The Antelope in the Living Room: The Real Story of Two People Sharing One Life (11 page)

CHAPTER 11

A
FEW YEARS AGO
Perry began to talk about something called a Bad Boy Buggy. I wasn’t sure what he meant by Bad Boy Buggy, but I assumed he wasn’t talking about the car that belonged to my high school boyfriend. My assumption proved correct when he began to show me various websites depicting what appeared to be a camouflaged golf cart driving through muddy terrain with the clever tagline “They’ll never hear you coming.”

It’s very similar to the way the Native Americans hunted the land, except they used arrows instead of a four-wheel-drive electric vehicle. Although legends say some tribes did use Bad Boy Buggies, depending on whether they had electricity in their tepees to charge the batteries.

I can’t recall my exact sentiments regarding the purchase of a
Bad Boy Buggy, but I believe they might have been along the lines of “You have a hunting vehicle. It’s called the truck sitting in our driveway.”

The blame for this whole idea lies solely with all those hunting shows he watches on the Outdoor Channel. All of a sudden it’s like it’s not enough to hunt using the legs God gave you. You need a stealth vehicle to transport you and your various weaponry from location to location.

But life has a way of smiling down on Perry, and a few months later he contracted a huge landscaping job for a major golf course development. The only problem was that he needed some way to transport all their equipment and materials across the golf course without damaging the existing turf. Ironically, the answer to that solution was a brand-new Polaris Ranger XP 700, which is pretty much a Bad Boy Buggy but without the clever name.

And let me clarify that this purchase was made during the time when I was still employed by the pharmaceutical industry and we threw money around like we were the federal government. Unfortunately we didn’t throw any of that money toward some granite countertops and a farmhouse sink for the kitchen before I became unemployed, but the most important thing is that we have a vehicle we can drive through a lake. And that I now make pennies a day as a professional writer and spend all day in yoga pants.

(Okay, some days I put on yoga pants. Other days I never get out of my pajamas. This is either a high or a low, depending on your philosophy of life.)

Anyway, the 2007 Polaris Ranger XP 700 served us well for the better part of two years. It fulfilled its duties as an essential part of Perry Shankle Landscaping and eventually made its way to the ranch to serve double duty as a hunting vehicle and as a means
for Caroline to do her best imitation of Toonces the Driving Cat while she drove it all over God’s green earth. Or brown earth, as the case may be, since we live in drought-stricken South Texas.

Then one day Perry took it to the shop to have a little minor work done. Just a few little things here and there, mainly basic maintenance.

After two days, he hadn’t heard anything from them about his beloved Polaris, so he called the service department. They hung up on him. Twice. We weren’t sure what was going on, but we tried to give them the benefit of the doubt because everyone knows the all-terrain vehicle service industry is a stressful business, what with all the hunting and mudding emergencies, and they could have just been very busy.

The next day Perry received a phone call from a man who introduced himself as the owner of the shop. He asked Perry a question that never really serves as a harbinger of good news: “Remember that Polaris you brought in two days ago?”

Umm, you mean the Polaris that we bought instead of granite countertops? Yes, we remember it.

Perry stated the obvious: “Yes, I remember it. Is there a problem?”

“No, there’s not really a problem except that it somehow started itself up and rammed into a wall of the garage and is completely totaled.”

Well of course it did. Happens all the time. If I had a nickel for every time my Volvo station wagon started all by itself and rammed into the front of our garage . . . well, I wouldn’t have a nickel.

I’m not even making this up. As if I could. They tried to give us some story about the clutch coming out and blah, blah, blah, which you will never convince me isn’t some sort of code for “One
of our mechanics drank a case of Lone Star Light last night and thought it would be fun to see how fast they could drive your vehicle. Unfortunately, they thought the wall was just a mirage until it was too late.”

We’ll never know for sure what happened to our beloved Polaris Ranger XP 700, except that it wasn’t good.

The next month was spent in serious negotiations with the owner as he tried every possible way to get out of having to actually replace it for us. Perry was really nice about it until the owner attempted to give him a used 2006 Polaris in bright orange. And everyone knows you’re not sneaking up on anything in a bright-orange vehicle. I knew we’d reached our limit of polite when I heard Perry on the phone saying, “Well, I guess if I wanted a bright-orange 2006 Polaris, I would have bought one back in 2006. I was perfectly happy with the green one that was totaled in your garage under very mysterious circumstances.”

And with those words, I began planning my wardrobe for the
Judge Judy
show, because you know if you need some smack laid down, there is no real alternative other than Judge Judy. But, alas, it never came to that.

Perry went down to the shop with a camera and a good family friend, who happens to be an attorney, to perform their own version of
CSI: All-Terrain Vehicle Repair Shop
. I think Perry even brought sunglasses so he could put them on and do his best impression of David Caruso as he said, “Or maybe [sunglasses go on] it got taken for a ride.” It’s amazing how that works, because all of a sudden the shop owner saw the light, and we reached an agreement.

Thus, we ended up with a brand-new Polaris Ranger XP 700. And it’s not bright orange.

Too bad I can’t get those mechanics to come to the house and destroy my countertops.

Oh, I’m kidding.

Kind of.

Not really.

Not at all.

CHAPTER 12

R
ECENTLY A FRIEND
was telling me about a mutual acquaintance of ours who’s now a head football coach for a team I will not name to protect the privacy of this individual, who probably doesn’t want me to write about him in my little book, considering we haven’t seen each other in more than twenty years. My friend and her husband had flown out to visit him and his wife for a game, and she mentioned that this coach rode home with them afterward and turned on talk radio to listen to all the critics bashing his coaching abilities. His wife shared with them later that it is so hard to tolerate all these people talking about her husband and questioning his every move and decision.

As my friend told this story, I realized that I’d never been so grateful not to be married to a football coach. Like I told her, I get
mad when one of Perry’s customers calls to complain that the grass he planted doesn’t look good. Some protective instinct rises up in me, and I’m all, “Do they even realize that it takes time for new grass to look good? What are they, horticulturists in their spare time?” Because I can handle it if you criticize me, but do NOT criticize someone I love.

A good marriage gives you a built-in cheerleader. You have a teammate. Someone who’s on your side and will defend you and protect you. Even when it means being overly optimistic about certain issues. “Those pants look great!” or “No one will even notice your haircut!” or “That joke was funny. They just don’t have a great sense of humor!”

Years ago Perry was asked to read a passage of Scripture in a friend’s wedding. This wasn’t anything new for him. As a former youth minister, he has actually performed entire wedding ceremonies many times, usually using ceremonial wording we’ve found on the Internet because we are very professional and have no idea what we’re doing.

The day before the wedding, Perry was working on a big project that required a lot of heavy lifting, and he threw out his back. (I don’t know why people use this expression. It’s very misleading. You don’t throw out anything so much as that your spine just quits working when you bend over.)

(It also makes me think of Me-Ma, who felt there was no greater conversation opener than to say, “Honey, I’m down in my back again.”)

Anyway, Perry’s back was no longer working properly. And we’ve learned over the years that it is usually at least a three-day process of lying in bed doing nothing but becoming one with a heating pad and Advil to get him back up and moving. So we
called his friend Mike and explained what had happened and that it looked like we’d miss the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner that evening but Perry would definitely be okay by Saturday evening in time for the wedding. I have no idea why we felt like we could make this guarantee when all past experience indicated otherwise.

Saturday morning dawned, and it was obvious that this back situation wasn’t getting any better. We began to contemplate our options, but Perry was adamant about not letting Mike down. He’d been our worship leader with Campus Life for years and was such a dear friend. So I decided to call a friend of ours who also struggles with a bad back to see if she had any recommendations. She told me about these muscle relaxers she takes whenever her back is bothering her and assured me they were miracle workers. Like Anne Sullivan to Helen Keller.

I drove to my friend’s house to pick up a couple of pills for Perry, and listen, I appreciate that you’re not supposed to share prescription medication and it’s against the law or whatever, but we were in desperate times. If we had to engage in some medicinal shenanigans, then so be it.

She mentioned that she usually took two at a time, so I used my pharmaceutical acumen to deduce that Perry should start by just taking one to see what happened. After about an hour, he was noticeably better and could actually sit upright for the first time in twenty-four hours. Which naturally meant that he should go ahead and take the second pill. Because I am almost like a doctor except without any training.

And here’s where engaging in medical shenanigans became problematic. The second pill allowed Perry to stand upright and take a shower; however, by the time he had dried off and begun to put on his suit, we realized his fine motor skills weren’t really
operating at a functional level. As in, I had to get him dressed and figure out how to tie his tie, and shaving wasn’t going to happen. I quickly got myself dressed and helped him out to the car before he could pass out cold on the couch.

When we arrived at the church, I had to physically keep him upright as I reminded him to put one foot in front of the other. It was like a deleted scene out of
Weekend at Bernie’s
.

In hindsight, this probably would have been the time to just say, “You know what? This isn’t going to work out.” But that would have been entirely too logical, so we forged ahead and listened as the priest at this very formal Episcopal church explained at what point in the ceremony Perry should walk up to the lectern to read and that after he was finished he should return to his seat in the congregation.

Here’s where our situation became even more problematic. The passage Perry was asked to read comes from 1 John 4:7-16. Just in case you don’t have it completely memorized, I will include it here for you to read.

This is how we know that we live in him and he in us: He has given us of his Spirit. And we have seen and testify that the Father has sent his Son to be the Savior of the world. If anyone acknowledges that Jesus is the Son of God, God lives in them and they in God. And so we know and rely on the love God has for us.

God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them.

I love John. I do. He’s second only to Peter in my love for Jesus’ disciples. I mean, how can you not love someone who refers to himself as “the one Jesus loved”? But let’s be honest. That passage of Scripture is a little bit of a tongue twister, even for someone who isn’t jacked up on illegally obtained prescription medication.

As the time came for Perry to walk up to the dais, I felt optimistic. He seemed much more coherent than he’d been earlier, and his movements appeared purposeful and not like those of a monkey after a bottle of gin. He approached the lectern with purpose and began strongly with a forceful declaration of “A reading from 1 John.”

But then, as he tells it, the words in the Bible began to move around. It felt as though the Bible had come to life. And not in a good way. So he stumbled over words and lost his place, and there was a moment of silence in between phrases that probably only lasted ten seconds but felt more like five minutes from where I sat in the second row.

Mercifully, he arrived at the end of the passage, closed the Bible, and took a step back as he looked around. And then I watched in horror as he decided to stay up on the dais and took a seat in the
large throne-like chair that was meant for the priest. He wouldn’t have been any more conspicuous had he been a cat in a pantsuit.

When it was all over and the groom had kissed his bride, I went to collect “Bernie” with the certainty that it would probably be best if we skipped the reception portion of the evening. It seemed prudent to get Perry home as soon as possible. So we got in the car and I drove us home, while Perry asked the question I’d been dreading: “How did I do? Could you tell I was medicated?”

God forgive me.

“No. Not at all. You did great. It was just perfect.” Because that’s what you do for the person you’ve vowed to love and cherish forever. In that moment he didn’t need a critic; he needed a cheerleader. And fortunately, being a cheerleader falls directly into my particular set of skills.

And then I changed the subject. “How are you feeling? Are you ready for bed?” The answer was apparently yes, because he had already fallen asleep in the passenger seat. So I helped him into bed as soon as we got home, where he remained for the next day or so until his back was legitimately better and not just numbed by enough medicine to kill a horse.

Nothing else was said about the wedding and the Scripture reading for several weeks. We didn’t really know most of the other people who had been in attendance, which I felt was God’s favor on us. But then the newlyweds returned from their honeymoon, and we asked them over for dinner one evening.

As we sat and talked over the delicious pizza I’d slaved over in the form of calling to get it delivered, our discussion turned to the wedding ceremony. Perry and I confessed to them how bad his back had really been and that we thought he wasn’t going to make it, but we didn’t want to leave them in a bind at the last minute.

And that’s when the new bride and her husband began to laugh until they cried. We weren’t sure what was so funny until she explained that they had just been at her parents’ house earlier watching the wedding video for the first time, and her mother asked as she watched Perry read and sit down in the priest’s chair, “What exactly was wrong with that young man?”

That’s when Perry realized I’d been a cheerleader instead of a critic. But as I explained to him later, there was really no need to hit him with the cold, hard truth in his moment of weakness. Sometimes in marriage you just need to be on your partner’s side, to be his shelter from the storms of the world. To defend him and encourage him, even when he butchers passages of Scripture at a friend’s wedding.

As we navigate our way through this life, there are so many people who are ready to take shots at us and hit us in our blind spots. Your spouse should fall into the category of people you can trust to have your back and say, “Oh, it wasn’t that bad.” Because enough voices will tell you, “YES, it was that bad,” and sometimes we all just need a soft place to land.

Even if it involves stealing a chair from an Episcopal priest.