Auto-ism

by Charles C. Cole

One night Sienna, my former flame, came looking for relationship advice, or so I thought. We’d dated in high school. Then she was accepted for college, and I was diagnosed with autism. Or I was diagnosed with autism, and then she was accepted to college. Either way, somewhere in there we broke up, amicably. Roughly four years later, she had her bachelor’s degree in education from the University of Maine at Farmington. She was recently engaged to some out-of-state guy with a degree in Phys. Ed.

When it comes to autism, let’s be clear, there are all kinds, I know. I was lucky. I was very high on the spectrum, as they say. I did way better on oral tests over written tests, took absolutely everything literally (allergic to jokes or sarcasm), was skinny as a stick figure (because only certain fried foods tasted right), was quick to snap (improving) and had a self-conscious case of hypotonia (see “skinny as a stick”), resisted haircuts.

I still lived at home. My parents let me play videogames into the wee hours, which is where I met my Internet friends. I dabbled in online art classes and I did occasional yardwork for “Uncle Ruin” (not a real uncle, just a friend of Father’s). I didn’t possess a single official life-goal, just took one day at a time, which was okay most days.

I hadn’t told my parents Sienna was stopping by, so they were a bit shocked. Mother, with tears in her eyes, met Sienna at the door. She took both Sienna’s hands and just smiled until I’m sure her cheeks ached. Sienna had been my first and only girlfriend. Truth be told, she had started out as my tutor. Mother was sad we’d never married. Sometimes I was sad, and sometimes I was simply relieved that I didn’t need to grow up yet, like so many of my class had already done.

“Mother,” I said, “Sienna’s engaged. She’s here to say goodbye to the past, not to rekindle an old flame.”

“Engaged? You’re all grown up,” said Mother. “And so beautiful! I hope he knows how lucky he is.”

Sienna beamed, the kind that always lit up a room. “I remind him every day.”

“Sounds familiar,” I said. She stuck her tongue out at me, quickly like a lizard.

Mother swept through the kitchen for snacks for “her kids.” My bedroom window led onto the roof of the attached garage. We grabbed an electric hurricane lamp and climbed out with a family-size bag of chips and a communal 2-liter bottle of soda. The neighborhood, a small cul-de-sac, was downright quiet. Most of the kids had grown up and moved on. We were the last house. Sienna and I sat facing the woods, toward the Big Dipper, like so many nights before when we’d had serious talks about life.

“Sorry I don’t have alcohol,” I said. “My parents probably think I’d forget where I was and walk off the roof.”

Sienna peeked back in the house, through my open bedroom window. “Nothing’s changed. Your room looks exactly the same.”

“There’s probably an unfinished pint of rum from prom night behind a book on the top shelf, with your fingerprints on it as I remember.”

She ignored the comment. “You haven’t changed.”

“Don’t tell my parents. They’ve been sending me to a nutritionist and a therapist.”

“I didn’t mean you haven’t mellowed. Anyone can see that.”

“The summer you left, I put my hand through a window. I was just frustrated about something. I can’t even remember now. That hasn’t happened again.”

“Which hand? Can I see it?”

“Absolutely not. No touching. I am not about to get confused. Unless you stopped by to say farewell physically.”

She clucked. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m a one-man woman.”

“I remember,” I said.

Sienna blushed.

“You look like an adult,” I said. “I wish I had kids so I could send them to your class.”

“I won’t be teaching in town,” she explained.

“Don’t tell Mother,” I said. “By the way, Father thinks you’ve stopped by because you’re conflicted, maybe to make a huge announcement. Hint. Hint.”

“He’s half-right,” she said.

“I’m intrigued,” I responded. “Wait! Don’t throw your life away by reliving the past! I’m not worth it.”

“You’ve no idea what I’m going to say.”

“That’s true.”

“My father died when we were in junior high, and there’s no way I’m letting my uncle or my stepfather walk me down the aisle. They’d both probably be drunk before the rings were exchanged. I want my best friend to give me away.”

“But aren’t you marrying your best friend?” I asked, sincerely. “Isn’t that what a husband is?”

“My first best friend,” Sienna said. “You.” She grabbed my hand.

“Awkward,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because we still have feelings for each other.”

“But they’ve matured. And in honor of those feelings,” she continued, “I think you’re the best man for the job.”

I considered. “I’d be in the ceremony?” I asked.

“A crucial part.”

“And if anything happened to your fiancé, would I be, like, the understudy?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “If he chickens out, I’m back on the market.”

I sighed and took a long swig from the bottle of soda, buying time to think of some way to thank her for this huge opportunity, without turning into mush. “Pretty cool,” I said at last, suppressing a belch. “I get to dress up nice for the single ladies, kiss you in front of everyone, but I can still come home to my parents afterward. The best of both worlds.”

“Exactly,” she said.

“I’m in. I’ll do it.”

And, if I must say so myself, I didn’t do half-bad. The happy couple is still going strong, with a first baby newly arrived. I get to visit, to “play” adult around an infant for a couple hours, and then come home to my parents’ afterward. The best of both worlds.

I’m the luckiest guy I know.