Exploding Stars and Other Fearsome Things

Jamie: Hi, Donald, it's Jamie. Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?

Donald: I had a very nice Thanksgiving. Very quiet and restful. How about you?

Jamie: I had a very good Thanksgiving except I'm having problems with my sister.

So began an intermittent online chat that has continued for six years with Jamie, the adult autistic son of very old and dear friends of mine. Every few weeks or so Jamie will send me a message on Facebook, often just to say hello or wish me the best for a holiday season.

Jamie: Hey, Donald. Happy New Year!

Donald: All the best to you in the next year. Jamie.

Jamie: Thanks!

I've known Jamie since he was a very young boy. He is now thirty years old but will never grow emotionally or intellectually beyond the confused and fragile state of a young teenager. His life and schedule is as structured as his parents can allow. The TV game shows Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune are an absolute must-see every evening they are aired. If his schedule is changed or interrupted he will fly into uncontrollable bouts of anger and tears. His autism affects his life daily, how he processes information, how he perceives the world around him. He has extreme difficulty dealing with other people. He becomes anxious that he is doing or saying the wrong thing. Jamie can never live on his own. He must always be cared for.

Occasionally Jamie will ask to chat about current events.

Jamie: Hi, Donald.

Donald: Hi, Jamie. How are you?

Jamie: Not good today. I'm depressed.

Donald: Oh, no! Why?

Jamie: Whitney Houston went kaput.

Donald: That is very sad.

Jamie: Yeah. I was crying like crazy

Donald: Well, we still have her music, right? That means she'll never really die.

Jamie: Yeah! I never thought of that! Thanks!

And so our chats continued, tiny conversations scattered over the months and years that often brightened my day and my outlook on life.

One evening I received this message;

Jamie: Hey, Donald. Do you think North Korea is really gonna hurt our beloved country?

Donald: I don't think that will happen, Jamie. It's all a lot of bluster between military powers. I think we'll be fine.

Jamie: Okay. I'm sorry. I get scared so easily.

Donald: It's fine, really. These are scary times for all of us.

Jamie: Thanks, Donald!

I immediately messaged his mother, letting her know that Jamie seemed to be unduly worried about events he could neither control nor fully understand. She told me he had been watching the news and reading articles online and was becoming increasingly frightened by world events. I asked her how I could best handle his questions, if more were asked. She reminded me that he is really just a child in many ways and should be treated gently and calmly.

Jamie: Do you suppose Obamacare will still be around?

Donald: I hope something like it gets passed. To many people depend on it.

Jamie: Yeah. I hope so, too.

I now found myself to be an online conduit for my confused and frightened friend.

Jamie: Hey, Donald. Is it true that the stars up in the sky will actually explode in 2022?

Donald: My goodness, Jamie. Where ever did you hear that?

Jamie: YouTube.

Donald: I think the stars a gonna be around for a very long time, Jaime.

Jamie: I guess YouTube videos were making these things up.

I looked it up myself and discovered that two stars were, indeed, predicted to explode in 2022 but with no more consequence to us than a momentary flash of light in the sky. I told Jaime what I learned.

Jamie: Maybe bright enough for us to see something in the dark?

Donald: Yup, but it will not be the end of the world.

Jaime: I had a feeling you would say that. Thanks, Donald! I guess the end of the world is only a legend and a myth.

Donald: I hope so. I kinda like this old world.

Jamie: Me, too.

Except for a few more short greetings from Jamie the above is the most recent chat we've had.

I hope I'm serving this man well. I hope I'm allaying his fears a little bit. I hope, more than anything, that my words are true, that North Korea will not blast us off the face of the planet, that medical care in America will remain a constant. I hope Whitney Houston's music is forever played. I hope the exploding stars will give us a light show to remember.

I hope Jamie lives a long and happy life, full of music and game shows.

When I moved to Ohio back in 1994 I joined a bowling league at Lakewood Lanes on Detroit Avenue. Being new to the area I was placed on a team by the president of the league.

I met my new team mates the first night of the season. Lazlo was an Hungarian immigrant, a jolly sort of man who seemed to love nothing more than diet Coke and the sound of a good solid strike. When a nearby bowler left a five pin standing after the first roll he'd shout out, laughter tinging his thick accent, "Nobody meeses de five peen!" Of course, if the bowler did miss it he was subject to even more playful ribbing. The other two members of the team were a married couple, Heinz and Olga. Olga was a loud and somewhat caustic American with an almost pre-adolescent sense of humor. If a score of 69 was visible on any sheet she'd go into gales of cackling laughter, calling out in braying tones that "69 is my favorite number!" The joke was marginally funny on first hearing, considerably annoying after the twentieth. Olga's husband was a German transplant to America. He was quieter and more subdued than Lazlo and Olga, chuckling softly at the antics around him. He was also the better bowler than any of his team mates, carrying an impressive 215 average throughout the season.

I liked Heinz. His sober intelligence and dignified bearing drew me to him. We often found ourselves in conversations more suited to a quiet bar than a loud bowling alley. He told me he came to America from Germany when he was a young man with his first wife and infant son. He was a carpenter by trade and, according to Olga, was quite a skilled craftsman. When I mentioned my father's hobby as a furniture maker his eyes lit up and we talked about the beauty of a well made chair or table. "Dere is nothing better than creating a lovely object from raw wood." he said.

One night, very near the end of the season, we were talking about money, my lack of it, to be concise. I wasn't really complaining, just pointing out how hard it is to live on a meager salary. He drew himself up and looked me square in the eye. He said with a frown, "It's the Jews, you know." His accent made the word sound like "juice". I was startled by the pronouncement. "What do you mean by that?" I asked. He went on to elaborate, telling me that the Jews controlled all the money in America, that good and decent white people had no chance to thrive while the Jews were in charge. He must have noticed my discomfort at his words. He dropped his gaze and said, "Maybe this is not a good place to talk of these things." I shifted in my seat and said, "Heinz, I don't think there is any good place to talk of these things." He looked at me. "I see." he said. I drifted away from him. We spoke no more words together that night. We spoke no more words together the rest of the season.

Heinz disappointed me. He carried in his heart a hatred and fear that was foreign to me, a prejudice I found repugnant. The next season I asked to be transferred to another team. Heinz and I greeted one another politely each evening but we never spoke at length again.

I Forgotted My Wallet

There's a young man who rides the same bus I do every morning. He is mildly handicapped, a condition that exhibits itself in a series of facial ticks and a seeming inability to remain still for any length of time. I watch him as he paces up and down the length of the bus station, arms windmilling, mouth grimacing, all the while keening a shapeless tune in the piping voice of a child. He is a large, well muscled boy. He would appear threatening if he were not so obviously as harmless as a puppy. He owns a bicycle that he hoists to the holder at the front of the bus, tugging at the handle bars several times to make sure it's secure before he finally boards.

This morning I and my fellow riders had all taken our seats before he climbed aboard. I opened my book. Others fired up their cell phones or snapped open the morning paper. The young man stood before the driver, a nervous smile on his face. "I forgotted my wallet." he said. The driver peered at him. "So, you don't have any money?" The young man shuffled his feet nervously. "No, no money." he said. The driver waved a dismissive hand. "I can't let you ride if you can't pay the fare." The boy's smile faded and he backed off the bus. I was watching closely by this time and I could see his hands shaking as he began lifting his bike off the carrier. I looked around at the other passengers. Most were ignoring the situation, heads down, involved in their own reading or texting. One woman glanced my way and rolled her eyes so hard I'm surprised her neck didn't snap.

I got to my feet and strode to the front of the bus. "I'll pay for him." I said. The driver smirked and said, "He forgotted his wallet." I shoved five singles and two quarters into the machine and glared at him. "He deserves more consideration than you're giving him." I called to the young man. "Come on in. I'm buying you an all day pass." The boy fairly bounced back onto the bus. "Thank you!" he shouted.

I returned to my seat, keeping my open book in my lap. I was angry and sad; angry at the uncaring attitude of my fellow passengers, sad that this boy was merely a shadowy annoyance to a good part of the world.

At least today, I hope, the young man felt the tiniest bit of kindness.

Sally

When Jane was eight I bought her a hamster. She named it Sally. The little ball of fur had a cage with two levels, more tubes to crawl through than you'd find at Chuck-E-Cheese and, of course, the ubiquitous running wheel. Sally ate well and was well cared for and Jane loved her.

As is the case in all mortal life, be it human or rodent, Sally finally met her demise one cloudy September morning. Jane was not with me that day and I wrapped the stiffening little body in a soft cloth and placed it in a Disney gift box. I called Carrie and told her the news, which she relayed to Jane after picking her up from school. I called my ex-wife's live-in boyfriend and he agreed to dig a grave in the backyard.

I drove the short distance to the house with Sally resting on the passenger seat. Jane was in tears but smiled a little when she saw the colorful princess illustrated box. I handed the make-shift coffin to my daughter and she held it carefully as we moved to the freshly dug hole. Jane knelt and, with as much care and tenderness as the most seasoned mourner, she lay her furry friend in the ground. I suggested she may want to cover the box with earth herself. She nodded, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and picked up the shovel. She tossed one pile of dirt over the box, then another and then one more. She rose to her feet and fixed us with a glare of frustration. She jabbed the point of the shovel into the dirt and exclaimed, "Well, isn't anyone going to help me?!"

I knew then, as I finished covering the box with earth, that our daughter was going to be just fine.