Access Denied
Boston is hardly friendly to people in wheelchairs. For one day, I saw up close just how frustrating this is.
In 12 years, Blue Man Group has played a few thousand shows at the Charles Playhouse, as part of a company that, conservatively, pockets $2 million a week. But there is another, more important number you should know: Twenty-six. That’s how many stairs you have to climb to watch the paint-spattering baldies in Boston. A woman in the box office told me this on a recent afternoon. What’s odd is that I was sitting in front of her in a wheelchair. Wheelchairs, incidentally, don’t do so well on stairs. "We can get you carried up," she offered cheerfully. "A lot of people do that."
How dignified. And how virtually impossible for someone like Brian Moore, a 22-year-old Boston man who uses a heavy, battery-powered chair as the result of muscular dystrophy. "All his muscles have rotted out and he’s taking steroids that make his bones brittle," says Jim Moore, Brian’s father. "Even when we transport him, we have to use a special lift to keep him from breaking his arms and legs."
Twelve years ago, I took a wheelchair out for a test drive through Boston, as part of my own unscientific study of the city’s attempts, or lack thereof, to comply with 1990’s Americans With Disabilities Act. Since then, I’ve found myself making mental footnotes as I see the best, and worst, efforts to get up to speed. Recently, with Brian and others in mind, I figured this was a good time for an update. Bear in mind, my experience, no matter how annoying, was brief. I can walk. The point was to get a refresher, up close, on how the city fails to be accessible to all.
Three snapshots from my day on the town:
A minivan with a "This Heart Loves Jesus" sticker is parked illegally on Court Street, blocking the ramp to the curb. I try anyway, and my wheelchair topples, soaking my leg in a puddle. "It’s so hard to park," the driver explains as she emerges from Staples, pleading with me not to give her a ticket. She scoots off, not giving me time to explain that I’m a reporter, not the police.
Ù I get stuck momentarily in a section of loose brick near City Hall. Brick, as those special people in the Fenway Alliance love to remind us, is such a wonderful aesthetic touch. Just try riding a wheelchair over it.
At Locke-Ober, I arrive to sample fancy-schmancy chef Lydia Shire’s cooking. Instead, I’m confronted by two granite steps. The man at the door offers me the name of a manager to contact to complain. I would have preferred the soft-shell crabs.
None of this surprised Bruce Bruneau. He was my guide back in 1995. When he was working, Bruneau was the trailblazing watchdog in the state’s Office of Disability. Now 59, Bruneau’s off the beat. He sounded discouraged.
"I thought I could make a change when I started doing this," Bruneau says. "I was wrong."
During the day, I found too many places without curb cuts, making the sidewalk a dead end for anybody in a wheelchair. I found steps blocking my way into the best restaurants and most basic coffee shops. Just try figuring out which T stations have an elevator. Want to get out at Government Center? They’re working on it.
John Kelly, a local wheelchair advocate, told me of one of his least favorite spots, a warped stretch of sidewalk on Huntington Avenue near Symphony Hall. It was never installed right. The Massachusetts Architectural Access Board agrees with Kelly. Since November of 2005, it has been fining Boston $500 a day until it fixes the area. Despite the city’s appeal, the fine stood at $325,000 at press time.
"Nobody knows," Kelly complains. "It’s barely been in the papers."
Back to the Charles Playhouse. Just to get into the box office, the cashier had to open a door in the neighboring Shear Madness space and get a construction worker to push me up a crumbling, too-steep concrete ramp. Inside, after nearly selling me a ticket, she mentioned the 26 steps. I didn’t make a stink. For one thing, I needed her help getting back out.
"Well," I told her, "I’ll pass for now."
"You can always come back if you reconsider," she said, and smiled.
Geoff Edgers is an arts reporter for the Globe. E-mail him at gedgers@globe.com.
