SO GLAD YOU’RE HERE

(Original Image by Robert Gourley)

We walked Alex outside and waited for the school bus to arrive. There was a disheveled man lurking across the street, kicking piles of leaves, digging through patches of dirt, and throwing sticks at the trees. I kept a careful eye on him as he crossed the street and worked his way towards us. Once he started beating on another tree, I brought Alex behind me and motioned for Mandi to do the same, but she didn’t seem to understand what I was getting at. Hell, I thought, she punches like a man anyway. She’ll be alright.

It was a tense moment as the man staggered ever closer. Alex was squirming around, trying to see what was going on. Even Mandi was on guard now. And just as the man came within earshot, Alex broke free and jumped out in front of him.

“Hi! I’m so glad you’re here,” he said.

Whatever booze or drug-fueled madness spurring him on seemed to drain away in an instant. The murderous ridges on his face smoothed out. His fists unclenched. His shoulders dropped. And now, he was laughing and scratching at his torn beanie.

“You like my hat?” he said, “I sewed it myself.”

“Yeah!” Alex replied.

“That’s what eight years of college will get you. You know what I mean? Thank you very much, father. It’s like he always told me…”

The man moved past us and kept talking as if Alex was walking alongside him. That was my son’s great gift to the world. He did not fear another human being no matter how weird he looked or acted. To him, the man was probably just another neuro-divergent kid, clawing his way to normality, a fellow traveler on that long, lonely road.

It was a beautiful scene. And as we waved goodbye and the bus pulled away, I hoped that he would hold on to that spirit into adulthood and further still. Rise above the rest of us aging cynics and zealots. Defy gravity.

Meanwhile, Mandi and I crashed into the office like a couple aliens. I plugged into my cubicle, drank my five cups of coffee, and attempted to speak with acquaintances and colleagues, only to get that sideways dog-head look almost every time. From my perspective, I was speaking a coherent version of English. Subject. Predicate. Declarative. Interrogative. But I wasn’t quite sure anymore.

For example, I was stuffed into one of those little glass conference rooms, having a meeting with my boss and the rest of the team. When it was my turn to speak, I asked whether it was worth our effort to do a certain laborious activity if there was no clear return. Just a harmless, well-intentioned question meant to address the subject at hand. It was as if all the votive candles in all the churches blew out at the same time. A horrible shadow crept over the conversation.

“Well, Nate,” my boss said, “that’s… weird. What a weird perspective to have.”

All eyes were upon me.

“Operation extreme redundancy is important. It is!” he continued. “I can’t believe you would say otherwise! That’s a weirdy weirdy weird weird, you weird…” and so forth and so on.

I needed my son in that moment. I needed him the same way that man did earlier that morning, beating on his trees. To have Alex kick down the conference door, jump in my lap, and say, “I’m so glad you’re here,” would have cured all malaise.

I need him now as I write this in the empty hours of night, as he and Mandi sleep soundly in the next room. I’ll have to settle with the bottle for now. There’s about a glass left in there.

Feeling drunk, but probably just tired.

Time for bed.