![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I was second in line at his autograph table. Being in a wheelchair, I'm quite accustomed to unexpected delays and detours, so as soon as the con hall opened on Saturday, I planted my VIP-badge-wearing ass in his line and camped there like a soldier at a bivouac. Karl arrived promptly at eleven, sporting his case of chronic bed head and dressed in a natty, light blue button-down. I was immediately mesmerized by the case of chronic bed head, so much so that I was staring at it when I rolled up to him. Then he looked at me with his open, expressive face and greeted me with a cheerful, "Hello," and I froze. He was gorgeous. His face was a rosy pink, as though he'd either just scrubbed it or had taken some sun the day prior, and his eyes were far lighter than I'd expected from photographs.
"Hello, Mr. Urban, sir," I said after I'd gathered my wits, and stuck out my hand.
Normally, I can shake hands. It's splay-fingered and spastic, but it's recognizable as a handshake. His table, however, was far too high for me, so I had to crane and grope blindly, and my fingers kept sliding off his hand. I was mortified and awkwardly patted the top of his hand because I had no idea what to do.
Karl was unfazed. "Fistbump?" he suggested.
So I gave him a fistbump, and he grinned and asked my name so he could sign the picture of Bones I'd chosen. I told him, and as he signed, he talked about how excited he was to be in Louisville and see all the vendors. I asked him if I could thank him for Kennex.
"Oh, thank you," he said. "That show was so much fun to do."
"I needed him," I said. My voice was a strangled wheeze because the spasticity of CP clenches the muscles and worsens under stress or anxiety or adrenaline, which was now flowing by the gallon.
If he was confused as to why I sounded like Flipper choking on a cod, he gave no sign. He just looked me in the eye and listened intently as I tried to explain what Kennex meant to me. I know it came out a garbled mess because I could hear it. My voice could now shatter glass, and the tension in my throat had made my speech all but unintelligible. Karl patiently listened.
I held up a copy of my letter. "Look," I managed. "I know you didn't understand a word I said, but this is what I meant to say." I held it out.
He took it. "Thank you very much." He offered his hand for another fistbump. He took my Roomie's picture and asked, "Is this for her, too?" It wasn't, but Roomie said it was, so he signed a picture of Kennex. I don't think he was supposed to do that, but the con lady next to him, who had seen me trying to talk, developed sudden blindness and didn't charge me for the second autograph. I thanked him and extended my hand for another fistbump.
"Come take a photo with me," he said as I started to leave.
"I have an op, but I don't know if the booth is accessible."
"It's not?" He was genuinely surprised, and he and the con lady turned to look toward the photo booths.
"I didn't see a ramp."
The con lady furrowed her brow. "It should be flat to the floor."
Karl leaned forward on his elbows. "If it's not, and you can't get to me, tell me or a member of the staff, and I'll come to you."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
The con lady was right, as it turned out. The booths were flat to the floor. What I had been seeing--and mistaking for the photo booth--was a small stage for costume contests and full cast shots. The booths were tiny, cloth-draped cubicles with a backdrop and a laptop and the photographer.
I was first in line for the photo op. The same con lady emerged from the booth, spun me around backward, and said, "Look who I've got, Karl."
From behind me, I heard, "There's my girl." Jovial and enthusiastic, as though he had genuinely been hoping I'd turn up. He took me from her and rolled me onto the mark, and then he dropped to his knees beside the chair and smiled.
I was so tempted to touch his hair because it looked incredibly soft and smelled like fresh spearmint, but I restrained myself. Instead, I just surreptitiously eyed his profile and marveled at how lovely he was. He radiated cheerfulness. He propped his elbow on my armrest and draped his other arm around the back of the chair.
"I'm sorry, but my eyes won't stay open."
"It's all right," he said softly, and looked at the camera.
Flash.
The con lady reached for me, but he gently nudged her aside and pushed me himself. He was so very careful. Most first-time pushers fail to take into account the presence of footrests and the feet thereupon and will therefore smash them into corners and walls and doors, but he moved very slowly and made sure I touched nothing on the way out.
"Thank you," I said. I wanted to cry because here was this man I had come to adore, treating me as though I were something valuable and not a piece of freight to be transported or an obstacle to be overcome. I held myself together only because I was afraid a sudden spate of convulsive, ugly sobbing would make him think he'd done something wrong when he had done something right and an immeasurable kindness.
"No. Thank you," he said, and then he was gone, and I was so full of stunned adrenaline that I could only sit there until Roomie came out a few seconds later.
It's two days later, and I can't stop thinking about the smell of his hair as he knelt beside me or the care and respect with which he treated me. He didn't have to improvise when the handshake failed. He didn't have to give me two autographs. He didn't have listen patiently while I struggled and the line waited. He didn't have to invite me to the photo op and promise to come to me if I couldn't fit or get to him. He didn't have to maneuver me himself or walk me out afterward. He didn't have to kneel beside me and tell me it would be all right if my eyes closed. He did those things because that's who he is, because he cared, and because he's not just blowing smoke when he says everyone deserves dignity. He did those things because I mattered as much as the next fan in line. I cannot thank him enough for that gift.
Thank you, Karl. Thank you for being Bones and Eomer and every hero you have ever played. Thank you for being kind. I hope the letter I so clumsily placed in your hand brings you happiness and satisfaction and pride, and I hope I see you again someday so I can thank you for the first time around.
"Hello, Mr. Urban, sir," I said after I'd gathered my wits, and stuck out my hand.
Normally, I can shake hands. It's splay-fingered and spastic, but it's recognizable as a handshake. His table, however, was far too high for me, so I had to crane and grope blindly, and my fingers kept sliding off his hand. I was mortified and awkwardly patted the top of his hand because I had no idea what to do.
Karl was unfazed. "Fistbump?" he suggested.
So I gave him a fistbump, and he grinned and asked my name so he could sign the picture of Bones I'd chosen. I told him, and as he signed, he talked about how excited he was to be in Louisville and see all the vendors. I asked him if I could thank him for Kennex.
"Oh, thank you," he said. "That show was so much fun to do."
"I needed him," I said. My voice was a strangled wheeze because the spasticity of CP clenches the muscles and worsens under stress or anxiety or adrenaline, which was now flowing by the gallon.
If he was confused as to why I sounded like Flipper choking on a cod, he gave no sign. He just looked me in the eye and listened intently as I tried to explain what Kennex meant to me. I know it came out a garbled mess because I could hear it. My voice could now shatter glass, and the tension in my throat had made my speech all but unintelligible. Karl patiently listened.
I held up a copy of my letter. "Look," I managed. "I know you didn't understand a word I said, but this is what I meant to say." I held it out.
He took it. "Thank you very much." He offered his hand for another fistbump. He took my Roomie's picture and asked, "Is this for her, too?" It wasn't, but Roomie said it was, so he signed a picture of Kennex. I don't think he was supposed to do that, but the con lady next to him, who had seen me trying to talk, developed sudden blindness and didn't charge me for the second autograph. I thanked him and extended my hand for another fistbump.
"Come take a photo with me," he said as I started to leave.
"I have an op, but I don't know if the booth is accessible."
"It's not?" He was genuinely surprised, and he and the con lady turned to look toward the photo booths.
"I didn't see a ramp."
The con lady furrowed her brow. "It should be flat to the floor."
Karl leaned forward on his elbows. "If it's not, and you can't get to me, tell me or a member of the staff, and I'll come to you."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
The con lady was right, as it turned out. The booths were flat to the floor. What I had been seeing--and mistaking for the photo booth--was a small stage for costume contests and full cast shots. The booths were tiny, cloth-draped cubicles with a backdrop and a laptop and the photographer.
I was first in line for the photo op. The same con lady emerged from the booth, spun me around backward, and said, "Look who I've got, Karl."
From behind me, I heard, "There's my girl." Jovial and enthusiastic, as though he had genuinely been hoping I'd turn up. He took me from her and rolled me onto the mark, and then he dropped to his knees beside the chair and smiled.
I was so tempted to touch his hair because it looked incredibly soft and smelled like fresh spearmint, but I restrained myself. Instead, I just surreptitiously eyed his profile and marveled at how lovely he was. He radiated cheerfulness. He propped his elbow on my armrest and draped his other arm around the back of the chair.
"I'm sorry, but my eyes won't stay open."
"It's all right," he said softly, and looked at the camera.
Flash.
The con lady reached for me, but he gently nudged her aside and pushed me himself. He was so very careful. Most first-time pushers fail to take into account the presence of footrests and the feet thereupon and will therefore smash them into corners and walls and doors, but he moved very slowly and made sure I touched nothing on the way out.
"Thank you," I said. I wanted to cry because here was this man I had come to adore, treating me as though I were something valuable and not a piece of freight to be transported or an obstacle to be overcome. I held myself together only because I was afraid a sudden spate of convulsive, ugly sobbing would make him think he'd done something wrong when he had done something right and an immeasurable kindness.
"No. Thank you," he said, and then he was gone, and I was so full of stunned adrenaline that I could only sit there until Roomie came out a few seconds later.
It's two days later, and I can't stop thinking about the smell of his hair as he knelt beside me or the care and respect with which he treated me. He didn't have to improvise when the handshake failed. He didn't have to give me two autographs. He didn't have listen patiently while I struggled and the line waited. He didn't have to invite me to the photo op and promise to come to me if I couldn't fit or get to him. He didn't have to maneuver me himself or walk me out afterward. He didn't have to kneel beside me and tell me it would be all right if my eyes closed. He did those things because that's who he is, because he cared, and because he's not just blowing smoke when he says everyone deserves dignity. He did those things because I mattered as much as the next fan in line. I cannot thank him enough for that gift.
Thank you, Karl. Thank you for being Bones and Eomer and every hero you have ever played. Thank you for being kind. I hope the letter I so clumsily placed in your hand brings you happiness and satisfaction and pride, and I hope I see you again someday so I can thank you for the first time around.
Tags:
