THIS IS NOT A TIRE

For years prior to my relationship with Koolie and those that lingered after we separated, I was passionately in love with him. We were born only days apart; he in South Africa and myself in Canada. We were two Geminis and both fit the defined personality of the twins. He is the only man with whom I have ventured into the social experiment known as co-habitation. The sun rose and set around him in my heart. He spurred poems out of the depth of my soul, and he accepted all the love I had for him. We found playfulness around the barbeque he referred to as a Bry. We were friends long before we were ever lovers. I met him on my recruiting trip to the university that I ultimately chose to attend, and we ended up having the same group of friends that all lived together in a giant old house in Birmingham. We were always hanging out on the porch and passing the days away discussing topics that were heavy, flighty, and exceptionally funny. ‘The Tennis House’ was our home outside our family’s; most of us were living on a different continent than our parents. The Common Wealth, which had always been vacant, somehow began to take on some relevance. There were guys and gals from most parts of Europe, and references to which country lost both world wars was a popular punch line at our mixers. Conversations in different languages were customary at the house. Seemingly meaningless, random, foreign words were thrown around in situations both good and bad, much like an explicative.

Koolie was often heard shouting ‘Yes-ss’ this, and ‘Yes-ss’ that in both situations of joy and frustration. What a clever, yet nonsensical word. I thought to myself “no one word can have that many meanings”. Now, I’ve found when you are around someone long enough you begin to adopt his mannerisms and repetitive phrases. This was one that I took on as my own. Believing it to be ‘Yes’ that had a little extra spice it required multiple ‘S’s’ to truly convey the message or feelings stirred by such an event.

In the prime of our living together, we planned to spend Christmas with his family in South Africa. We booked the tickets about five months in advance; many phone calls over seas went back and forth to determine the best dates and holiday plans. I had only spoken to his sister and mother on rare occasions, but couldn’t wait to finally spend time with his loved ones. Clearly the next step in the level of our committed relationship… meeting the family. Once in the country, many hugs were passed around, and everyone was so wonderful. Their native language was Afrikaans, a dutch dialect, but they spoke English when I was in the room, whether I was a part of the conversation or not. His father engaged me in parroting his words trying to teach me words throughout the holiday (nothing better than rolling your ‘R’s’ in a car for 15 hours!). Near the end of the vacation I was speaking in phrases. It must have been the children’s books I was reading trying to teach myself the language of the man I loved. His family was great, and I wanted them to accept me and love me as well. We all know how the first impression frames a person for the rest of their life.

Throughout the vacation we visited an ostrich farm (I rode on the back of one, thank you very much), drove past a herd of Spring Buck, hiked a trail with Baboons, swam in shark infested waters (all we saw were dolphins), rock climbed cliffs along the shore of the beaches, watched Southern Right Wales migrate to the warm Indian Ocean, bartered for trinkets at road side markets, and countless other smaller but no less impressive daily sights and adventures. However, it was Christmas dinner that has left a colossal impression in my mind, so many years later. It was a quiet morning, and not all that warm. Koolie’s mom was working away in the kitchen, and refusing to let me help, I went back to reading my book. When it was time to take our seats at the table I could hardly believe the spread. Everything eaten was grown within 25 miles of our location. The food overwhelmed my olfactory senses, and I was brought to a state of delight. I began stating, and with confidence I’ll add, “Yes-ss look at this food!” “Yes-ss, this looks and smells amazing!” I was promptly kicked from under the table. Kicked so hard, in fact, I had to grab the seat to keep from falling. “Why did you kick me”? I whispered, as to not enlighten anyone of the pain I was currently in, and unknowing the reason for such a punishment at such a moment. “Why are you cussing at the table, Christmas dinner no less?” Koolie quietly demanded to know. “What are you talking about? I’m just noting how great this meal is about to be, and how wonderful it all looks.” He took a deep breath and said, “Lisa, Jesus (pronounced ‘Yes-ss’) means Jesus in my language.”

Mortified! Realizing that I had just been seated at Christmas dinner affirming, “Jesus, this food looks great!” His family went about their business as though I hadn’t used profanity of the worst kind moments before. Why had I never asked what the ‘BEEP’ that word meant in all those years! My ankle throbbed throughout the delicious feast laid out for a king.

Ever been called crazy, batty, berserk, bonkers, kooky, mental, screwball, unhinged or wacky? Ever think you might be? I know I have been referred to as many or perhaps all of the above. Yes, I have been quite certain a number of times in my life that the only safe place for me was in one of two places: a nunnery or insane asylum. How the two relate may be a stretch, and could be attributed to my self diagnosed psychoses; nonetheless, in society at large I was convinced I did not belong. Over the years I have found balance by coming to terms with the plethora of experiences from both ends of the spectrum.

In true teenage angst, I often thought I had some kind of terminal illness, or that I had lost all rationality from time to time. Both my hormones learning how to release themselves, and having enough autonomy to experience new situations with others going through the same thing lead to many adventures and in retrospect dangerous situations. Insanity might be subjective; however, there certainly were times where my control was limited and my thoughts and actions were unpredictable. In hindsight I was just trying for two things: stability and confidence in myself. While being acutely aware that I did not fit the mold of most teens (case and point/point and case: I was about 14 years old, chatting on the phone with a friend of mine. She decided it was time to end the call and go on to do other things and said “okay, I’ll talk to you soon,” I replied ‘okay,’ then sat by the phone waiting for her to call back. I waited about 30 minutes then called her, asked her why she hadn’t rang? She was clearly as confused as I was at that point. I had an inside conversation with myself about missing that, and then from that point forward watched others’ behavior to try and pick up the norms). Also, I was in the pure hunt for attention. What better way to bring my senior classmates out of the daily obsession with “who was and was not at last week’s party” than sporting a homemade Straight Jacket to school?

One of my few school friends (oh please don’t feel bad for me, it was totally by choice) Katie came over to the house and we pitched the brilliant, I mean ludicrous, idea to my mom. Yes, somehow I convinced another living human being that making straight jackets from scratch was a great idea. Oddly, I have been able to swing Katie to do a couple of idiotic activities over the years, but being as this is where it started, its not hard to believe we found ourselves in Scotland dancing a jig on a bar table, while quoting ‘everything happens for a reason’. Really? Yup, except that phrase does not hold true for me anymore (I’m running away with my thoughts here…let’s bring this back to focus…wait are you helping or just along for the ride? The ride? Good… I do prefer it when people know their place ). Katie and I located a number of old belts about the house, we figured each jacket would need a total of three: two for the arms and one that would appear to pass between the legs. My Mom was attempting to be a road block in the beginning, saying things like: “Those are good belts Lisa!” , “What do you need this for?” And, “I don’t know how long to make the arms.”

Once my Mom was on board properly we were able to channel her talents to assist with our creation. We were even able to find a light canvas material (be it an off white, almost cream). My mind was able to accept this short coming on color as my Mom would not volunteer the extra cost for the pure white canvas. Since she was the financial backer of this project, cream was better than nothing. We modified a causal top pattern and like Edward Scissor Hands created a thing of beauty that was a little different for the average on-looker. As I sewed the belt buckles to the back of the shirt and the tips of the belt to the ends of the long pointy sleeves the more certifiably insane and delightfully perfect my jacket of the ‘straight’ kind became. I made a slight modification to my sleeves so that my jacket was functional. I made two slits in the fabric at the wrist (any irony there?) so that I could slip my hands out to perform ‘normal’ tasks that required hands. This was necessary because clearly I would be wearing this new item often and needed to be able to take notes at school and drive the car.

Working all weekend, by Sunday afternoon we had a finished product. Katie went home with her ‘crazy shirt’ with the agreement that we would both wear them to school the next morning. Finally a friend who was not influenced by peer pressure, and just quirky enough to dabble in crazy with me. My family sat down to eat Sunday supper together. A small but powerful argument began about my weekend’s work. “Lisa, you cannot wear this to school,” my mom told me with confidence. I’m quite certain she had the support of my father. Seeing that this two-on-one situation was not looking like one I was going to be victorious in, I quieted my voice and commenced to formulate a plan that would allow me to do what I wanted without parental knowledge. That plan evolved into folding the jacket in my backpack so that once dropped off at school I could pull it out and put it on (I know, genius). I’m sure my parents never thought I might do that. Besides, it was only a year ago when I had my mom hem a NASA astronaut blue jumpsuit and wore that school, so I thought my boundaries of ‘off the wall’ ideas were widened; however, I think for my parents, and perhaps rightfully, a homemade straight jacket was outside of the area given to me.

I spotted Katie from across the open entrance of the school. In my groovy new top with miss-matched belt buckles I noticed that she was not wearing hers. A pit in the bottom of my stomach began to grow. Suddenly being an individual did not seem as much fun, as cool, or as interesting as it had appeared when knowing that Katie was along for this crazy train approach (and thus not really being an individual, which is a fact I have only realized of at this moment). I wanted to know what was going on…not really in a panic, but in more of an ‘I’ve been let down’ sense. (Really, let down? Who let whom down? Clearly, Katie was the carrier of more social awareness). Similarly to when a ‘group think’ event occurs, and the group doesn’t want the ‘event’ to get out; they all agree to take it to the grave. What that really means is “who ever tells first has dibs on framing the story.” Or in this case, not ‘commit’ to the plan.

A wide berth was given to me in the halls that day, and the subsequent days to follow. First period was full of all the looks and whispers, everything for which I was hoping. Jokes and cracks were flying from all corners of the class. Oh how they thought they were taking the upper hand of my lunatic canvas top, but they were reacting just as I had planned. I owned the room; my brain was hot, and my hands were tucked inside the length of the sleeves with a light covering of sweat. Class was finally brought to order as our teacher came into the room, and any further plans of attention were dashed. The focal point was no longer mine and would not be returned again until lunch.

So, am I weird? Sure, without question, provided your perspective is one that doesn’t often take you to the edge of social discovery. At the end of the school day my energy was low, and my need for a nap was beyond compare, so much that I forgot to remove the item I had been forbade the night before. My mom must have known as she didn’t have much to say aside from a knowing ‘how was your day’?

Sofa beds… they were all the rage when I was in my early teens. Everyone’s family had one and in fact I own one to date (be it a loveseat version from Ikea, but a pull-out nonetheless). Oh how convenient they were for hosting family from out of town and perfect for sleepovers, an extremely popular activity for young females. The coveted sleepover-why was spending the night such a big deal? (Sleeping over seems to still be coveted in my thirties, but for a completely different reason). I would have loved to have been the guy who designed the hide-a-bed. Imagine pitching this idea to the sofa people. “Okay guys, it’s a couch by day and bed by night. It’s also going to be the heaviest mother ‘beeper’ in the whole world. People will love them, and families will all need one.”

What I don’t think the creator of the moon lighting couch considered was the chance that a couple of tweenies would fold the bed around themselves and try returning the couch to its day time appearance with a human tucked within its multi-seating guts.

Sarah, a friend of mine, was over visiting one afternoon- most likely for a sleepover. We were hanging out in the loft above our two car garage in Nova Scotia. I cannot remember the specifics of the inaugural attempt of this daring adventure. Sarah was taller than me, but not by too much- and that’s a feat because I’m 4’11”. She had blonde curly hair and a chin that came to a lovely point. She was a horse lover and over time owned a number of them as well as competing in equestrian events all over the province. Her are a few random Sarah memories: I remember her climbing through pipes for new homes and trying to teach my dog to be a raccoon hunting dog (Where the Red Ferns Grow had a major impact on us for a time). Though unsuccessful I don’t blame her, our dog didn’t come even when you called her.

We thought it out and brainstormed a couple of different positions that might work for this submersion into the darkness. We also had to figure out who was going to go first, and being that I had come up with the brilliant idea I would be the test dummy. We did a test-run by stuffing a number of pillows into the bed to validate that it was possible to fit. However, being that the pillows never screamed out in pain we ultimately determined that one of us was going to have to experience this phenomenon first hand. “If only we had a monkey, or maybe we could squeeze Sam in just to see.” Sam, our family dog, was a black coc-a-poo weighing in at 30lbs. Therefore, his size was not relevant to my survival within the cocoon of the sofa.

Sarah lifted the end of the bed up to a 90 degree angle. I then climbed onto the bed and scooted up to the crease she had created. There was no laughter and little talking. This was serious. Very serious. I then placed my shoulders as flat to the bed as possible, and bent both of my knees in what might have looked like a running position. We didn’t want to risk any over-lapping body parts so I had both knees in contact with the bed. There was however, a limit to how bent my knees could be or how close to a right angle my hips could lay. In our expert opinion the metal bar that folds over the bed could break your leg quite easily. My eyes were facing in parallel to the bed that was not folded up. I was ready, and with sweaty palms I was covered by the end of the bed. Then slowly lifted and dropped into the inner guts of the couch. All the while Sarah was checking in with me wanting to know my status of health. I was in the hollows of the belly of the couch. Though I was frozen in place and could neither move a limb nor turn my head in the blackest dark I had ever experienced, we began to laugh. It was difficult to breath, which instigated my shouts to be removed from my prison. Sarah quickly converted the couch back into its open welcoming bed shape, and I took a deep breath of fresh air. We were elated with joy! I was under for less than 2 minutes but I felt so liberated and excited. We were laughing with such exuberance that I lost my breath all over again. My mom even checked in to make sure we were okay, as in, not up to any trouble.

As any good scientist knows, verifiable results must be easily reproduced. As a result, it was now Sarah’s turn to experience being paralyzed inside the sofa bed. She unlike myself added a stipulation to this daring action. “Please stop if I say I’m scared. If I don’t want to go all the way in, pull me out.” I agreed, but only because she would not get on the bed otherwise, and I really wanted to see what it looked like from the eagle’s eye perspective. As a trusted friend Sarah replicated the same ‘complicated’ position. I, with a bubble of laughter on the verge of over coming my composure, folded the bottom of the bed over my partner inside. I too, like Sarah, checked in with the guinea pig. I was at the tipping point, just before the bed would slip into the gallows when I heard a voice of fear and panic. “Please stop, please let me out!” shouted Sarah, in almost a plea. But the forces of knowing combined with the maturity level of a 13 year old had me push the bed in the rest of the way. Returning the sofa to its day time sitting and entertaining state. I replaced the cushions as though family hugs and waves of goodbye had just taken place, and last minute clean up was required before the new week commenced. The major difference was my friend was within the couch, and screaming to be let out. She began to demand to be removed, and I finally consented, all the while laughing as she cried out in increased hysteria. I pushed the cushions aside and grabbed hold of the bar to pull her out. But with my short stature and loss of strength due to my giggling, all focus was lost. The bed repetitively jammed at the same pivot where Sarah first cried out. After a few failed attempts I realized my friend was panicked and I was unable to pull her out. I gathered my thoughts and gave it the old ‘school girl’ try. Out popped the bed, and Sarah along with it. She was disheveled and upset, and let’s be honest, who won’t be? I said I would stop, and I didn’t. After failing to stop I then repetitively tried to pull the bed out and it kept jamming. For all she knew she was going to be resting inside the sofa for the next twenty minutes to a life time.

With a little practice we improved our technique, and even tried other people’s hide-a-beds. We began sharing our story at school, and a number of the kids did not believe it possible. As a result, Sarah and I thought it best to video the procedure. My family did not have the proper equipment to record these daring events, so Sarah brought over her family’s 10lb video recorder with a blank VHS. We once again had to think this out. How would we document this amazing feat! “Well, we should record the position and the folding part, but we’ll turn off the camera when I’m inside because you are not going to see me anyway.” Yup, turn off the camera. That is what our conclusion came to. So, this is how it appeared when watching footage on TV. In other words, it was never documented.

Lisa: Hi everybody, we are going to show you what it looks like to be folded up into a hide-a-bed. You’ll want to lie down like so on the bed (at which point I am demonstrating the position). You’ll need a friend to complete the rest of the task.
Sarah: Yeah, a real friend that will listen to you.
Lisa: Correct. Okay, we are going to shut down the camera now and complete our work. See ya after.
BLACK OUT
Sarah in real life folded me inside the couch and pulled me out
FADE IN
Lisa: (Sitting on the bed) And that is all there is to it!

We didn’t have any control over whom we roomed with while on the road. Three to a room, and seniority always took the single bed. I was a sophomore and sharing the room with a Junior and a Freshman. Both were not high on my ‘like list’ at the time, and it only changed for one of the lucky ladies in the years to come. Fortunately, what made it bearable was knowing the feelings were mutual. My college years were full of agitation, frustration and low levels of anger all the way around, from no good reason that I can discern at this point ten years later. My nick name was Penguin and I often needed my feathers to be smoothed down as they found themselves ruffled and out of place. We three played soccer for our university, and were constantly shuffled around the nation to different soccer fields. My Junior year we traveled to Europe for a pre-season game. I refer to it as my worst euro trip ever. Picture 20 girls dressed in florescent green fleecy sweaters with gold text on the back, black fleecy pants, and bright orange sneakers; oh did we stand out. Not to mention being in the beer capital of the world and not having a sip. These trips were accompanied by rules to keep order and control over our movements when not playing soccer, including with whom we roomed.

This particular trip we were in Texas for a number of matches and Bridget, the freshman, had gone out to dinner with her family. Bridget was a beautiful blonde Texan. She stood about 5’10′ and had lovely breasts that no man could miss. She carried herself knowing that she was the prize that she was (and continues to be). She was smart and tough as nails on the field, which frankly, contributed to my disliking her. Missy and I returned to our second floor extending-living apartment hotel room and had frozen dinners. These meals were provided as punishment for our poor play earlier that night. We both showered without a hitch, not to mention using all the full size towels. Missy fell asleep quickly and I was not far behind when I was woken by knocks at the door. Bridget had returned to take her rightful spot on the other side of the bed that I had made warm. She tippie-toed to the bathroom to have a shower before calling it a night… rules remember?

I heard the water come on, while I rolled over attempting to find that same comfortable spot on my side of the bed. I shut out the light. Then there was a distinct change in the sound of the water. Was she taking a bath? Who bathes in hotels? Especially one like this? Moments later the smallest voice called out for help. “Lisa, can you help me”? I rose to check out the situation. It did not sound like a ‘can you scrub my back for me’ cry (which I’m not familiar with either but I feel as though I could discern between the two). Leisurely I made my way to toward the sounds of rushing water. My eyes jumped open when the horizontal trajectory of water shooting straight out of wall toward the back of the tub was revealed. Burning hot water spraying everywhere. The source of the deluge was coming from what was once the hot water knob. The handle was in Bridget’s right hand. She was using a hand towel to cover up her ‘good bits,’ but was otherwise completely naked and clearly not comfortable with being so. The hand towel was doing little good, other than keeping her left hand from aiding in returning the tap to its rightful place on the wall.

Jumping into action, we had to stop the rushing water! How did this happen? I asked through my own laughter. Her reply was a mixture of “does it really matter now”, and “I couldn’t tell which way was off”. The next thing she knew she was holding the handle in her hand and Niagara Falls found its way to Texas. I took the knob from her and started trying to force the handle back into the grooves. The only water finding its way into the tub was as a result of it smashing into the wall running parallel with the faucet. I found that this wasn’t a very effective way to fill the tub as a majority of the water was flowing on to the floor just on the other side of the bath. The power behind the water was too much to over come; not to mention the scolding sensation during each attempt. The burning sensation made me think my skin was going to peal back off my bones. Finally after we both had tried a number of fruitless times to return the handle to its rightful place I called the game and said, “I think we are going to need some help.” I went into the room, still no movement from Missy, and proceeded to call our coach, after curfew no less. No answer. Called our assistant coach, again no answer. Hummmmm, perhaps we should try the trainer? In retrospect, what was she going to do, tape it like an ankle? Finally, and most likely the brightest idea we had had all night, we called the front desk. The water was so loud it was hard to hear him, and also speak at a level that wold not disturb the slumber of our roommate. Who new driving water in a confined space would be so deafening? I explained to the front desk guy what was taking place in our unit. He seemed rather disinterested and said that it would be really expensive to bring a plumber out at this hour. He followed that statement up with reassuring comments that the plumber would be out first thing in the morning. I pleaded with him to come out and see the room and then make that judgment call. We have Niagara Falls in our Room! But he remained firm. At that point I put the phone down and Bridget and I began laughing at the situation. The room was beginning to feel like a sauna due to the volume of hot water being pumped into the room. We pulled the door closed, which did little for the sound, but it made us feel better. We made our way to the bed.

We woke to a soggy floor and a rain forest feel in the air. The carpet from the bathroom to half way out into the room was water logged. Missy, who missed all the action, was confused and slightly disgusted by the state of affairs. We all managed to prep for breakfast next to the falls. We needed a sign that stated “slicker and galoshes beyond this point” when brushing our teeth. As promised, a plumber arrived at our door first thing in the morning as we were heading out to team breakfast. Three twists of his wrench the bathroom was silenced, Niagara Falls returned to the boarder of Canada and the US. However, the hotel faced costs that easily could have been prevented. The room below us was also flooded and would need to be completely renovated.