The Life and Times of Bruce Gerencser

Tag: Clyde Theater

  • You Meant Well, But You Still Hurt Me

    1985 at the Clyde Theater

    Today is the day. Soon we will drive from our home in Ney to Fort Wayne to attend a 1980s-focused concert at the Clyde Theater. I am in a lot of pain, so much so that if we had not already bought tickets, we would have stayed home. . .

    After eating dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant, we made our way over to the Clyde, arriving shortly before the gate opened. By this time, my body was screaming in pain, despite having already taken narcotic medications. “Such is life,” I told myself, knowing that pain is the high price I pay for admission.

    The Clyde staffer who handles handicapped (ADA) seating already had three seats reserved for us at the front of the right loge section (our regular seats). By concert time, the venue was filled, ready for a wonderful night of ’80s rock and roll.

    The show was everything we expected, and more. Two and half hours long, the concert took a toll on me physically. I can only imagine what the people sitting in back of us who watched me move back and front and side to side in my wheelchair trying to get comfortable must have thought. Throughout the night, I felt my partner’s hand on my leg, trying to comfort me in the midst of my suffering. A small gesture, but I appreciated it.

    After the concert ended, we waited to leave the venue so we could avoid people cutting in front of me or banging into my wheelchair. Eventually, we made it to the lobby, only to find it crowded with people wanting to take a photo with the band.

    My partner and our adult daughter with Down syndrome headed for the bathroom, as I sat there out of the way watching people, minding my own business. The girls returned from the bathroom. Finally . . . we are headed home. Soon I will feel the blessed heat of heated car seats on my body.

    You, of course, knew none of these things. How could you? You and I don’t know each other. Outside of our common appreciation of ’80s rock music, we were total strangers. As we were walking away from the crowd, our daughter asked if she could have her picture taken with the band. I hesitated, wanting to get to the car as soon as possible . . . you know, the whole pain thing, right?

    You heard my daughter’s request. Instead of letting me handle the matter, you quickly inserted yourself into our discussion.

    “Come on, Dad. Let her get her picture taken.”

    “Uh, no, we really need to go.”

    “It will just take a minute.”

    By now, dozens of people were staring at me, listening to this woman’s increasingly loud voice.

    Thoroughly embarrassed, I finally acquiesced, and Bethany quickly joined the band for a picture.

    But, you couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?

    “Come on Mom and Dad, you get in the picture too.”

    “No, that’s okay.”

    “Come on, you will be glad you did.”

    “no, I . . .”

    But you were insistent, and not wanting to be embarrassed any further, I said, “Fine.”

    My partner started pushing my wheelchair towards the picture set, only to have me tersely say, “PLEASE STOP.” It took several pleas for the motion forward to stop. The venue was loud with conversation, so my partner could not hear me initially.

    “I will use my cane instead.”

    And with that, I tried to get out of my wheelchair, falling partially forward. Eventually, I made it to the front, and joined the picture. You were so happy that I played your game. Innocent or not, you showed no regard for me as a person. You decided you knew what was best for me; that I would regret not having this picture taken. What I regret is not putting you in your place. I regret not schooling you on personal space and bodily autonomy. I know you meant well, but you hurt me anyway. All I wanted to do was exit the venue, get in the car, and turn on the heated seats. Put yourself in my shoes. Is that too much to ask?

    Please do better.

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    Bruce Gerencser, 69, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 48 years. He and his wife have six grown children and thirteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.

    Your comments are welcome and appreciated. All first-time comments are moderated. Please read the commenting rules before commenting.

    You can email Bruce via the Contact Form.

  • I Know You Didn’t Mean It, Please Be Aware of Your Surroundings and Watch Where You Are Going

    bruce and polly gerencser 2023 2

    Polly and I, along with Bethany, drove to the Clyde Theater in Fort Wayne last night to hear Collective Soul and Jet Black Roses in concert. Last year, we had tickets to hear Collective Soul (and Switchfoot), but several days before the concert, we were infected with COVID-19.

    Prior to the concert, we ate, for the first time, at Wu’s Fine Chinese Cuisine. We arrived at the Clyde 90 minutes before the concert’s 8:00 pm start time. Polly got my wheelchair out of the back of our car, attached the feet, and I hopped on for a ride. The chair is padded with a gel pad in the seat, along with two queen-sized pillows. Any bang or bump leaves me grimacing in pain. Polly does what she can to avoid things and people that will hurt me, but sometimes increased, often excruciating, pain is unavoidable. My arms are so weak I can’t navigate the chair myself, so it is up to whomever is pushing my wheelchair to avoid pain-inducing obstacles.

    From the moment I get up to the time I go to bed, I try my damnedest to avoid things that will cause me more pain. But, try as I might, there’s never a day when someone or something doesn’t cause me pain. Last night, after going to bed, I stood up alongside our bed, only to find out my legs were really weak. As I stood, my legs collapsed, sending me careening to the floor. Fortunately, I landed on the edge of the bed. My troublesome left hip screamed in pain, as I uttered a string of curse words. Polly? She slept through the ordeal, for which I am thankful. I fell again later in the night, as I got up to use the bathroom. Same landing spot, same pain, same curse words.

    We lined up outside of the Clyde, making our way to the security station. Polly (and Bethany) went through the scanner. I was waved around the scanner so the security employee could pat me down as I sat in my chair. I had some fun with the moment, telling the man that this was the highlight of my day! We both had a laugh, as did other staff members standing nearby. Into the theater we went. I stopped at the bathroom, using my cane to enter and exit the facility. I didn’t pee on myself . . . Yea!

    The Clyde Theater does a good job handling ADA-compliant seating. Good seats on the right side of the venue, elevated so you can still see the stage when people stand (and they ALWAYS stand). One staff member, named Emily, typically takes care of us when we arrive. Emily got us seated and then asked if we needed anything else. I said “no.” She would return several times during the night to ask us if we needed anything. Emily always goes beyond what normally would be expected.

    The woman who sat directly behind me arrived just as the concert started. In a hurry, she slammed into the back of my wheelchair. I crumpled over towards Polly, trying to get a handle on the awful pain she just caused me. No apology, no nothing. Several more times during the night, she kicked the back of my wheelchair, causing more pain and increased anger. Eventually, I unlocked the wheels on my chair and rolled a foot forward. Polly went out to the concession to buy drinks. When Polly returned, she found out the woman behind us had pushed her chair forward, evidently to gain more legroom.

    Sadly, such people are common. They have no awareness of their surroundings or they don’t care about anyone but themselves. As a disabled man, I don’t expect special treatment. All I ask is that people stay out of my way; that they don’t cause me further suffering and pain. I taught my children and preach to my grandchildren, “be aware of your surroundings.” Lift your head, pay attention to who is around you. Years ago, I drilled into my daughter’s head (and Polly’s) to survey parking lots when going to her car. Don’t assume you are safe. Pay attention to people lurking on your periphery. Better safe than sorry.

    I live in the flatlands of rural northwest Ohio. The leading cause of automobile fatalities is people running stop signs. I taught my children to always look down the road so they are better positioned to avoid someone running a stop sign because they are texting, drunk, or horsing around with their friends. Now that their children are driving, I see that they are passing on this important lesson to them.

    I respect the space of others. I do my best to avoid inconveniencing people. I try to model this behavior to both my children and grandchildren. I wish more people would do the same. Unfortunately, many Americans are self-centered. All they care about is getting theirs, even if it causes the crippled man in the wheelchair excruciating pain.

    Bruce Gerencser, 69, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 48 years. He and his wife have six grown children and thirteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.

    Your comments are welcome and appreciated. All first-time comments are moderated. Please read the commenting rules before commenting.

    You can email Bruce via the Contact Form.