Autistic-A Novel. First 4 chapters. By: Hooshang Danesh

8/9/2019 Autistic-A Novel. First 4 chapters. By: Hooshang Danesh..

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Autistic

A Novel By:Hooshang Danesh


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Copyrights 2010 by HooshangDanesh

All rights reserved. No part of this book

may be reproduced or transmitted in anyform or by any means, electronic, ormechanical, including photocopying,recording, or by any information storageand retrieval system, without permissionin writing from the copyright owner.Although all stories have are inspired bysome real events-all characters in this

book are fictitious and any resemblanceto real people is coincidental.

First Edition


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Table Of Contents


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First Chapter: Bye People.

I drove. She would push her head out of the

passenger sides' window and shout: "Bye

People.' Then recollect herself inside the car,

giggle to herself, and say: "shit"

wearily, slightly as though she had been up to no

good, and punishment might have

been fore coming. The people she shouted atwere mostly the bus riders at bus

stations. Hispanics who would look at her

puzzled, and in wonderment, for her

flashing head of red hair and her unrehearsed

language- cause almost no one spoke

English on these streets. From time to time, she

would shout: "Hi people," in a different

tone, this one more friendly, conciliatory, andstill leave the look of confusion on the foreheads

of the bus riders who saw the big sweeping

Cadillac, and the shouting head as just another

strange break in their daily ennui. I would drive

the big ship-like Cadillac, grayish-colored and

with good

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measures of dust and dirt on it, looking neglectedas 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.

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These tall signs littered the view of the

mountains in the north of the city. Where you

could still see some white caps of snow, thumbingtheir 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.

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They were Bipolars, Schizophrenics, or on rare

occasions, high-functioning Autistics like my girl,

Pamela. Her housemates were all restless, shrill,

and by turns languid or hyper-ractive, 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 Pam, 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, national

disregard, over how to best take care of the

needy.

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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 intotaking care of them by some sorcery.

Perhaps that explains Pams 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 her brand of 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 my

adequacy,

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unless I hooked up with one of her friends.

And so she bullied me, as though aloneness bred

sedition 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, 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

the 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

homes all her life." And then she added,

remembering her mental notes:

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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 yourappetite."

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?

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I work with her brother-their entire family are

computer 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 thatherself.

I only worked with Autistic children as an

undergraduatethe kids I worked with werent

even verbal!!

Well Pamela 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.

She only seemed more encouraged:

See, you already know a lot about her.

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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, and I had a few hours

to spare. 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 over

this 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 ofdifferent 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 grass

had become like a picture no one notices on the

wall anymore.

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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 something

funereal would take over my dreams that

night-how can I be afraid of my dreams-and

the passing of greenery everywhere had a secret

cost. And that you cant really fill emptinesswith emptiness. Void with void.

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

an escape was made available like an empty

carriage-on deserted railroad tracks in the city.

And though the light is strong everywhere-

something furtive too, is thickening the shadows

inside.

I wore whatever I wore. Clothes have become

uniforms to me, I have ten exact copies of the

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 violence.

The car was parked just across the street. I ran

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

was lucky that way.

The car started like a charm-- It pushed itself

down on the street- more like a ship setting sail.

Its ancient velocity passing wired fences, a

tobacco shop, taco stands, two police cars, the

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fast foods, the Hispanic music off car radios-and

on to the freeway.

There, the instant hum of velocity-amuses you-

and something leaves you, in its depth.

Something like water and consciousness-its like ableeding net. And you wonder off depleted-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 willfulness.

This is 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 surfaces are tainted

by a commonness, and everything about the

parking space directs you to the entrance.

The parked cars are mostly trucks, and old-

dinosaurs like mineI know everything inside

too will murmur nostalgia- the universal

language of: awful-things-ahead.

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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.

I dont remember his name at all. 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 go for at all-hours in frozen threads.

The waitress comes by almost instantlyshe is

very agile for all her weight.

Ill just have coffee-Im expecting friends. Im

fond of saying: Im expecting friends, like I

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belong to someone or something.

She smiles agreeably-I know thats probably

why I like overweight people. The cheerfulness

reminds me of overflowing, riverbeds, and innersadness.

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. We can

almost be comrades. I mean to say.

The hour quickly flies-and mainly through: my

examining everything over and over againIm

like an archeologist. Digging in the dirt. The

Formica walls, the invariable patrons, salt-and-

pepper shakers, the flat-bed trucks in the

distance. The changing eco-system.

And then I see them coming.

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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 she

moves 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 ownlook, and wants the same for her friend. Pam: is

in a pair of black flat shoes, and skinny jeans.

And a simple pretty top that matches everything

at once. Her head is bowed in abstracted

attention, a short mop of reddish hair. Beautiful.

And she looks

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older, as in there are tight small muscles around

her eyes, making her look like a woman from

this distance. When they enter, I turn around so

they can see me, and instantly Pams eyes fall onme, 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! She is excited. Match-making can be

an act of benevolence too! I am re-thinking

things.

Now, I can tell from both your smiles that you

are happy, right!

Pam 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 Pam, hes been waiting

for us for an hour, what do you think of

that?

Pam flips the menu, but she clearly thinks it a

complement. She blushes! Everything is

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Transparent, like its been polished by

a 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-something from an entirely different river!

Still, all I can say is that: she is very beautiful.

And that she is unaware of it. Down to her dark

round brown eyes. And the far-away look in

them-- detachable, as if she can absent herself at

will-they are patient with the accumulated

weight of being-and with a certain flightiness in

them too, a subtle rebellion at the corners.

I feel lucky, like a man put here by chance,

to observe something quite new-- having

arrived by some quick, vague arrangement.

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Its Pam who asks me that.

What? Im caught off-guard.

Youve been looking out the window, like you

are staring at something!Ive been absent. Somehow I dont recall the

past few moments!

Yeah, you have that far away look! My friend

says.

What do you like to do Pamela? I ignore their

remarks. Im too cautious now. I want to

record everything, everything, like a suitor, a

pleaser, and a new student.

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

friend asks punctual, obedient.

Pam 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 holly 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-

away are you from downtown! Or: It musthave been a long walk.

I live in Pico -in a group home!

There is nothing sad about the way she utters

this. Its just flat as a desert, affectless.

Im only half-an-hour away from Pico!

What I really mean is:

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

But 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 surprisingly

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 Im a

suitor now-and my head is filled with

acquiescence.

Pick you up at 11?

No, at 10! her legs shakes the table with

excitement.

I write her address down as she methodically

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orders: pancakes, with butter on top, side order

of sausages, and cheese- omelet. And vaguely

explains: Its my food!

It has a certain meaning for her!

Later on, I learn what it really means

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 as

an explanation:

Its really hard for her to cut these into little

pieces!

Yeah-I cant cut them myself. Pam 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 little

bursts of surprise--they tilt her head to the left-

like she is

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made both curious, and frightened by them.

I know, I have seen this tilt before-over and over

again-its the silent language of the kids I worked

with years ago. Back then, itd felt like being

under a tree whose leaves fell like flowers aroundyou . Their gestures were like little presents,

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.

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Pam 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 mightdisappear into the traffic!

Ok, darling. Says my friend and gets out of

the booth so Pamela 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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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 Pam.

I agree!! I hush my voice.

She moves and Pamela slides back in.

I saw two bikes!

Pam loves bikes! My friend explains, with

fondness. I think she understands there is

something interesting and, infrequent about

Pam, 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.

Street bikes, not off road. I saw a Honda

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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 theuneaten 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.

Pam 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-age

ahead. I think to myself. Theres really no

reason to alarm anyone!

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I put my sunglasses on, they make me

feel different. Its a lot like putting a curtain

up. The opposite of opening your arms.

Pamela 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.

You always wonder if anyone else hears this

quick knock?!

Later on I think: there is something keener in

Pam though-something subterranean like a root,

something that sends my books to their shelves

and senses the world with an invisible wealth.

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

my long-gone Terrier, some perfume in the air

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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. Pam waves her hand, and

smiles while looking ahead, I know she is

thinking of tomorrow, and of waters, waters.

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Chapter Three: In The Box.

It wasnt easy to fall sleep that night. And once

sleep the dreams were intractable, impossible to

budge. I seem to go in and- out of doors,

through pure territories that are joined by some

sovereign intelligence, something unknowable,

and unfailing..

There are events that have existed, forming

events that must form. I can see the source of mydestiny I think! But its a feeling more than

thoughts.

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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 light

as a breach, as a finger down

their throats. They range from stray

dogs, to mad men and women, who think

knives can be wielded against anyone in the

absence of light, though they naturally cant run

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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 that

opens at 4:30 AM. Every morning.

The thief was hooded, riding a dirt bike. The

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 nodded, my head

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really to the gun, he was a thinly smallish fellow.

Wasting slowly away from crack. But they must

have designed the semi-automatic to stir sharp

irritable fear. It had a crocodile face, a twistedshiny serpent. And had he really polished the

thing? In the downs darkness, this 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 as the man-boy

waved it around in the dark warm air.

Once we were upstairs in my apartment, he

swiftly picked up anything small enough to fit in

his bottomless pockets. Pens, wallet, keys,

lighter, cell-phone, etc.

On the way out 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.

The second time I was mugged I was just

running near the park, the man in the car

stopped ahead, walked over, pulled a semi-

automatic

out of his jacket, ordered me against the wall,

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and went through my pockets, not having founda 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 days

promise or its absence on, 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 frozen threads of probability, actualities. That

perhaps unlike me, there are those who like the

absence of light, its feigned retreat.

That this absence of light might be as vital as

unconsciousness, vagueness, impassivity. The

light with its nimble swords, its warrior restless

beds.

It all made me want to mourn for the dogs, the

knife-wielding mad men, and the bandits.

I thought I could understand the dark side of

quantum moves, the moving frozen threads. The

alleged virtues they once fetched, the illusion of

fruition, in-30-


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he absence of that harvest feeling. 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 dead 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 towns, some 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, and railroad tracks crossing in odd

strange places. A large bread factory, machine

shops, more than dozens fast foods, pharmacies,

outlet retails clothes, a spice factory, diners, and

Mexican young girls in skinny jeans and bare

shoulders, searching out of the corner of theirkeenest eye for supped up cars, who ought to

stop for them.


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-31-

The group home was exactly where it was

suppose to be. On a fast four-lane lonely street.

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 smoked. 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 cigarette butts.

Someone ought to sweep this mess once in a

while.

I told one of them. Inhabiting authority roles is

so spontaneous for me.

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

smoke in the lobby. 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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Once inside, the lobby looked empty, large, and

barren. There were the usual calendars from the

art-class. Weeks Activities. Were panted on in

orange in large cardboard letters. There was

nothing written under it. The empty space might

have said: What activities?

And there was a pay phone to the left, and doors

of 3, 4 offices, shut. Only one was open. And I

walked to it, there was a Mexican woman, short

and real 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 Pamela West.

I paused.

Is she expecting you?

Sizing me up and down with curiosity.

Yes.

I decided not to give her anything to help make

up her mind about me. She probably divided

things in good and bad, black or brown. Sugar

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or no sugar. Carne or not.

She picked up the phone, dialed the intercom

and shouted:

Pamela West, you have a visitor in the lobby.

She let the echo of her voice soothe her, authority

like a sip of milkshake.

Shell be right down.

She said generous.

I start circling the lobby, and within seconds of

the call, strange looking women appear,

probably to see whos come for Pamela. There is

this pecking order. They are all mad. I can tell. 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 naked

all over. She cant be much older than 18. And

there is this other woman, she is pretty in a mid-

western way. Dressed in Walmart and what-not.

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

sort of stare that is never evaluating you, but

wants to read your reaction to her. And the

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


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something unlovely reflected back to her!! But

not really expecting it. Just the fear exists in hershell. I make sure I smile approvingly. I have

learned how to do that throughout. The look-

back must always say: confirm, confirm. Or it

creates self-loathing, anger and problems you

can hardly get over.

Pamela 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 o these older obese 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

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standing at attention, she notices them, and start

introducing them like they are her best friends

and curiously servants.

The one holding her cell-phone, has his hairparted in the middle with the currently

fashionable hair gel. He looks like a scrubbed

bear. Everything is a bit cartoonish.

Pamela looks at him and says: can I have the

tinker bell?

The tinker bell? I say trying to me amazed.

See there is a tinker bell on it.

Its a black all-purpose bag with a 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.

She is assuring him of her return!!

Im internally loving every glance, exchange and

gesture. Its like being allowed inside a building,

youve always looked at from the street, through

thick glasses.

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I am inside the box! I unintentionally exclaim.

What box? Pamela asks.

But doesnt wait for an answer, we better get

going, and starts toward the door. The entourage

follows her with her. They have circled her like a

wagon. One of the girls ask:

Where youre going Claire.

She doesnt pause to answer her, In fact the

question is what shes desired, with a probably

repeated answer she yells:

Just out and about. You can tell she is find of

saying this because she repeats it to me in the

car.

They are always asking me where Im going,

and I say out and about. She is fond of this little

tid bit. And lights a cigarette, without askig for

my permission. But Im not particular. And not

anal. Im inside the box, and it feels nice.

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Chapter Four: Ocean unnoticed.

(To Be Continued)


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Documents

Autistic-A Novel. First 4 chapters. By: Hooshang Danesh