Autistic a Novel-Continued-- Hooshang Danesh

8/9/2019 Autistic a Novel-Continued-- Hooshang Danesh

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Autistic Novel

Hooshang Danesh


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Table Of Contents


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measures of dust and dirt on it, looking neglected

as an untamed horse, shooting straight on the

road, for my apartment, ripping through the air

like a minor storm, leaving behind a constant

vacuum, that sucked the dirty, smoggy air in,

encouraging the car onward. And I would laugh

uncontrollably, and consider her shouting: bye

people a funny departure from every days

routines: A distinct feature of her Autism. Or a

sign of enthusiasm for me. Apart from this and a

few more eccentricities -she had no other signs of

"developmental disability" or "retardation"-

schizophrenia-or half other labels she

could have been called by.

The group home she lived at was a two-story

stucco building in the middle of

practically no where, in an industrial suburb of

Los Angeles. There were semi-trucks

parked parallel and neat, around dusty old

hotels with signs that must have been

inviting to truck drivers. Signs like: Adult Cable,

Jacuzzi, privacy.-2-


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These tall signs littered the view of themountains in the north of the city. Where you

could still see some white caps of snow, thumbing

their dirtied noses at the rag city spread below.

There was a large shopping mall hidden from

the main road, like a bruise, minutes away from

the group home, where the 100 or so residents of

the group home could go for walks or window-

shopping. There was a Payless shoes, a Walmart,

a Ross and a few more generic stores.

There wasn't much real shopping done by those

residents , cause they were all on Social Security

Disability, and almost all of their benefits were

directly deposited in the pockets of the group

home owners. An amount around 900 dollars or

so, each, for a bed in a two-beds to a room

hotel-like room, and three meals a day; meals

which tasted like hospital food, dry, stale, and as

though produced in some cardboard kitchen

tastes each and everyone knew. For almost every

one of them had been in a mental hospital at

some point in their lives.

-3-


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They were Bipolars, Schizophrenics, or on rareoccasions, high-functioning Autistics like my girl,

Claudine. Her housemates were all restless,

shrill, and by turns languid or hyper-active, and

they argued over cigarettes and change for soda,

candy, in colorful dispensing machines which

occupied shrine-like postures in the dinning

room area. According to Claudine, there were all

sorts of drama going on all the time, dramas, she

claimed being far above of, in a diva-like

posture. Something that wasnt exactly true. But

at the time she really looked forwards to times

when I picked her up. She longed to get away

from the group home, she was the only Autistic

there, she said, which was true, and no- one

really understood her, which was true enough

then as now.

But there weren't much else she could have had

in terms of living arrangements. Apartments are

too expensive, for people on disability, making

group-homes the only viable, affordable form of

shelter. And these are all run by shady

characters who make money out of the ill and

disabled. And out of the general, nationaldisregard, over how to best take care of the

needy.


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-4-

Government seems to pay the disabled no mind,but give them a meager check every month,

which barely paid for shelter and meals, and

washed its hands off them, like they were lepers,

or FDR had tricked the entire country into

taking care of them by some sorcery.

Perhaps that explains Claudines fits of: "Bye

People" out of the cars' windows. May be I was

right to think of them as a sort of exuberance for

a temporary release from some mental prison

or injury.

She had been introduced by a friend of mine,

who liked to fix me up with her friends for no

good reason, but to arrange or control things.

She liked to project a sort of normalcy around

her, as though this portrayal of normalcy could

save her from this generalized panic everyone

seemed to feel. And my aloneness was a thorn in

her world that spelled normalcy

with a curious must, yearning: for pairing and

matching of all sort of things: silk blouses to the

color of ones car, and her friends and

acquaintances fit together, assorted in a vase. It

was as though I couldn't convince her of myadequacy,

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unless I hooked up with one of her friends.

And so she bullied me, as though aloneness bredsedition and rowdiness. She'd tried to

introduce some of her suspect young yuppies,

but I had found flaws from just

her reports on every one of them. These were

women Id heard about from stories and films,

women said to live lives dedicated to greed or

cruelty, women: who stole love from you, when

all you had was love. This line was actually

from a movie Id seen. But when she called me

on her cell phone, I detected a sense of triumph

in her voice, like shed been to a spa or just

walked out of spring sales at Macys.

You can never say no to this one.

No. I snapped jokingly. It was a good idea to

never take her seriously. It also encouraged, and

pleased her to no ends. Just the idea of having to

re-assert herself over and over again!

"But she is a high functioning Autistic." With

clear emphasis on the word Autistic. Shed

probably just looked it up, and was delighted

with her mental notes on it.

" Do you even know what Autism is?"

I wanted to irritate her."Listen: she has finished high school, and some

college, but has been raised in group


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homes all her life." And then she added,

remembering her mental notes:

-6-

Isnt that like completely unique for Autistics?

" Since when you're an authority on Autism?" I

asked a bit annoyingly.

"Don't get prissy on me, you know what I

mean." She snapped back.

"She is a loner like you, doesn't that whet your

appetite."

A high-functioning Autistic? I thought to

myself. That would be a rare bird.

High-functioning enough to date?

Yes, she has had long-term relationshipsvery

attractive. She is really one of the best-dressed

girls Ive come across.

Really! I said in disbelief.

Yes reallyyou dont believe me?

Its just that I dont know?-look: how do you

know she wants to go out with me?

I showed her the pictures we took together- she

liked them-and that youre a shrink-she thinks

perhaps youd be able to understand her!

You see?

So, this all, makes sense to her, on some level?

Yes.How do you know her?

-7-


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I work with her brother-their entire family arecomputer nerds, she is very good with

computers too-in fact she is the one who looked

you up.

Vow-thats impressive!

And in the profile says youre an expert in

Autism, I didnt even know that-she read that

herself.

I only worked with Autistic children as an

undergraduatethe kids I worked with werent

even verbal!!

Well Claudine is we just got back from

shopping-and she wants to meet you.

When?

Wait, let me ask her. She cupped the phone

and almost instantly came back and said:

today.

I looked at my watch it was already 1 in the

afternoon and on a Saturday.

She doesnt drive, and I can drive her to a

meeting place today-thats the thing , she doesnt

drive at all.

Thats not unusual-you have to be mad to drive

in this city.-8-


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By the time we hung up-we had a date to meet at

a restaurant called Spires, about 20 minutes

drive from my apartment. I had a few hours towaste. This wasnt at all a disagreeable turn of

events!

Id been sitting around trying to think of

something to do, something clever and personal,

like writing a song or a story. But there hadnt

been anything deep to be sounded. No wide-

opened eyelids. No run away train. It seemed

that always something in between feelings and

lips went dying.

The heat had been pressing its wings across the

city. Its been this way for long. Each year seems

warmer than the previous, and the suffering

makes you ineffectual. Melancholic. The

afternoons are worst. The heat rises up from the

ground as if a furnace has been hidden down

there. Something nefarious and alien.

I live on the second floor of a Spanish style

building. The apartment is surrounded by

windows. From the east windows I have a view

of downtowns spirals. And the southern

windows look on the house next door.

Outside that window, the neighbor was busy

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pouring cement, over the back yard. He had dug

the brownish, starved lawn out, and hauled it out

in violent bursts of activity. Now standing overthis scene, and with DIY gadgets in his hands, he

looked like he was contemplating a crime. He

was a cable- guy by the look of the large van he

parked inside the garage. Two ladders of

different height sat on top of the van, like

stretched out corpses, and various wires and

what not were stuffed in the back.

And he had a flock of kids, all ages, at least seven

of them. The grassy back yard used to look lush

and the kids would run all over it, yelling in both

Spanish and English. Self-confidence in two

languages, brought something louder out of

them.

But the draught had made water more and more

expensive- and he was making the best of it- with

the swiftness of a big western city dweller, an

immigrant- hed dug the lawn out within hours,

and was standing over the scarred ground, with

a look of inspired determination. I knew before

sunsetthe concrete would cover the old

landscape like a new shell. And nothing will

matter to anyone. The draught-inflamed grasshad become like a picture no one notices on the

wall anymore.


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-10-

But it made me want to grief-for each day of

reduced existence. I thought, I could wither, if I

stood there silent and still. That somethingfunereal would take over my dreams that night-

and he passing of greenery everywhere had a

secret cost. And that you cant really fill

emptiness with emptiness. Void with void.

I thought: it was great I had somewhere to go--

an escape was made available like empty

carriages-on deserted railroad tracks inside the

city.

I wore whatever I wore. Clothes have become

uniforms, indifferent things to me, I have ten

exact copies of same, same.

I ran downstairs, out into the open.

The air outside was warmer than in. The rays of

the sun fell on you like yellow rain. You felt like

taking your t-shirt off , and twisting the rays out

of it with force. But this heat will be endless for

some time.

The car was parked just across the street. I ran

to it-the air-condition still worked back then. I

felt lucky.

It started like a charm-- It pushed itself down

the street- more like a ship setting sail. Itsancient velocity passing wired fences, a tobacco

shop on the left, a taco stand, two police cars, the


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-11-

fast foods. And the Hispanic music blasting outof almost every car before the light, and onto the

freeway then.

The instant hum of velocity on the freeway-

amuses you-and something leaves you, in its

depth. Something mixed with consciousness-its

like a bleeding net. And you wonder off depleted

of yourself, taken over-out of time and space--

and suddenly find yourself at a juncture you

dont recognize. Its like the phone-ring in the

middle of a dream. Who and what force been

driving the car here? Its almost like the freeway

has a collective consciousness, things become

autocratic, empty of your willfulness.

Is this the exit?

Its me calling back to me.

I have to awaken!

I find the conspicuous address right away. And

the restaurant is really not one. Its a short-

order-cook round space. Surrounded by a half-

moon-shaped parking lot. Its windows are large

are tainted dark and everything about the

parking space directs you to the entrance walk.

The parked cars are mostly trucks, and old-dinosaurs like mineI know everything inside


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too will murmur of nostalgia: the universal

language of: awful-things-ahead.

-12-

They girls cant possibly be here yet-Im an hour

early- spinning the day.

Inside, the place looks like a polished pit.

Smooth shiny surfaces smile with a menace. And

the air is packed with scents of saturated fats.

The atmosphere has a nakedness to it. You have

to fill it with your own substance.

There are framed posters of someones art-work

though. I dont remember his name. But he is the

chief of nostalgia. Everyone is supple and blue in

the pictures. Standing erect by barnyards. Ice

cream parlors that dont exist.

I drop myself on a booth that looks out on the

parking lot. The heat outside the window bends

the light- elongated and oblique, like its been

hammered. Still, there is a geometric beauty to

all this unfolded movement. There are no shades

anywhere--and the light gives the impression: It

can move forever in frozen threads.

The waitress comes by almost instantlyshe isvery agile for all her weight.


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Ill just have coffee-Im expecting friends. Im

fond of saying: Im expecting friends, like I

-13-

belong to someone or something.

She smiles agreeably-I know thats probably

why I dont appreciate overweight people. Their

cheerfulness reminds me of encroachment, and

immense inner sadness.

She pours the coffee with the steadiest hands.

They are soft and chubby, like a childs. Full of

restrained mischief.

Well, holler at me if you need anything!

Will do! With the same cheerfulness.

The hour flies-and mainly through: my

examining everything over and over againIm

like an archeologist. Digging in the dirt. The

Formica walls, the invariable patrons, the

posters on the walls, the flat-bed trucks in the

distance.

And then I see them coming.-13-


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.

Chapter Two: Invisible Wealth.

I see my friend first--the way she struts-waves in

and out of her own fragmented shadows. She is

in a floral dress, summery and light-its reflection

is like a ray of water at a distance. Her shoes are

strappy white, with three inches heels-still shemoves in them well. And she must have seen my

car in the parking lot-because her face moves in

the thin silence of that consciousness. She knows

she is being watched. She draws the attention to

her left, its like shes sensed approval of her own

appearance, and wants the same for her friend.

Claudine: is in a pair of black flat shoes, and

skinny jeans. And a simple pretty top thatmatches everything at once. Her head is bowed


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in abstracted attention, a short mop of reddish

hair. Beautiful. And she looks

-14-

older, as her face is mature, womanly. When

they enter, I turn around so they can see me, and

instantly Claudines eyes fall on me, and mine

search for something definitive in hers. And we

smile unhesitant, and Im content! They walk to

the booth and sit down.

I knew we find you, I saw your dinosaur parked

outside! Our friend is excited.

Now, I can tell from both your smiles that you

are happy, right!

Claudine takes something out of her skinny

jeans pockets and lays them on the table. Its a

pack of Marlboro cigarettes, Menthol, and a red

lighter. She is bashful about them, and

protective-like sharing a deep secret right away.

How long youve been here.

About an hour!

Vow, you hear that Claudine, hes been waiting

for us for an hour, what do you think of

that?

Claudine flips the menu, but she clearly thinks itA complement. She blushes! Everything is

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transparent on her face, like its been polishedby a secret wind.

I look at her hands, they are small, and pale.

Quick and sharp. They crimp the warm air-

and stay close to the pack of cigarettes, caressing

their space.

She is tanned. A light brown, layered on freckles

and paleness. The space around her is gold-

brown. And up close her hair is more auburn

than red, its really a color I havent seen on

anyone, I know they sell colors like this in drug-

stores, but never seen them occur naturally.

There is something unique about her

Look: like something from an entirely different

river.

Still, she is beautiful-and unaware of it. Down

to the inward stare of her dark round brown

eyes. And the far-away look in them--

detachable, as if she can absent herself at will-

and a subtle rebellion in the corners.

What are you thinking about?

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Its Claudine who asks me that.

What? Im caught off-guard.

Youve been looking out the window, like you

are staring at something!

Absent, I dont recall the

past few moments!

Yeah, you have that far away look!

My friend says.

What do you like to do Claudine? I ignore

their remarks. Im too cautious now. I want to

record everything, everything, like a suitor, a

teaser- a new student.

Yes, what do you like to do for a date? My

friend asks punctual, obedient.

Claudine smiles her heart shape smile.

I like to go to the beach?

Is she asking me to take her out to the waters!

You have a nice tan!

I walk a lot, I walk to Walmart, Payless!

She utters their names like they are holy places,

and seems reflected, absent again.One day I walked all the way downtown-I just

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couldnt stop walking! She drifts out like an

echo. And stares at a mysterious point above us.

I like to say: Why?

Where do you live? I really mean: how far

did you have to walk?!

I live in Pico -in a group home!

There is nothing sad about the way she utters

this. Its flat as a desert, no affect.

Im only half-an-hour away from Pico!

What I really mean is:

I will come far for you, in a boat with no sail.

I only say:

I have a car thats like a boat.

She showed it to me, its nice, can we go to the

beach tomorrow? She asks me amazingly

directly.

She is impressed by a Cadillac?

Yes, of course-which beach do you want to go?

Manhattan beach, or Newport!

Im not sure where they are. But my head is

filled with acquiescence.

Pick you up at 11?No, at 10! her legs shakes the table with

excitement.


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I write her address down as she methodically

-18-

orders: pancakes, with butter on top, side orderof sausages, and cheese- omelet. And vaguely

explains: Its my food!

Its meaningful for her. She means to say shell

share its meaning later.

When the food arrives, she pushes the large

pancake plate in front of our friend-its a gesture

they both understand, because she

begins to cut the pancakes for her in tiny little

slices.

It doesnt seem unusual. My friend murmurs

an explanation:

Its really hard for her to cut these into little

pieces!

Yeah-I cant cut them myself. Claudine

explains, and watches our friend as though

observing a surgeon.

Why Im not surprised? Id sensed her

coordination was off by seconds and millimeters.

Im not sure how I know this. Its how her

eyes follow every little movementvelocity has a

certain mystery for her. Singular, maidenly

events. She follows them, with littlebursts of surprise--they tilt her head to the left-

like she is


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-19-

made both curious, and frightened by them.

I know, I have seen this look of surprise before--its the silent language of the kids I worked

with years ago. Back then, itd felt like being

made to sit under a tree whose leaves fell like

flowers around you like gestures-

carrying secret proportions of humanity, from a

distance of unexplainable beauty.

She eats only a third of what shes ordered, its

nearly as if she is quickly bored with them. The

uneaten food look buried in their dishes. They

are like broken plastic things, something

rubbery and flexible about them all: Pink,

yellow, red colors-food that resembles toys. They

cant be what we (were) but (are)-serious

confusions of splendor?

I think, only children can be amused

by these plates, but Im wrong because there are

adults sitting everywhere, looking ravenous for

them.

I dont know why I dont lament all the waste

perhaps its because I wouldnt eat them myself?

I used to call them:heart-attack-specials-

suddenly it doesnt seem funny anymore.-20-


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Claudine begins to stare out the window. She

grabs her cigarettes, theyre intimate objects

to her:

Im going outside fore a smoke!

But Ill be right back. Though, theres no re-

assurance in that. You feel as though she might

disappear into the traffic!

Ok, darling. Says my friend and gets out of

the booth so Claudine can slide out.

Within seconds she is outside, we can both see

her-she looks like a distracted statue, staring still

at something mobile.

Well, what do you think!

I think she is lovely!

Well? What else

Her colors! Do the rest of the family come in

colors like that?

No- you know, most women would die to have

a hair-color like hers!

And she is bright-not in the conventional ways,

but very sensitive!

I know, I get that too!What else? She wants to pick brain. Its not

just curiosity. She wants something more!


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-21-

Insight, insight. I annoys me.

Everyone wants instant insightit really ought

to be the most expensive currency in the world.

Fine!

She is lovely though!

You already said that-whats wrong with you?

I dont know what to tell you-I feel like Darwin

on his island!

What does that mean? Ive exasperated her.

I mean she is like something rare, and

undiscovered!

Oh, shut-up, here she comes back- she is

adorable! She really likes her.

I agree!! And hush my voice.

I saw two bikes!

Claudine loves bikes! My friend explains, with

fondness. I think she understands there is

something interesting and, infrequent about

her, she just cant put her head around it. And

neither can I.What kind of bikes? I am not sure what they

are talking about.


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Street bikes, not off road. I saw a Honda

-22-

1000-it took off down the street, like crazy-

woosh.

She makes the sound, and laughs. Its clearly

made her happy.

Our waitress comes by, she is shocked by the

uneaten mess on the table:

You dont want anymore? You want me to box

it for you? She is helpful- but like a soldier, she

should have stayed and guarded the food!

None of us wants to say anything. We all feel

guilty, in a distracted way.

Claudine seems a bit annoyed.

I cant eat anymore! offers as an explanation.

The waitress is nonplussed:

Oh, dont worry about it honey. She doesnt

mean it-and begins to clear the table-it probably

looks like a shipwreck to her. She wants it all

restored to some God-given order.

Outside the heat is an immobile stature--as if it

can resist all ruptures and change.

But there are always one more ice-ageahead. I think to myself. Theres really no

reason to alarm anyone!


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-23-

I put my sunglasses on, they make me

feel different. Its a lot like putting a curtain

up. The opposite of opening your arms.

Claudine walks side by my side, she walks

quick and, self-assured. I think: she means to

say:

were together.

We walk over dead brown grass onto the

pavement.

The ocean surges in the distance-I can smell its

scents.

We are only half-an-hour away from the

Pacific. I can clearly hear its wind

calling. It reminds me of a landlords knock on

the door-- something alarming and ominous.

Later on I think: there is something keener in

Claudine though-something subterranean like a

root, something that sends my books to theirshelvesand senses the world with an invisible

wealth.


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She tilts her head up in the air. It reminds me of

my long-gone Terrier, some perfume in the air

-24-

has shaken her. Something unjustly forgotten?

Because Im unmoved !! I have a deaf science of

ravines and peaks-and persist as if in a ruined

tunnel, at another limit!

I wait for them to get in the car-and watch

them drive away. Claudine waves her hand, and

smiles while looking ahead, I know she is

thinking of tomorrow, and of waters, waters.


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And its almost as if its too painful to know so

much, so I dont.

I wake up not remembering anything, just a

vague unhappiness, in a faint place inside me,

where nocturnal weights throbs. I know it can

all be made of a wellspring: of light like bright

spindles--but the details are worn,

divided like tears. Onward.

Its almost 5:00 AM, when I wake up- at the

Edges of dawn-I have to stare out patiently

through the curtains, until everything is silver-

plated with landing light, then I can go on to

run.

To start running any earlier than 6:30 is to leave

oneself vulnerable to so many who see the lightas a breach, as a finger down

their throats. They range from stray


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dogs, to mad men and women, who think

knives can be wielded against anyone in the

absence of light, though they naturally cant run-27-

well.

To the an occasional crack-head on a bicycle,

who is too high to distinguish value from

worthlessness. Who grabs anything that fits in

his hooded sweat shirt. Keys, crumbled napkins,

old cell-phones:

yeah give me that too.

I think its just the general idea of taking things

in, t must be a malfunction of

consumption or corpulence. Even garbage

earns something around

here. The garbage collectors are Hispanics, older

Chinese couples, and the homeless, they

tow their super market carts across

pavements with such vigor. Sometimes I

thin theyll live to be in their hundreds.

The first time I was mugged.. I was leaving for

a swim at 5:30. There is a covered pool thatopens at 4:30 AM.

The thief was hooded, riding a dirt bike. The


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hand-gun he pulled out was a terrifying looking

object, it looked to weigh a ton. He asked

to come up to the apartment. I had just walkedout toward my car.

-28-

I naturally nodded, my head.

He was a thinly smallish fellow. Obviously

Wasting slowly away from crack. But they must

have designed the semi-automatic to stir sharp

irreversible fear. It had a crocodile face, a

twisted shiny serpent. And had he really polished

the thing? In the downs darkness, the silver

object shone its own light. Like itd been dipped

into candle wax, and now was lit on fire. And it

had its own phosphorescent tail of light as the

man/boy waved it around,

Once we were upstairs my apartment, he

Quickly went about picking up anything small

enough to fit in his bottomless pockets. Pens,

wallet, keys, lighter, cell-phone, etc. In an

undistracted way, almost like hed forgotten I

existed.

On his way out at the bottom of the stairs, I

quarreled with him over my

wallet, all my IDs were in it, but he hit me

with the butt of his gun. And that quickly ended

the pulling match. They never found him.The second time I was mugged I was just

running near the park, the man in the car


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-29-

stopped ahead, walked over, pulled another

semi-automatic (whats with these semis?)out of

his jacket, ordered me against the wall, and went

through my pockets, not having found a damn

thing, he left me standing there bewildered. It

made me think: why would he

assume a jogging man carries anything but

his keys? But the light was barely out, the light

on the verges of occurring, inevitable,

impending, obligatory, sad? It occurred to me

that the dawn can bring a man to its red knees-

dealing out its threads of possibilities. Which

automatically means tragedies as well!

The light with its nimble swords, its warrior

Restlessness.

It all made me want to mourn for the near-

attacking wild dogs, the

knife-wielding mad men, and the bandits.

I thought I ought to understand the dark side of

quantum moves, the unmoving frozenness better.


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-30-

The mad glow of all broken things. The

yellowing pigeons. The shine of fat on our faces.

The outworn clothes. The submissive heads. And

everything wrapped in the pale resistance of

exhausted shoulders.

It took me 10 minutes to take a shower. Five

minutes to dress. 4 minutes to find the address

on mapquest. And half-an-hour to drive through

the deadest-looking LA neighborhoods on a

Sunday. Industrial little town after town, only

seconds away from one another, but all with

different fancy Spanish names, all looking

exactly alike-like someones bad joke and

mockery of diversity. A million traffic lights

along, railroad tracks crossing in odd strange

spaces. A large bread factory, machine shops,

more than dozens fast foods, pharmacies, outlet

retails clothes, a spice factory, diners, andMexican young girls in skinny jeans and bare

shoulders, searching out of the corner of their


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keenest eyes for supped up cars, who really

ought to stop for them on any Sunday.

-31-

The group home was exactly where it was

suppose to be. On a fast four-lane dusty road.

Where cars and bikes were made to feel reckless,

free, if for mere moments. When I parked in

front of the entrance walk. Three men and two

women approached the car and eyed me

suspiciously. Once I was out of the car, all five of

them asked if I had any smoke. One of them

wanted to know who was I there to pick up.

I had no cigarettes, but I would have given them

a few each. It would have made their Sunday,

The space in front of the sliding door was littered

with smoked-to-the-end butts.

Someone ought to sweep this mess once in a

while.

I told one of them. Inhabiting authority roles is

apparently natural for me.

They do, every once in a while, but you cant

smoke in the lobby, everyone must come out

here. The tallest of them said.And just to confirm himself, he muddled.

yes sir, they do sweep this spot, yes sir.


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-32-

Once inside, the lobby looked empty, large.

There were the usual calendars from the art-

class. Weeks Activities. Were panted on one

in large orange cardboard letters. There was

nothing written under it. The empty space

under might have said: What activities?

There was a pay phone to the left, and doors of

3, 4 offices, shut on both sides. Only one was

open. And I walked to it, there was a Mexican

woman, short and fat, sitting behind a desk, half

to hide her weight, half to rest her knees. And

she was loud, like she was used to yelling at

people:

Can I help you?

I am here to pick-up Claudine West.

I paused.

Is she expecting you?

Trying to appear suspicious.

Yes.


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I decided not to give her anything more to help

her make up her mind about me. She probably

divided things into good and bad, black orbrown. Sugar

-33-

or no sugar. Carne or not.

She picked up the phone, dialed the intercom

and shouted:

Claudine West, you have a visitor in the lobby.

It sounded more like: you have a problem

here.

She let the loud echo of her voice soothe her like

a sip of milkshake.

Shell be right down.

She said acting bossy.

I start circling the lobby, and within seconds of

the call, strange looking women appear, like

buzzing flies, looking around, sizing me up and

down, probably to see whos come courting for

Claudine? The usual pecking orders.

A very young black girl asks for a cigarette. She

is dressed in the most outrageously sexual way.

She has to unloosen two strings and shed be

entirely nude. She cant be much older than 18.

And there is this other woman, she is pretty in amid-western way. Dressed in Walmart . She

looks at me to see if I find her attractive. The


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sort of stare that is never evaluating you, but

wants to read your reaction to herself. And the

cautiousness in that stare. Half-scared to find-34-

something unlovely reflected back !! But not

really expecting it. Just the fear exists though.. I

make sure I smile approvingly. I have learned

how to do this throughout years of experience.

The look-back must always say: confirm,

confirm. Or it creates problems. Never mind that

now.

Claudine takes a good 10 minutes to appear. She

is out of the elevator, with what looks like an

entourage. She nods her head to me, and she is

talking to these obese older men. They are

carrying her purse, cell-phone, and her beach

towel. Now I see why the lobby got crowded

with women after it was announced she has a

visitor. She is clearly their queen. Their feminine

point of reference. She calls the fat Mexican

woman: Bertha. Introduces me as her friend-

and says matter of factly: Are you ready?

I look at the largely obese and older men

-35-


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standing at attention around her, she notices

them, and start introducing them like they are

both her best friends and attendants.

The one holding her cell-phone, has his hair

parted in the middle with the most current hair

gel. He looks like a scrubbed bear.

Claire looks at him and says: can I have tinker

bell?

Tinker bell? I say trying to be convivial.

See there is a tinker bell on it.

Its a black all-purpose purse/bag with colorful

stitching of tinker bell.

The bear wants to know where were going.

We are going to Manhattan beachIll

be back soon, we wont be late.

Right? She asks me.

Right. Evening.

Im internally loving every glance, exchange and

gesture. Its like being allowed inside a building,youve always looked at from the street.

-36-


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I am inside the box! I unintentionally exclaim.

What box? Claudine asks.-but doesnt wait for

an answer, we better get going, and starts toward

the door. The entourage follows her . They have

circled her like a wagon. One of the girls ask:

Where youre going Claudine?

She doesnt pause to answer her, In fact I learn

they always ask her the same question, and she

always answers the same:

Just out and about.

She is very fond of repeating this.

They are always asking me where Im going,

and I say: out and about. She chuckles and

looks at a point on the road. Absent. Self-

possessed- lights a cigarette.

-37-


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Chapter Four: The Unnoticeable

Ocean!

The way to the Manhattan beach from her place

is a puzzle, I have to fit it together by myself

alone. I am accustomed to women who have a

perfect sense of direction:

Just turn here.

Here?

Yes, right there.

Then what?

Ill tell you when we get there.


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Fine.

-38-

Where do you get that sense of direction from?

Mind the road honey. Not from my father.

I prefer sarcasm to getting lost any day.

Claire, do you know the best way to get there?

No, I dont.

Didnt you look it up?

I id, but I cant understand my own

handwriting!

You should have printed it out, you do have a

printer?

Yes, I do. I just dont go out to the beach that

often.

I sound as though Im nagging already.

Well be fine. Well ask someone, at a gas

station.

Ok.

We make it there, by following the largest river

of cars. And by the scents of ocean. By howcloudier it gets as we near. And by a certain

feeling I either cant recall or explain. She gets


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keen too as we follow the cars. I know I really

should follow how her head tilts, and the way her

eyes round up, she really seems to know the way,but cant explain it. I neither know my senses,

nor can I explain. I am out of two faculties, while

I bet she could walk there all by herself following

scents and the currents in the air..

-39-

The car caravans direction is quite clear. They

are a self-possessed crowd. The road is thick

with shiny, sporty new things that all look as

though they are loved by their occupants, and

are all being mysteriously pulled by the force of

ocean.. Everyone looks confident, wealthy,

young, tanned-brownish like Claire, and every

other one a dyed blondes. I seem to remember

hearing: Manhattan beach is the most expensive

one in Los Angeles. Or am I imagining this

because how poor my dusty old car looks in their

midst?

I hate rich people.

What.

I said I dont like rich people.

She looks confused.But you are rich, you arent?

Not really.


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She looks away, not disappointed. But

indifferent:

You are richer than me.How is that?

-40-

All my money goes to the group home, I barely

have enough for cigarettes.

But you wear all these nice things?

Theyre presents. My mom buys them for me.

And Joe does.

Who is Joe?

He is my best friend.

pause.

And he is like my older brother, you know?

She is animated talking about this. Her attention

is shifted back inside the car. I close the

windows, cut the outside noise, though my senses

are about to get accustomed to the scents of so

much water-and what it holds. It really must be

all the marine life in there. The vibes are clear,

directional, vibrant, existing I am beginning to

feel something? More alive? No, its not that,

perhaps just keen.

What do you mean he is like your brother, I

thought you already had a brother?


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I do, Christopher. But we never got along, he

never understood my condition growing up. He

was always ashamed of me.So, you invented a brother for yourself?

-41-

Kind of.

Thats clever. I like to invent a whole new

family for myself.

Hmm?

How did you guys meet?

He was over the group home to visit a

housemate. Crystal. They had been friends. And

I walked in her room, Joe and I met, we hit it

off. I picked him to be my friend- Just like that,

and we were off.

You were off? What does that mean?

I left with him, for their house, and spent the

weekend with them.

Who is them?

Im not sure if I understand the barrenness of

everything here.

Joe lives with his mom, in their house in studio

city. They have an extra bedroom, so I stayed asa guest there.

-42-


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How long did you say you knew each other?

Before all this happened?

About an hour, why?

Nothing Im just curious.

Where is this Joe now?

At home probably, fixing his car. Mom said,

thats his mom, I call her mom now. She said I

can stay over every other weekend. Joe picks me

up next Friday.

How old is Joe?

He is 54 years-old, I am not sure!

Oh, how old is your real brother?

Christopher is two years older than I, he is 35.

Oh.

I wish I could just keep saying Oh, oh,

throughout life.


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It has a decent, non-commit ant, non-judgmental

sound. And its not curious. Curiosity always

scares people off.But then I have an ailment: I have to know, for

some odd evolutionary reason, I ought to know,

which requires a bigger investment than oh, oh,

oh.

-43-

What does Joe do for a living, and why does he

live with his mom?

Hes got MS. He is on disability too. But he

works under the table for a machine shop, he

used to own his own garage.

For some odd reason, nothing becomes clearer.

We are nearer the ocean though, the cars divide

into many smaller streets, that by the scent and

the look of white sand must lead to the ocean

itself. All sorts of people in flip-flops walk that

way like theres a concert.


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Anyways, Im tired of knowing. Things pretty

much clear themselves up. So they say. I dont

quite believe in it myself.They say Hitler went around repeating:

Isnt it great that men dont think!

-44-

He just stole what he liked from Nietzsche.

I think as I follow a bunch of cars that look more

touristy, they have out-of-state plates, or non-

blondes inside. Ive done well so far, following

the herd.

Sure enough, by intuition, or miracle they land

at the gates of a big parking lot. Theres a sign

that says: 8 Dollars. Park All Day.

Youd think I could park for the whole week

for 8 Dollars. I exclaim, still believing Im

alone in the car and can say anything I like.

She looks sideways at me. But is too excited

about the ocean. Its right there to our right.


50/51

Beyond the concrete marks of the parking space.

Beyond other cars. Beyond mounds of sand,

you can clearly hear it. I am awe-struck.Surprised that it exists at all?

CONTINUED


51/51

Documents

Autistic a Novel-Continued-- Hooshang Danesh