Notes From The Zipper Club…

 

I’m always apologizing for being so lousy with social media. It’s not so much that I’m an old guy and don’t get it—although there’s certainly a case to be made there. It’s more that I’m just so blasted busy on a day-to-day basis. Teaching full time, writing and developing book projects, trying to be a decent father, husband…

 

Trying to keep it all on the rails. It’s a handful. Same as it is for most people.

 

So it’s been a little over five months since I updated this blog. Guilty as charged…I am officially a social media slacker.

 

This time, though, I have an excuse. A little over three months ago, I joined the Zipper Club.

 

The Zipper Club? What the hell is the Zipper Club?

 

It was a Wednesday night in the middle of last February. My Advanced Screenwriting Class was doing a scene-by-scene deconstruction of Die Hard, which is a fabulous script for young screenwriters to study. We finished early, about half-past-eight, so I went back to my office, started critiquing a stack of scripts from my Intro Screenwriting class, and had a heart attack.

 

Like a lot of people who have heart attacks, I didn’t know I was having a heart attack. I knew I felt like a deuce-and-a-half had parked itself on my chest. Everything was tight, heavy; it was hard to breathe. I should have recognized it. I don’t know whether I was in denial or what, but it didn’t occur to me I was having a heart attack.

 

Then my left arm and shoulder went numb and the palm of my left hand started to tingle.

 

A few years ago, I coined the acronym OSM for my students. Every script, I teach, needs an OSM—an Oh s#@! moment.

 

That was my own personal OSM.

 

Maybe the blood flow to my brain was cut off, but even then, the words heart attack didn’t come to mind. I just knew I needed to get home and lie down for awhile.

 

So I finished critiquing the last few scripts, loaded up my stuff, and, stupidly, drove myself home.

 

I don’t remember much about the drive home. I do know I was hurting like hell by then. I looked down at the speedometer somewhere down I-40 West. I was doing about forty-five and cars were streaking by me.

 

I made it home, threw my backpack and my laptop on the couch, then went and collapsed on the bed. A few moments later, my wife, Shalynn walked in.

 

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

 

“Not feeling well,” I muttered. “Need to lay down for a minute.”

 

She flicked on the overhead, took one look at me. “No, you’re not.”

 

“What’re you talking about?” I complained. “Just lemme lay here.”

 

She walked over to the side of the bed. “Get up and get your ass in the car.”

 

I argued another ten or fifteen minutes, then did like I was told and got my ass in the car. Shalynn drove us to the E.R. at St. Thomas West Hospital here in Nashville, where I spent the next eleven days. I came home with a quintuple bypass and about a 16-inch scar down the middle of my chest.

 

One of my closest friends, actor/director/teacher/producer Sam Dalton, underwent a triple bypass a few years ago.

 

“Welcome to the Zipper Club,” he said.

 

The Zipper Club. The only membership requirement is a red, garish scar that’s probably going to scare the kids at the pool this summer…

 

Know what? I’m grateful as hell for it and proud to be a member.

 

I’ll write more about this little misadventure and my life in The Zipper Club later.

 

But for now, I’m just glad to be on the right side of the dirt.