the music went off simply because he's a polite, well-mannered guy that looks at his lot in life and accepts it without complaint, dealing with things on his own, allowing minimal assistance from others and always grateful for the help when it is needed.
And you know another thing? The kid can dance -- with his wheelchair. That motherfucker can dance better than 95% of the people in that club.
It puts a lump in my throat just typing this. It's the fortitude that he exhibits that impresses me. I admire him. It impresses the hell out of me and makes me wonder that if I had an affliction similar would I be able to exert the same kind mental discipline; to look and react positively to life on a daily basis?
And I'm pretty damn sure the honest answer is no.
You know, I don't even know his name but I plan on rectifying that the next time I see him.
So, last Saturday he showed up. I met him in the lobby and he deftly hopped right out of his seat, quickly making his way up the stairs. I grabbed his chair, misjudged my grip on it and it rotated, slamming the entire weight of the chair into my right shin.
I bit my lip, grimaced in pain and limped as fast as I could right fucking after him.
And he still beat me.
Props to you, my friend, props to you.
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and experiment may have to conducted on this one.