Chapter 4: It’s All Fun and Games

Janet Shipley’s funeral was four days later. Her service was lightly attended, with only her surviving children, friends, and a few members from her Methodist congregation, in attendance. During the church service, Peter and Veronica noticed their paternal grandfather seated in the very back of the Nave near the main entrance. Richard Shipley was a quiet, reclusive 76-year-old man whom they rarely got to see except on holidays or special occasions. The fact that he attended the service at all was testimony of his respect for their mother despite her recent mistakes. He was most certainly mortified by the egregious actions of his ignominious only child. Neither of the siblings faulted the kind man for the actions of their father and it was with little regard to the stares of the other attendees when they rose from their seats next to the gleaming casket and approached him together. Peter was wearing a freshly tailored black wool suit and his sister was similarly garbed in a solemn black dress.

Everyone turned to watch as the elderly man rose nervously at their approach and then dipped his head towards each of them as they spoke softly. Finally, he appeared to shudder when they hugged him in turn before leading him back down the aisle to join them for the service. Tears ran down his face as he took a seat and he relied on his silk kerchief many times during the somber eulogy.

The weather was bright and warm at the cemetery where she was transported and laid to rest. The family plot was small and her tombstone seemed sparkly and shiny amid the others she joined. The marker was etched in resin and denoted her name, and date of birth/death, and held a generic inscription about being a loving mother. It was only a temporary marker, to be replaced by the custom monument that Peter ordered and spent a significant amount of money on. It was probably a breach of protocol but nobody commented on seeing him holding hands with Kathy as they stood together between his grandfather and sister.

The morning after the service Veronica bid a tearful farewell to her brother and his beloved and began her long drive across the state to her other home at Washington State University. Peter had to get ready to begin his studies the following week when classes at Green River College commenced. Most of his course work could be completed from home but he was still required to complete his elective courses on campus to complete his residency requirement.

Aside from his physical therapy swim sessions and Computer Science curriculum, he also entreated Jeremiah and Scott to help enroll him in a remedial Driver’s Ed class that was typically meant for drivers who required refresher or remedial training after letting their license expire for too long, or as directed by court order. The course was taught by off-duty police officers and he recognized several of them as he attended the evening sessions. The normal course required attendance twice per week but Peter was driven to complete the program and went to every evening class for three straight weeks before earning his certificate of completion, which earned him the right to take the road test and earn his early driver certificate.

For her part, Kathy made time for her family whenever she could and it often fell during times when her boyfriend was occupied with his studies. She frequently came home with her baby cousin whom she doted on and spent hours with as she worked on her music scores for their upcoming games.

One unexpected benefit to adding Arty Fez to the company ranks, was the dozens of games that he offered up which he had created on his own but felt were too lacking to offer to the gaming community. Peter and Alan combed through them and voted on which ones they considered PAAK material. Once they established the list, they began tearing the code apart and rewriting it according to their specifications. As they completed each game to their satisfaction, it was presented to ORCA to be considered for licensing. If accepted, they met with the officers and negotiated an agreement to add it to their collection.

One sunny Fall Day, Peter was sitting outside on the bleachers that overlooked the track field where he watched several groups of runners training and practicing their various forms. He observed them wistfully as he remembered his own athletic days. He missed running. Swimming was a great alternative but it was still limited — not so much by endurance but by area of exclusion. He was trapped inside a pool banging out 50-meter laps repeatedly. He thought back to his first appointment with Puget Sound Orthopedic Solutions when he met Dr. Richardson and his team and got fitted for the artificial feet he currently wore. The walls of the workroom were covered with displays of every type of prosthetic you could imagine. It was like a science fiction robotics laboratory. On a whim, he set aside his textbook and pulled out his cell phone.

“This is Chris,” he heard after dialing the number from memory.

“Dr. Richardson, this is Peter Shipley.”

“Peter! My God, man! We were just talking about you!”

“All good I hope,” he smiled.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he replied pleasantly. “I was going to make a point of contacting you in the next week or so regarding a ... development...” there was a brief pause. “But you called me, so ... what can I do for you?”

“I was just sitting out here on the campus track and got to thinking that I would like to get back into running again.”

“I see,” the doctor replied thoughtfully. “Were you thinking about a pair of scoops?”

“Scoops?”

“Sorry. That’s Barry’s term. We like to refer to them as ‘running blades’ in professional vernacular. They are the curved spring steel prostheses, that we offer to our Paralympian customers and wounded service members who just want to get back into sprinting.”

“Yeah, those. Would you recommend them to someone like me? I used to run cross country,” he stated.

“Of course. And we already have your physical parameters so we can get working on them right away. Can you come by in about a week?”

“Sure.”

“Great, because I have a proposal, I want to present to you when you get here. I’m particularly excited about it.” That was something coming from one of the least excitable people he knew.

“Sure thing, Doc. I’ll see you next Thursday.”

The ‘proposal’ was made as Peter was being fitted with his new ‘Scoops’. Kathy sat with him as Barry and Mike took turns fitting and adjusting each of the blades over and over to achieve a perfect fit and profile for his stance.

Besides Dr. Richardson, there was another familiar figure seated nearby. It was the financial consultant who helped them set up the original venture stake that Peter had taken on with the infant company.

“Let me show you something,” the doctor said opening a folder and holding out a large 8x10 black and white photograph. Peter took it and together he and Kathy studied it closely. The heavy-duty flatbed truck was easy to recognize. It was the odd dome-shaped object that occupied the bed that threw them both.

“Looks like an industrial-sized igloo,” Kathy remarked earning several grins from the technicians as they grunted over the shape and spring on the metal blades.

“What is it,” Peter asked, handing the photograph back.

“It’s a smelter,” Dr. Richardson replied. “For blending and casting minute and precise alloy mixtures.”

“So, it’s not as grand in scale as Andrew Carnegie then,” he replied referencing the industrial steel magnate.

“Oh no, this one only produces fractional amounts compared to that,” the tall man laughed. “It’s made in Germany and designed specifically for working with molybdenum, titanium, and aluminum, with various graphite composites if necessary.”

Peter saw the intent instantly and nodded his head. “So, you want to create and cast your own alloy materials and save a shit-load of money from outsourcing it to overseas corporations. That’s damn smart Doc.” He turned to face the quiet man nearby. “How much?”

The man perked up on being addressed. “Beg, pardon?”

“How much more do you need to get the metal melting thingy?”

“Oh, why yes. Of course,” the man replied as he gathered his thoughts and pulled a ledger from his briefcase. “The unit itself is ready-made to order, and the site we propose for leasing to operate the smelter is pending a rezoning permit which requires an environmental impact statement. But given the low emissions nature of the unit, it will be...” he broke off when he noticed the quizzical looks directed at him from everyone in the room.

“Regis, he’s asking for capital figures not zoning regulations,” Dr. Richardson smirked.

“Half a million,” Barry interjected quietly as he reattached the left scoop to Peter’s nub. His remark earned him a cold stare from the Dr. and a contrite shrug from the consultant.

“Is that accurate?” Peter asked. “You can buy that thing, lease the land, and start making titanium alloys for your own products, for only $500,000?”

“The long-term overall expense will be roughly four times that amount but we can secure financing to conclude the endeavor over time with the initial infusion of “$500,000,” Regis answered, struggling to stay on track.

“How soon do you need it?”

“Cash on hand would be ideal on or around years-end,” the consultant replied. “However, a simple promissory note from an established creditor such as yourself, would suffice to secure the remaining funding during the interim.”

“Man, I wish I’d brought Jeremiah with me,” he muttered. He looked at Kathy who regarded him with adoring indifference. “So, you need me to sign a promissory note stating that I will provide an additional half million by December 31^st...”

“Oh! Dear heaven’s no,” Regis stuttered. “It’s not an additional amount we are seeking. We just require what you have already promised but in an accelerated fashion.”

“Unless, of course, you want to provide an extra half mil to the coffers,” Barry added under his breath. The stares were much colder this time and he lifted his arms defensively. “What? Doesn’t hurt to put it out there, does it?”

Peter was doing mental math as they talked around him. At present he was fully committed to his futures and extremely leveraged at that. AMD had executed their 2:1 split just two days before his meeting and once again the stock gapped up at open causing a bullish surge that drove his existing Call options into orbit. He moved his Stops up accordingly and tightened his parameters knowing he would probably close them well before their expiration next month. But with the massive profits that he was looking at, he had no qualms about it.

“Give me the affidavit,” he replied.

Soon they had him struggling onto his new springy scoops. It was completely different than adjusting to static feet. These things required a lower center of gravity and a stooped posture similar to a runner’s starting stance. And they flexed beneath him with every step. Once he got to the flat treadmill and was able to hold the parallel bars, he began testing them in earnest.

“Whoa, babe, you are at least three inches taller with those things,” Kathy observed as she stood beside him.

“I can tell,” he replied as he gazed straight ahead. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake that made it so difficult for him to get used to his current feet. It was going to take time and practice to master these babies. But he grinned sheepishly as he paced along.

When he logged onto his E-Trade portfolio later that evening he let out a whoop of joy that startled Kathy and brought her running into the room from her TV show.

“What the hell babe?” she gasped, then moved over to check out the monitor he was gawking at. “Holy...” she mumbled as she deciphered the numbers.

After AMD’s stock split Peter’s 2000 SEP 10 Calls and 2000 SEP 11.25 Calls had jumped exponentially before settling back down and triggering his Stop Loss orders. They closed at $13.75 and $10.5 respectively. After settling his margin, he realized a capital profit of exactly $4 million!

“Is that ... real?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yup,” he replied softly as he came to terms with the amount. “We are wealthy, babe.”

“You,” she corrected. He shook his head and pulled her into his lap, possessively.

“We.”

Friday was a blustery day with frequent sun breaks to warm the air outside. Peter was nervous about trying his new scoops out on the campus track, but he had few alternatives, so he put them in the trunk of the BMW before heading to his classes. That afternoon, he walked out and retrieved them before returning to the athletic complex. He sat by his usual spot on the bleacher stands and casually removed his loose sweatpants, revealing the titanium prostheses that were normally concealed with his leggings whenever he went out. He drew a fair amount of attention from the other students as he removed his feet and replaced them with his running blades. A small crowd had gathered to observe as he carefully rose and tested their fit with several springy bounces.

“Dude, you look like RoboCop,” someone called out causing a bunch of laughter. He looked up and recognized several faces from his high school years. The one jeering face that stood out was a jock named Emmit Stafford. They played football together and never really got along, mostly because the fellow couldn’t stand playing with a Quarterback who was two years behind him.

Peter ignored the jibe and slowly stepped away from the seats where he left his other feet and his bag. The other students milled about as he walked over to the track and began swinging his arms about to loosen up.

“What? Are those supposed to make you go faster or something?” Emmit asked sarcastically.

“I’m about to find out,” Peter replied as he did a couple more test bounces before lining himself up on the starting line.

“This I gotta see,” he retorted.

“Well, don’t expect much,” he confessed. “This is my first time with them.” He could tell that most of the gathered students were merely curious. Stafford had a handful of jeering supporters who kept back and laughed.

He assumed an unsteady sprinter’s stance before springing forward and taking half a dozen steps. He knew he was in trouble immediately. The tension of the spring steel suddenly seemed to affect his entire body and he tried desperately to overcome the sensation before his balance spiraled out of control. He began windmilling his arms wildly to prevent falling. It was no use. Just as he entered the first left turn his blades tangled up with each other and he found himself tumbling to the dirt and rolling over and over before settling onto his face.

Several students raced over to him as he pushed himself up and shook his head.

“Dude! Are you alright?” one guy asked him as he reached down to help him to his knees.

“I dunno,” he replied dazed. “Did I win?”

Several others joined in his laughter and with a group effort he was helped back up and returned to the track. Brief introductions were made as he steadied himself once more. This time he decided to start by walking the circuit and then slowly build his pace. His new friends followed him encouragingly. The first guy to reach him after his spill was a blonde-haired man named Carl. His running mate was Rick and they stayed to either side of him as he slowly stretched out his pace into a loping stride. He found himself needing to lean further into his step as he progressed. They collectively ignored the jeers in the distance from Emmit and his groupies near the starting line area.

“I see now why I am taller standing on these blades,” he remarked.

“Yeah,” Carl replied, occasionally reaching out to offer him a stable hand. “Once you get your center of gravity worked out, you will get it down quickly.”

“Must’ve been a trick trying to learn to walk on two artificial legs at the same time,” Rick added.

“It was,” Peter agreed. “I felt like the new kid in a roller rink — clinging to the rail as I went.”

“So, what was the secret for you back then?” Carl asked.

Peter chuckled. “Don’t look down.”

As a group, they circled the track twice before Peter increased his pace to a slow jog.

“That’s it, man,” Rick encouraged him. “You got a steady pace going. Let’s pick it up a little.”

And they did. By the time they made their third circuit, there was a crowd of male and female students gathered along the edge, cheering him onward. He ran two more laps before slowing down to a brisk walk for the final. He fed off the positive vibes of the bystanders and grinned as he finished up.

“How do you feel?” Carl asked, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Whew,” he panted softly. “I’m used to swimming, so I thought I’d be ready for this kind of cardio. But damn, if that didn’t take it out of me!” He held his hands over his head to promote deeper breathing as he cooled down.

Suddenly he was surrounded by eager student-athletes who smothered him with praise and asked dozens of questions about his prosthetics and the rehab he went through. He spent several minutes satisfying their curiosity and gratefully accepted a water bottle from one of them. After they began dispersing, he started walking back to the bleachers where he had left his gear bag. He halted mid-step when he glanced at where he had left his things. His ‘feet’ were missing!

An hour later Peter was standing in the Assistant Dean’s Office listening to the man try and discourage him from involving the police. There was no sign of Emmit or his friends anywhere on the campus and a brief search by his new friends and the small college’s security force didn’t turn up any trace of his prosthetics.

“I am certain that this was just some adolescent prank that will be resolved by next week,” Mr. Robert Jensen assured him nervously.

“Meanwhile, I have to spend the weekend without my legs,” Peter replied irritably. “I cannot drive, all the wheelchair accessories have been removed from my home and I am left with these running blades to get around on, which are not designed for general ambulation.”

“I assure you that the College will do everything it can to try and ascertain the whereabouts of your prophetesses, young man,” the administrator sighed. “But to involve the police for a simple prank seems a trifle excessive.”

“Is that so?” he replied, removing his cell phone and dialing a number.

It was Barry who answered.

“Hey Barry, it’s Peter,” he replied. “I have you on speaker,” he added and then briefly described the situation before asking for a cost estimate for replacements.

“Well, if the College presents itself as an equal opportunity campus, or receives any government funding to help with accessibility for students with disabilities then they have to assume liability for the theft,” Barry replied, warming up. “So, I can provide you with an invoice for the original pair which is worth about $14,000.”

Peter could see the assistant dean choking on his spit across the desk.

“And we will also invoice them for the cost of the replacements,” Barry went on. “I can start those tomorrow if you can come by for a re-fit.”

Peter had already called Kathy to come and get him, resigned to having to leave his car in the student parking lot over the weekend. He promised to be there bright and early.

“Cool! You can buy us Chinese again,” Barry quipped. “Oh, and one other thing, man.”

“What’s that?”

“Call the cops!” Barry replied seriously. Peter turned to gaze at the administrator who was chewing on his lower lip anxiously. “Those titanium alloy prosthetics are expensive and that is a Class C felony by itself,” he continued. “But the audacity of taking a man’s feet ... That’s just cold, man.”

When Peter returned to Campus the following Monday he was forced to use his old wheelchair. Barry promised him they would have his backup pair ready by the middle of the week but he would have to get by without them in the meantime. He was met at the Campus commons by the Dean of the College himself, Dr. Albert Simpson, and a small congregation of junior officials, including the assistant dean. He was asked to come with them to a more private space and he maintained a neutral expression as Kathy pushed him along after them. Inside a small briefing room, the Dean turned and offered his heartfelt condolences, without actually apologizing or accepting any responsibility for the incident.

“We have been contacted by your Conservator Mr. Whitaker, and your family attorney,” he stated candidly. “To be honest I’m a bit unsettled that this has escalated to such measures before we were given the chance to resolve this issue,” he concluded with a hint of accusation in his tone.

“And have you, Dr. Simpson?” Peter replied calmly, looking up at all the faces gathered around him.

“Have we what?”

“Have you ‘resolved the issue?’,” he asked, miming the man’s own words.

“Well ... no, of course not. We’ve only just begun the day.”

“Ah,” he nodded to himself. “So, none of you has bothered to contact Emmit Stafford, or any of his friends, over the weekend, to ask him where my feet are?”

“Young man,” Mr. Jensen chimed in. “Without any corroborating witness accounts to back up your accusation, we cannot simply call another student out and accuse them of theft.”

Everyone in the room stared uncomfortably as Peter calmly sat up straighter in his wheelchair and fixed a cold glare upon the man. “First of all, buddy,” he replied with a tone that struck everyone in the room as far more mature and ominous than they expected. “Don’t you ever call me ‘young man’, again. My name is Peter Shipley, or ‘Mister Shipley’ to you.” There was an awkward pause as they regarded him with uncertainty. “Second, I promised to not involve the police if you rectified the situation by returning my property to me by the end of the day today. I rescind that promise,” he assured them. “Not only will I be contacting the authorities but I will also call KING Five News and KOMO Four as well — I’m sure they would just love to do a follow-up story on their favorite local celebrity, to tell everyone about the daily obstacles he faces as he tries to reintegrate himself back into society.”

Several of the officials, including the Dean himself, looked as if they had been slapped across the face. He felt Kathy’s supporting hand on his shoulder and heard her snicker behind him. He tilted his head signaling her to back him towards the door. “One more thing, gentleman,” he stated as she turned him halfway around and paused. “Effectively immediately I am dropping all of my elective classes. I no longer wish to physically be on this campus. If that is an issue for any of you, then I will drop my online courses as well and seek my education elsewhere ... even if I have to pay to attend UW.” Kathy turned him fully around and held the door for him as he wheeled himself out, ignoring the protests of the group of adults behind him.

Kathy laughed as she walked beside him, she continued to keep her hand on his shoulder as they slowly made their way down the hallway and out of the building. “That was badass, baby,” she chuckled as they rolled into the bright sunlight. “Are you really going to drop out?”

He nodded. “I’d be lying if I said I was getting anything out of these classes,” he replied. “I am enjoying Ms. Jenning’s online class Global Considerations in the Computing Era, but the rest of it is nothing I don’t already know.” He suddenly squinted across the campus and held up a hand. “There is Emmit right now, let’s head him off.” He adjusted his course toward the right and continued powering himself with his hands while keeping an eye on the lone figure that had just appeared from the parking lot. He seemed arrogantly oblivious to his surroundings until Peter called out to him.

“Hey Dick-head!”

His former teammate stopped and looked around in disbelief until his eyes found the wheelchair-bound boy and widened with delight. He nearly chortled as he turned and approached them. His eyes wandered over Kathy’s exotic figure lustfully. “Whoa,” he called out. “It’s Peter Crippley!” He gave Kathy another lecherous grin, “Are you his nurse-maid?”

“Hah, that was funny,” Peter replied cheerfully. “Hey, I was wondering if I could have a word ... in private.” He nodded toward the Athletic complex nearby and the men’s locker room door.

“What for,” the other guy scoffed, glancing about for any of his mates. “You gonna kick my ass?” he laughed.

“No, I’m too crippled for that now,” Peter assured him. “I just don’t want to embarrass you in front of all these other dweebs.” He turned and began rolling himself quickly across the courtyard towards the building. He didn’t bother to wait for Emmit to decide whether or not to follow him or allow him to catch up when he did. Kathy stepped ahead and opened the door for him to roll inside. He winked at her uncertain expression. “I’ll be just a minute babe,” he told her as the other man joined him. “Just watch the door, okay?”

She nodded and let it swing closed.

He turned himself toward the sinks that lined the back wall and set the brakes on his chair before sliding out of it. Emmit grinned at him as he calmly stood before him in his shortened nubs. “Where are my feet, Stafford?” he asked calmly.

Emmit laughed humorously and clapped his hands in delight. “Holy shit! You’re a midget, Crippley!”

Peter casually waddled closer to the overbearing jock as he arrogantly smirked down at him. “Where are they?” he asked again.

“Feet?” He retorted with fake incredulity. “Oh! That’s what’s missing!” He howled with laughter at his own wit, bending at the waist to leer. “Did someone take your legs, Crippley?” he smirked.

His arrogant smirk was quickly replaced with disbelief and pain when Peter struck. Even though the other man’s jaw was within easy reach, he had learned his lesson after punching his old man in the head and nearly breaking his hand. Instead, he delivered a right jab into the jock’s trunk, using perfect form like he had practiced dozens of times against the heavy bags in the gym. He even envisioned his fist striking for the center of the bag like he had been taught.

Emmit may as well have been struck by a bowling ball. His mouth opened wide as his air exploded from his lungs in a loud whoosh, before he toppled forward, right into the hands of his sudden opponent. Unlike Stafford, Peter was also well-versed in high school wrestling and once he got hold of the taller boy, he was doomed. He pulled the kid forward and twisted himself so that his enemy collided with the hard tile floor on his face. Peter jerked his right arm behind his back and twisted the wrist towards his head in an excruciating hold, before stomping down with his nub, right between the other boy’s shoulder blades. He held him firmly for several seconds while he screamed in pain, before easing his grip slightly.

“Shut the fuck up!” Peter snarled into his ear. “I’m only going to ask once more before I tear your arm off and club you with it, understand?” he growled. “Where are my fucking feet?”

He could sense the denial coming and as soon as Emmit opened his mouth to do so, he wrenched back on his arm once more, causing him to cry out in agony instead. There was a popping sensation in his shoulder as something gave way and his cry became an agonized shriek.

Peter eased up again and smacked his foe across the face with his free hand. “Last chance, fucker!” he warned before tightening his grip and reinforcing his hold. He started to bend the injured limb up, prying it against the tendons and joints that held it in place.

“MY TRUNK!” Stafford screamed. “Please! They are in the trunk of my car!” he cried tearfully.

“What kind of car?”

“No ... Nova,” he gasped with his eyes full of pain and panic. “Sky blue, next to the dumpster!”

Peter grunted and released his arm. He shifted his weight so that most of his mass was centered over the nub pressed into Emmit’s back. “Where are the keys?”

“In ... my ... back ... pocket!” he gasped as he struggled for breath.

The crushing weight disappeared and he found himself sobbing on the locker room floor as he struggled to roll his body over. By the time he was able to painfully sit up, the door to the locker room was swinging closed behind the retreating wheelchair.

“There it is,” Kathy remarked moments later as they left the campus and entered the student parking area. She took the offered keys and went over to open the trunk of the sporty, blue coupe. She reached in and removed Peter’s feet, handing them to him one at a time as he pulled them onto his nubs. A moment later he stood and folded the wheelchair while his girlfriend closed the trunk and then turned to toss the keys into the dirty green dumpster nearby. She turned back with a bright smile and kissed him on the mouth.

They returned to his BMW and she helped him get the wheelchair into his trunk before kissing his cheek one more. “See you at home,” she said as she climbed into her gleaming Camaro parked beside him.