On the Outside Chance: Peter Mason Chronicles, #1

By Michael J. Mason Ph.D.

Peter Mason is tortured at school, neglected at home, and trapped in a body that's his worst enemy.

"On The Outside Chance is a remarkable tale of resilience that showcases the indomitable nature of the human spirit and the fierce willpower that enables people to overcome overwhelming challenges." ~ Readers' Favorite Book Reviews, Pikasho Deka (5 STARS)

EVOLVED PUBLISHING PROUDLY PRESENTS the story of one boy's struggle with Cerebral Palsy, a condition that makes him a pariah among his peers and an outcast within his own family. Based on the author's own life, "On the Outside Chance" tells the story of all who grew up as outsiders, and the existential crises of their everyday lives. [DRM-Free]

"This book opened my eyes to the reality of what people grappling with physical disability face. It did not shy away from the resentment and torment Peter went through every day and it left a powerful message of perseverance that resonated with me. At the heart of the book, there was hope and a desire to emerge victorious against all odds." ~ Readers' Favorite Book Reviews, Jessica Barbosa (5 STARS)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evolved Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781622537686

Michael J. Mason Ph.D.

Challenged from Birth Dr. Michael Mason was born in 1950 and raised in New York City. While he enjoyed the privilege of being raised by affluent parents, Dr. Mason was born with cerebral palsy during a time in which awareness for the needs of the differently abled was virtually non-existent. Rising against the Obstacles Despite the hardships he faced, Dr. Mason molded himself into an extraordinary student, obtaining two masters degrees from Columbia University and a PhD from New York University. Dr. Mason went on to become a successful psychologist, devoting his career to improving the lives of both the disabled and the able-bodied alike. His story will inspire and give hope to all who read it.

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ON THE OUTSIDE CHANCE

Peter Mason Chronicles – Book 1

Copyright © 2020 Michael J. Mason Ph.D.

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ISBN (EPUB Version): 1622537688

ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-62253-768-6

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Editor: Lane Diamond

Cover Artist: Kabir Shah

Interior Designer: Lane Diamond

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE:

At the end of this novel of approximately 78,859 words, you will find two Special Sneak Previews: 1) SEX AND SELF-LOATHING by Michael J. Mason Ph.D., the second book in this Peter Mason series of narrative memoirs, and; 2) TWO MORE YEARS by EC Stilson, a critically acclaimed cancer memoir. We think you’ll enjoy these, too, and provide these previews as a FREE extra service, which you should in no way consider a part of the price you paid for this book. We hope you will both appreciate and enjoy the opportunity. Thank you.

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eBook License Notes:

You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Disclaimer:

This is a narrative memoir, in which some of the names have been changed to protect certain individuals’ privacy. Nonetheless, events depicted here are true, with any memory gaps filled in realistically in an appropriate manner.

Books by Michael J. Mason Ph.D.

THE PETER MASON SERIES

Book 1: On the Outside Chance

Book 2: Sex and Self-Loathing [Coming 2023]

Book 3: The Final Furlong [Coming 2024]

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www.MichaelJMasonPhD.com

BONUS CONTENT

We’re pleased to offer you not one, but two Special Sneak Previews at the end of this book.

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In the first preview, you’ll enjoy the first chapter of Michael J. Mason’s follow-up to this book, the second in the Peter Mason series, SEX AND SELF-LOATHING.

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KEEP UP TO DATE ON THE FULL SERIES HERE:

MICHAEL J. MASON Ph.D. at Evolved Publishing

In the second preview, you’ll enjoy the first three chapters of EC Stilson’s critically acclaimed cancer memoir, TWO MORE YEARS.

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See the three 5-STAR REVIEWS at Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews

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OR GRAB THE FULL EBOOK TODAY!

FIND LINKS TO YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER HERE:

EC STILSON’S Books at Evolved Publishing

Table of Contents

Copyright

Books by Michael J. Mason Ph.D.

BONUS CONTENT

Table of Contents

Dedication

ON THE OUTSIDE CHANCE

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Interview with the Author

Special Sneak Preview: SEX AND SELF-LOATHING by Michael J. Mason Ph.D.

Acknowledgements

About the Author

More from Evolved Publishing

Special Sneak Preview: TWO MORE YEARS by EC Stilson

Dedication

For Dr. Helen K. Gediman,

a brilliant psychologist; a person who saved my life!

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And for my beautiful wife Linda, and for the apple of my eye, my son Ian.

Prologue

In the late morning, the rain tapered off and the clouds broke over the town of Dingle on the southwest coast of Ireland. Sunlight poured through the skylight and into Michael’s bedroom just as he finished a pleasant dream about riding a horse, a tall and magnificent Cob, over the green fields that lined the hills around his small farmhouse.

The details of the dream would soon escape him, but he hoped its pleasant feeling would, like previous dreams, stay with him through the day, wrapping around him like a warm cocoon of soft wool.

Michael could still hear the wind outside as it whipped around the house, sounding like a voice whispering incomprehensible but comforting advice. He stirred in the bed and took a deep breath of the fresh air, which seeped into the old farmhouse despite all the doors and windows being shut tight. The light scent of the ocean mist blended with the fragrance of freshly cut grass that Tom the gardener had mowed the evening before. Michael’s first conscious thought was one of gratitude—grateful that he could get up now and begin his day, or simply lay there as long as he liked. The sun could rise, climb high in the sky, and eventually set, but if Michael chose, the day—his day—would wait for him.

He turned on his side and grimaced at the slight ache in his lower back, which had begun to set in with age. He didn’t mind it, though. In fact, he was thankful even for something as mundane as a simple backache, after the years of pain his body had inflicted upon him. At this point, he considered the backache something of a badge of honor for having survived as long and as well as he had.

He considered getting out of the bed and starting the day that waited patiently for his permission to begin, but decided to lie there for just a few minutes more, enjoying the silence and slivers of morning sun in his face. He reached out and laid one crooked hand on Linda’s shoulder, and his wife stirred gently, seemingly lost in a tranquil dream of her own. He wanted to get up and start the coffee. The house would fill with the aroma of a freshly brewed pot, and then he and Linda would enjoy their usual late breakfast at the table in their cozy little kitchen, as they listened to the music of the sheep baying in the meadows.

With some effort, he lifted his head off the pillow and sat up in bed. He groaned as he swung his legs over to one side and reached for the walker awaiting him nearby—now his constant companion, the camouflage of his disability.

Linda shifted and murmured, Honey, everything okay?

Uh-huh, Michael grunted as he pulled the walker towards him. Just going to start breakfast.

Mmm, Linda said. That’s nice. She drifted back to sleep.

Finally, Michael had the walker in front of him, prepared to stand up and begin the day. Before he did, though, he paused to appreciate for one more moment the tranquility of the Irish morning, and to think about how much he was going to love the day that stretched out before him. He had to feed Quinn, his new Golden Retriever puppy, who was probably dozing outside in his doghouse. Michael remembered the appointment he had in town later that afternoon, after which he would stop in the grocery store to pick up a few things.

And then what? he thought.

Now that it had stopped drizzling, maybe he would go for a drive through the countryside. Maybe he would walk on the beach. Maybe he would bring his new Hasselblad camera and find a good picture to take, knowing that there would be good pictures to take in every possible direction. Maybe that evening, he and Linda would drive into town and eat dinner at a favorite pub, or explore a bit and find a pub that they hadn’t tried yet. Pint of Guinness, please, he would say to the beautiful young waitress he knew they would find there. He knew his voice would immediately give him away as an American, but the waitress would smile at him, and he could already taste the miraculous flavor of the dark stout and feel its thick foam on his upper lip.

Michael was about to pull himself to his feet when, for a reason he couldn’t explain, the small painting that usually hung unnoticed on the nearby wall caught his eye. Much of the art in the farmhouse featured tableaus of his Celtic surroundings, but this one was different. A very old painting, it had somehow followed him around since his childhood. It showed three young men dressed in peasant clothing. They sat in what must have been an old inn, hoisting tankards of some frothy beverage to their lips. Around them sat baskets filled to the brim with apples.

In all the years he’d possessed the painting, he’d never stopped to really consider it before. Now he wondered about those three boys, and what kind of day it might have been for them as they toiled in the orchard. One of them looked a bit like Ian, Michael and Linda’s son, who would be starting his day as a college senior back in America.

No, physically, the young man looks like Ian, but his face...his face reminds me of myself as a boy.

Michael stared at the painting, and his attention seemed to wander into the past and across the miles. He sat on the side of the bed in something of a trance, and didn’t move for some time.

Chapter 1

Peter!

No. Not again.

Peter, get up!

He felt himself being wrestled awake as he desperately tried to cling to sleep.

It’s six-fifteen. You’re going to be late for the bus. Hurry up!

OK, Mom, he groaned. OK. He could hear music playing on the radio in his parent’s room, until they tuned it to another channel for the area weather.

Jesus, it’s cold.

He waited to hear the forecast. It would be another freezing, snowy New York City day in 1963. The forecast only added to the darkness and gloom that hung over a city still reeling from the shooting of President John F. Kennedy, and where no sign of hope could be seen on the horizon.

With the impending snow, maybe Peter would enjoy a brief reprieve. Maybe they would cancel school. Maybe the school had caught fire overnight, or maybe the snow had been so heavy that the school’s roof had collapsed. Maybe he was still asleep, and this sense of waking up was really just another bad dream.

He thought about telling Mom he was sick. After all, it had worked in the past, and had always bought him a free day. But for what? The next day, school would still be there. And the next day... and the next day... and the day after that. He couldn’t escape it.

Peter, his arms cramped and bent, sat up awkwardly in the bed and swung his rigid legs to the floor. His weariness made it doubly hard to stand, and his legs, which didn’t obey the commands of his brain, had trouble navigating as he made his way to the vestibule between the three adjacent bedrooms.

His mother stood there waiting for him. There’s no time for breakfast, she said, but I can make a sandwich for the bus ride if you like.

He wasn’t sure how to tell her no, that the idea nauseated him. Yes, he was hungry, but the thought of trying to choke down a sandwich on that old bus, a bumpy, rickety 1953 Ford, its cabin filled with exhaust fumes, made his empty stomach turn. Still, she was just being Mom, trying to take care of him as she always did. He looked as she stood there in her open housecoat, revealing the shape of her body. Peter felt his face flush and averted his eyes. Lately, he’d grown uncomfortable seeing his mother’s body, which he’d seen a million times before. Now, it began to stir feelings within him that made him feel strange and awkward.

Still, what would I do without her? And how do I refuse to accept her offer to help me with something as simple as breakfast?

He looked away. No, Mom, it’s OK. Thanks.

Are you sure?

Yeah, it’s fine.

OK, but if you change your mind, let me know.

OK. Knowing what lay before him in the day ahead, he found it difficult to look her in the eye. He turned and headed back down the hall.

In the bathroom, the smell of his father’s aftershave combined with his recent shower permeated the room. Peter wiped his hand across the fogged mirror and focused on the fresh pimple on his face. When will this end? Even more difficult, though, was ignoring the sight of his own body, and how foreign it seemed. In Peter’s mind, he was a healthy and strong thirteen-year-old, but the reflection in the mirror didn’t lie. His hands were twisted, and his bent legs struggled to support his own weight. It didn’t seem possible.

Maybe it isn’t really true. Maybe the mirror is lying. Maybe I’m not disabled after all. If no one else at the school is disabled, maybe I’m not, either.

With the imprecise motions that his hands afforded him, he brushed his teeth, and then took a brief shower. Naked and shivering, he stepped back before the mirror.

Mom, where’s Dad?

Her voice called from the kitchen. I think he left already, or maybe he’s out walking Benji.

He’s walking the dog?

Yes, why?

Peter’s teeth gritted in frustration. My tie! he shouted. I needed Dad to help me with my tie!

Peter, bare-chested and wearing only a towel around his waist, struggled to walk back to his room, his feet dragging on the thick carpet. Thankfully, the pain in his back and legs eased somewhat after the hot shower, but he knew it would return sooner rather than later.

Moments later, at the sound of his father approach, Peter grabbed the pressed white cotton shirt that hung on the door and rushed to get dressed, embarrassed by his nakedness. By the time his father entered, Peter had wrestled himself into the shirt, but had not yet buttoned it. He felt a chilled humiliation, uncomfortable at his father being privy to Peter growing into manhood, but at the same time, he recognized the need for expedience.

His father, the stem of his pipe clenched between his teeth, swept into the room, not quite in a hurry, but certainly at a pace that suggested that he was eager to make his train. All right, Pete. Almost set to go?

Yeah, Dad.

Good, good.

Without saying another word, Peter’s father took the tie from the night stand, placed it around his own neck, and proceeded to form a knot.

Peter stared into his father’s face, and felt a vague anger in his chest. He didn’t know where it came from, and tried to dismiss it, but he couldn’t.

Everything OK, Pete?

Yeah, everything’s fine.

That was it. Peter hated when his father called him Pete. My name isn’t Pete. He only paused a moment to consider that his name wasn’t actually Peter, either. And of course, no one called him Peter—not his parents, not his family, not his teachers. No one. Everyone always called him by his given name. Still, every time someone said his name, he heard Peter, because at some point in his young life, he had decided that if he could be Peter—someone other than who he really was—then Peter would have to be the one to undergo the ordeal of living his everyday life, instead of the person he really was... whoever that may be.

Pete?

Yeah?

You still with me?

Yeah, Dad.

As his father tightened the tie, Peter eyed him up and down. A tall, handsome man with wavy, grayish-blond hair, he seemed to Peter to be somewhat Germanic in his appearance. He dressed impeccably for work, as always, an air of confidence accessorizing his impeccable navy-blue suit.

His father yanked the tie from around his own neck and slipped it over Peter’s head.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will the process to be over as quickly as possible. Asking for his father’s help with his tie always made him feel horribly vulnerable. At some level, he knew the whole thing annoyed his father—it always seemed to take place just as his father was rushing for the train—and besides, Peter knew that he should be more self-reliant. Each morning, it seemed to put his father in a quandary, and his father never let him forget it. At times, Peter felt that he owed his father something—that he had disappointed his father by being born disabled. It felt as if the only way he could avoid feeling this way was to stop asking his father for help altogether. Realistically, though, this wasn’t an option. As he stood there half-dressed, his father arranging the tie around his neck, he felt totally exposed. It felt like asking an opposing soldier on a battlefield, in the midst of war, to help him load his gun.

When his father finished tying the tie, he buttoned Peter’s shirt, turned the collar up, and fashioned a knot in Peter’s tie similar to his own. Have a good day, Son, he said flatly. Are you ready for your history test?

Peter thought about the day ahead of him as his father tightened the tie, almost as if were a noose around Peter’s neck, cutting off the air. Sure, he said. I’m ready.

His father patted him on the shoulder. Good. Good luck today.

Thanks. Peter tugged at his collar, trying to breathe.

His father left, and Peter struggled into his suit pants, his matching jacket and black shoes, all newly acquired from Rogers Peet & Company. The outfit comprised the standard student uniform for his prestigious private school. Soon, he was making his way down the hallway of his apartment, his new shoes slipping on the white marbled linoleum.

Peter met his mother in the vestibule centered between the apartment’s three bedrooms: his, his parents’, and his Aunt Annie’s. Annie was still asleep; he rarely if ever saw her before leaving for school. As he looked at his mother, the anxiety for what the day before him held swept over him like a tidal wave. He thought back to his days in public school, where the torment of his daily existence brought his mother to pick him up for lunch every day. They would go to Angelo’s Pizzeria on Johnson Avenue in Riverdale, where a few minutes with his mother would provide him with the break that Peter needed to survive the rest of the day. Still, during the ride back to school, Peter would shake in apprehension of what the afternoon held for him. His mother would drop him off half a block from the school so that his classmates wouldn’t know anything about his daily lunches with his mom.

That was gone now, and standing in the vestibule, Peter could no longer look forward to that oasis, a break in the middle of the day. If she knew how badly he had needed that break—and still needed it now—she didn’t show it.

‘Um... bye, Mom.

Goodbye, Peter. Have a good day.

He didn’t move. Uh... where are you going today?

Oh, nowhere special. I’m meeting the interior designer in the city. That’s about it.

Will I... will I be able to reach you if necessary?

She smiled. Reach me? Why would you need to reach me?

He stared at his shoes, and couldn’t think of anything to say. No reason. Never mind.

He looked back at her, unable to move for a moment. Last chance. This is my last chance to say something—anything—that might keep me from having to leave the apartment and go to school.

But nothing came to mind. Defeated before the day could even begin, he hoisted the 30-pound book bag over his crooked shoulders, his body groaning from the weight, then opened the apartment door and stepped out.

The long, carpeted hallway, accented by the perfectly appointed wallpaper, was like a minefield to Peter. His awkward gait, along with the weight of his book bag, made the journey to the elevator arduous. The thick carpet in particular made walking difficult. The accident he had suffered at birth—his umbilical cord had wrapped around his neck, cutting off oxygen to his brain—had left him with a condition commonly known as cerebral palsy, and his inability to neurologically control his left foot made him stumble two or three times, thirty pounds of books flying out in front of him with each slip. Eventually, he lurched to the elevator and pressed the down button.

The elevator door opened, and there she stood: Janet Sweet, about fourteen years old and breathtaking. She wore her long blonde hair in a ponytail that morning. Beneath her parochial school uniform, her body, with its soft, pale skin and tantalizing curves that Peter couldn’t help picturing in his mind’s eye, was undergoing delicate and exquisite changes that made his pulse race. When she smiled at him, the effect doubled. He tried to straighten his crooked limbs and stand tall as best he could.

Uh... hi, Janet.

Her smile made his face flush. Hi, Peter.

He searched for something to say. It’s supposed to snow pretty hard today, he finally sputtered. Too bad we still have school.

Yes, she said. Too bad.

They rode the elevator for a moment in uncomfortable silence.

Peter, she finally said, her voice like honey.

Yes?

I saw you and your Dad walking the dog the other day, around Delafield Mansion. I waved, but you didn’t seem to see me.

Oh, he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. In fact, he had seen her that day, so cute, so alive, and just seeing her in the sunshine gave him a thrill he couldn’t quite describe. But he couldn’t bring himself to wave back at her, either. After all, what good would it do? What could she want with him?

Before Peter could think of anything else to say, the elevator door opened, and she stepped out. She turned back to him and smiled again. ‘Bye, Peter, she said. See you later.

Yes, I’ll see you later, Peter mumbled, praying for it, but unable to really bring himself to believe it.

Outside, the blue and white bus waited for him, belching exhaust fumes, its windows covered in frost. The bus transported children of different ages from all parts of the Bronx and Westchester County to a top private school in Riverdale. Some of the students on the bus were seniors, some were junior high students like Peter, and some were much younger.

The snow had grown heavy and treacherous. The building’s doorman opened the door and held it for Peter, who stepped into the freezing cold, determined not to fall on the slushy pavement. The bus driver opened the bus doors.

Let’s go, Peter! he shouted. Let’s go, step it up!

Peter thought about that as he struggled to climb onto the bus. Step it up! How foreign that expression sounded.

Once aboard the bus, Peter tried his best to find a seat as quickly as possible, but as usual, he wasn’t fast enough.

The voice came from the crowd of boys in the back of the bus. It was David Connor.

Hey, Spaz!

Peter tried to ignore it.

Yeah, you, Spazo!

Silence descended upon the bus, as if out of a scene in a Western where a gunfight was about to take place. Being called names was not new to Peter—he’d heard much of the same all his life—but he still froze with anger and frustration and helplessness. He knew from past experience that no one would come to his aid. The bus became still; not a sound could be heard except for the sleet hitting the roof and the old windshield wipers scraping back and forth, back and forth.

Peter sat down and concentrated as hard as he could on becoming invisible.

Laughter erupted from the back of the bus, and the ruckus of the boys chatting amongst themselves returned.

Peter sat alone and stared out the foggy window.

After an eternity, they arrived at the school. The bus’s doors opened, and the students rose like a pride of sleepy lions preparing to exit their lair. As they shuffled along the aisle and down the bus’s steps, Peter stood and waited at his seat. He knew better than to try to get in front of them, having nearly been pushed over enough times to try that again. Once the bus emptied, he collected himself, picked up his book bag, clambered down the bus steps, and navigated the snow-covered driveway to the school.

Eventually, he made it to the door of the auditorium, where the morning assembly had already started. As he entered the chamber, he could smell the aroma of a hundred years of sweat, and hear the drone of the assembled student body, strong if not somewhat unenthusiastic: ...thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven.... Peter began mumbling along with them. Next came the Pledge of Allegiance, followed by the singing of the National Anthem. It was the same this morning as yesterday, the same yesterday as the day before, the same as it had been for as long as Peter could remember. In the auditorium, the classes were arranged by age. The seniors sat up front, freshman in the back, with the juniors and sophomores in between. On the rare occasion when he could get off the bus quickly enough, Peter sat with his fellow eighth-graders. Today, though, like most days, he was content to stand in the rear of the room.

When the morning assembly ended, the students stood and began filing