The friendly ghost

A friendly ghost accompanied me along the path of my past two weeks. He greeted me in the empty hallways of Downers Grove South High School on April 17, 2004. My purpose was to be the keynote speaker at a reunion of all of the students with disabities that have ever been a part of the “Physically Handicapped/ Multiply Handicapped” program South High. I had not returned since wearing a cap and gown in 1982, and it was refreshing to be in the presence of all of my old teachers in “the crip room.” Yet beyond the thrill of the joy radiating from familiar smiles that seemed to never age after more than two decades, the most exciting reunion was a personal one.

It was a Saturday. I rolled down the empty hallways, past the office and around the corner. Suddenly, the sights and sounds of a bustling between-period school day flooded into my consciousness. As I rounded the corner toward the “crip room,” a skinny, woolly-haired kid in a tiny, denim blue power wheelchair appeared. He was reaching down the side of his chair for the little blue card that was used to summon the elevator. As he waited with a stack of books in his lap, every few seconds he would greet one of his classmates with a metallic smile, usually in response to a “Hi, Greg!” When he saw me, his eyes were penetrating.

Rose Gamble was the tour guide. More than two decades ago, she was my physical therapist. With her assistance, during my therapy sessions, I would walk down these hallways using a walker when I was a student here. Now I am unable to even stand upright. As I followed her in my new state-of-the art tilting and reclining power chair, she seemed excited to show me all the changes and improvements to the school; however her words quickly became muffled background noise; I was mesmerized by what the ghost was doing, the way he moved, and his energy and enthusiasm.

We moved down the hallway to the closed doors leading to the studios of WDGC-FM, the radio station from where my first broadcast originated. I peeked through the dark window and could hear clearly, the sound of hysterical laughing. It was that same woolly-haired, metal mouth ghost and one of his radio buddies, on the air, trying to maintain their composure, yet failing miserably in their attempt to remain professional for their audience. They were cracking up, on the air during a newscast, of all things, for no good reason! We left him bent over in his chair, struggling to breathe through the emotional bliss of uncontrollable laughter at whatever was so funny long ago.

Later, past the trophy cases and the smell of the pool, in the empty gymnasium, he appeared again, frantically setting up remote broadcast equipment while the basketball team was doing lay-up warm-ups in preparation for a game. The cheerleaders chanted in the blue-on-navy blue skirts. The band made noise. The clock was counting down, its red dotted numbers showing less than three minutes. There was tension. Would he be able to assemble his equipment in time for the tip off? If only his mom has left for the school 20 minutes earlier as he had pleaded. This time, the friendly ghost was serious, determined and passionate about his purpose. It was “game time.”

After the reunion, outside a nearby restaurant, I waved from the elevated wheelchair lift at my old friends; my teachers who culturally raised me. The ghost sat beside them. He didn’t wave. He just smiled. He knew he’d be seeing me again soon.

Four days later I found myself on the campus of Arizona State University. My purpose was to speak at a celebration of graduating students with disabilities at my college alma mater. I rolled into the studios of KASR, the student-run radio station as a stranger. The studios were crowded with eccentric youth, just as I remember, but their faces were unknown.

I spoke to no one and just quietly entered the on-air studio. The ghost appeared again, holding a script in his hand, delivering a polished sportscast. After several minutes, I informed some of the students that long ago, I worked here. They seemed slightly less than motivated to seek my autograph.

Every corner of that studio sparked a memory one of the millions of moments I had spent there 20 years ago. After a long while, I felt that it was time to leave and roll down other memory lanes on the college campus.

As I neared the doors leading out of KASR, the face of the ghost became clearly visible again, but this time, it was not abstract. A newspaper article from 1985 was pasted on the wall to my left among a collage of dozens, perfectly eye level with me as I sat in my chair. The headline read “ASU initiates live remote broadcasts of Sun Devil home games.” And there he was, smiling without braces, looking proud and energetic.

While in Arizona, the ghost and I spent a lot of time together reflecting on memories of joy and pain, victories and defeats. I remember the rhythm of the sidewalk bumps on Cady Mall. I had to slow my new wheelchair down to less than half-speed in order to allow the ghost to keep pace. We rolled from the bridge on University Avenue to the Memorial Union at that slow familiar pace. Ba-bump! Ba-bump! Ba-Bump! Bicycles whizzed by. Along the path, I realized that mini skirts were not in fashion in the early 80s but they certainly are now! The Arizona sun’s relentless power was familiar to both me and the ghost as we sought the shade of buildings along our path.

After my speech later that evening, a few close friends wanted to take me out for a beer. I named three places I wanted to go. They had all been closed down! Only one hangout close to campus remained. We met at “The Vine.” I was joined by Morris and “Hawk,” and, of course, the ghost tagged along. As we sipped on Bud Lights and talked about our experiences, every few minutes our heads would turn in unison as one of those short skirts pranced by our table again and again over the next two hours. We’d smile and resume our conversation. No words were necessary. And soon it was time to leave.

As we paid the tab, the ghost took on a leadership role. He abruptly stepped into my body! He didn’t ask permission. He just invaded me as if he had wanted to do it all night and could resist no longer. My hair floated back into place, just like in the movie, “Ghost.”

The skirt approached.

“Excuse me,” the ghost shouted, using my vocal cords in sync with the loud music, extending his hand to get her attention before she passed by again.

“I used to go to ASU a long time ago, and you remind so much of what is beautiful about this place. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if we took a picture together.”

“Sure!” she smiled and offered more. “How about one with my roommate and me so you can have two hot babes in one picture?”

Morris and Hawk just shook their heads and smiled. They knew it was the ghost.

The ghost remained in my body for the next two days. He was with me as I toured the new Arizona State athletic building and met the new football coach and the new basketball coach. He was with me as I rolled up the tunnel leading to the Frank Kush Field at Sun Devil Stadium and together we watched the ghosts of former Sun Devil greats trot to center stage. We could all hear the roar of the crowd.

Part of him will never leave me. His enthusiasm. His optimism. His courage. His happiness. At age 40, meeting up again with the ghost of a half life ago has given me strength in spirit. I encourage everyone to retrace the steps of your past, and learn from the friendly ghost who wishes you well.