I have rolled out of the ramp from the van and have started up the ramp that leads to National Seating and Mobility in Santa Rosa’s Glorias industrial zone.

“Mask,” Jane yells from the van. I ignore her. “Paul.”

“I heard you,” I scream.

Once inside, having made ourselves known to the wheelchair repair receptionist, Jane and I have a brief moment. She wants an apology. I find this very difficult. But I know Jane is British, that she has a family background the yelling. And that’s how it is.

“Sorry I yelled.”

I am almost 75 years old. By now I know that anger releases neuropeptides of the fight/flight variety. And after three quarters of a century, at least I have reached the point where fight is more an option than flight. Can’t stop progress.

Besides there’s a bigger picture. I am so angry to be back in Santa Rosa for the third time in four months to accomplish such a routine task. Everyone knows that wheelchairs are just chairs with wheels, and it is not an unreasonable expectation that anything with wheels rolls. Which actually, is only the way I would describe this to an outsider. In truth, my wheelchair has been rolling at half speed for the last week. It’s the chair in the wheelchair equation that has been missing in action. The blunt, rather sad, truth is that I am now dependent upon a chair back that reclines, a seat that tilts and lifts, not to mention legrests that extend. This is what it takes to maintain my musculoskeletal health. Not to mention comfort. Might as well mention safety while we are at it. Whatever. A week without these functions has been driving me almost mad.

But here we are, in Santa Rosa, Wheelchair Repair Capital of the World. I have requested through my healthcare provider, Messieurs Kaiser, that a senior technician be applied to the situation. Indeed, Scott does appear to be senior. Not quite as senior as I am, but senior enough. I quickly ascertain that Scott may have superb judgment about wheelchairs, but he has absolutely no knowledge of the previous repair, the one that occurred just last week. This flips another switch, sending a further burst of neuropeptides coursing through my brain and body. Surely, I tell him, he has a record, doubtless electronic, of the last repair. And I don’t say this to berate him, let alone threaten. This outburst is absolutely spontaneous. We are, after all, in California, high tech land. Here companies run on software. Enterprise Integration Software. And remember that I used to work in the high-tech arena, as a corporate writer. So don’t mess with me. I was a contender.

But now I am an old guy, and my fuse is short, and my days may be the same. And there’s nothing to be done. Poor Scott doesn’t have any idea of why we drove to Santa Rosa, to this very office, to get repaired last time. Meanwhile, Jane is trying to smooth things out. She assures him, and by implication me, that everyone is doing their best. In a way, I like this. I’m not sure I believe it. But I like it. At least we, Jane and I, are in this together. 

Besides, we know what to do. We head down the street to Big River Coffee. The coffee is splendid. The avocado toast is horrible. But we are actually sitting outside, for it is 70°F. When we head back to the repair office, they have a loaner chair ready. Of course, they didn’t know anything about this when we arrived, despite assurances last week on the telephone. But, gentle reader, don’t get sucked into this. I am a somewhat unreliable narrator. Let us remember that a pandemic is still sweeping across our land, and that it has killed 800,000 by this point, destined for one million in the end. And well, the supply chain, goods and services, available employees, all have been slightly disrupted. Plagues are not convenient.

On the way home, I see what I didn’t see on the way driving north. We have had rain. Real rain in California. And here, the grass is green. There are actual puddles of standing water in the land beside the freeway. The sky is gloriously blue. And, despite my grousing, all is well.