Captain Click

Barely inside the door of the hotel my brother, Mark, comes to a dead stop. I turn around to see what has happened to him and he’s frozen in place, his eyes dancing with excitement. “There’s a Starbucks in here!” he crows. “I can use my gift card in the morning.” He sounds as excited as a hyped up contestant on one of the game shows he loves to watch who’s just won a brand-new car. The three front desk agents stop clacking away on their computers, look at us and smile.

My brother loves Starbucks. It’s impressive how many times during the day he can work it into a conversation. It may be pouring rain outside but he’ll look out the window and say, “I think it’s a good day for Starbucks.” If we pass one while driving he’ll comment, “Not too many cars in the parking lot at Starbucks. Wanna stop?” Or, “Ya know. I think I'd like to go to Starbucks. I need my pick-me-up.” Considering he only orders decaf this is pretty funny. But it’s not about the Frappuccino, it’s about the Starbucks experience. He feels empowered, the well trained employees make him feel important. And yet, no matter how many times we practice his order by the time he reaches the counter he’s forgotten it, perhaps a little starstruck by the whole experience. “Remember? You were going to get a decaf caramel latte.” “Oh yeah.” He fumbles for his gift card and proudly uses it to pay.

His wallet is jammed full of receipts and the $20.00 bill he brought to visit me. When I go to pick up a prescription he graciously pulls out his wallet and says, “I’ll buy.” The prescription only costs $1.15 but the gesture is so sweet it brings tears to my eyes. I tell him to keep his money for pizza.

Pizza, Starbucks, fishing and sports, any sport, light up his life. Over the July 4th holiday we went to see the Grand Junction Jackalopes baseball team where his encyclopedic knowledge of sports was on full display. With mild cerebral palsy he walks into the stadium with his fists clenched and for reasons I don’t understand, he clasps his hands behind his back. He’s never walked well to begin with but after a partial hip replacement and then fracturing the same leg in a fall his gait is anything but smooth. It’s a slow lopsided walk that defies gravity. As crazy as it sounds I sometimes think he has invisible angel wings holding him up. After his fall I thought he’d be confined to a wheelchair for life but once again, he’s exceeded my expectations.

As soon as he scans the ball field he tells me, “He’s going to hit a sacrifice bunt now to load the bases, then they’ll try to hit a homer.” Sure enough, there’s a bunt and then one crack of the bat later it’s a home run for the Jackalopes. A few minutes later he taps me on the shoulder, “See that? They’re putting in a new pitcher because of the home run.” He keeps the score on his hands. Strike? One finger goes up on the right hand. Two balls? Two fingers go up on the left. Another tap: “Keep your eye on second base. He’s going to try to steal.”And that’s exactly what happens. His enthusiasm for the game makes me stop doom scrolling on my phone and watch the game with him.

One night at dinner we talked about the Special Olympics and his dream of becoming a sports announcer. At the residential home where he lives in Illinois he sometimes announces the basketball games. “What do you say? Do you talk about the score?” “No,” he answers. “I use the microphone. I tell the fans to make a little noise.”

I adore my brother for exactly who he is: A developmentally disabled 73-year-old man who struggles to walk, appears in the morning with his clothes all askew and is more food motivated than a golden retriever. Mark has never said an unkind word to anyone and he never will. Even when my dog is blocking his path he stops and says, “Excuse me Baxter McGruff” and waits for him to move. Every night before he goes to sleep he says the same thing to me, “It’s going to be a good day tomorrow.”

When he comes to visit and has figured out our household routine he does whatever he can to be helpful. Going to the grocery store? He helps me make the list and suggests crab cakes with that “long skinny bread” for dinner. He finds my phone wherever I left it and plugs it into the charger. Missing car keys? No problem. Mark always knows where they are. Long ago, my mother gave him the nickname, “Captain Click” because he’ll always have the garage door remote in his hand ready to open the door long before we reach the driveway. He loves to sing in the car and clap his hands along with the music. His powers of observation are so acute that driving with him is like having a personal police scanner. He can spot flashing lights and hear a siren long before I do. When he does, he’ll announce, “There’s some activity up there.”

At the 4th of July parade he proudly wears his USA t-shirt and is happy to wave the small American flag a passerby gives him. He cheers for every passing float including the one for the Congressman who just voted for the Big “Beautiful” Bill that may slash his Medicaid benefits. But Mark doesn’t discriminate; everyone is his friend.

Some people may see Mark as a man with a disability. I see him as a person with ability. The ability to appreciate the simple things in life, like the garage door remote, getting the mail and feeding the dog. He represents the best of us. Kind. Helpful. Caring. His love knows no limits, crosses every boundary and dissolves every division. He’s the inspiration my beleaguered heart needs, over and over again.