The energy radiating off Thomas is intense. In fact, the atmosphere is practically vibrating with it. “Let me grab my phone and check my schedule.”
I watch as he strides across the room. I realize there’s no way I can act normal around him for the amount of time we’re going to have to spend together. I should tell him I’ve changed my mind, but I don’t. Thomas dressed as a cowboy is something I now need to see before I die, and this is my opportunity.
Four sessions mean that Thomas and I will spend a minimum of sixteen hours together. Almost a thousand minutes with him dressed up as every woman’s fantasy. Nearly sixty thousand seconds of me trying not to run my fingers through his soft hair. It’s going to be excruciating, and yet, I can’t wait.
Once he leaves, I hurriedly tidy the space up before going home. The important plans I used as an excuse for not starting his revenge plan consist of ordering Chinese food and organizing my sock drawer. I do this according to color and texture.
I buy these buttery soft packs of socks from the nearby warehouse store by the dozens. I’ve discovered that if I wash them in warm water and use fabric softener, they’ll stay supremely soft for fourteen washes. After that, they’re just nicely soft. At twenty-four washes, they’re just boring old socks, and I donate them to a shelter. Tonight is the big night when several pairs will be coming out of their twenty-fourth drying cycle, which means new socks for me!
I’m sure most people would think this is outrageous, which is why I don’t talk about it publicly.
Even though I feel pretty secure about who I currently am, I’ve still spent my life feeling like everyone but me got a “how to”manual when they arrived on the planet. I imagine it explains how to do everything from getting dressed in the morning to comporting yourself in all manner of situations. Being that I am without such a coveted tome, I’ve had to watch how everyone else acts. That way I can mimic them, and no one will know I arrived without an instruction book.
“Normal” people do a lot of stuff that doesn’t make sense to me. Yet, with so many of them behaving the same way, there must have been entire chapters explaining the minutia of being human. For instance, why can’t women put on mascara without opening their mouths? In every locker room, public bathroom, and dorm room I’ve ever been in, hordes of woman paint their eyelashes with their mouths wide open like they’re hoping to catch flies.
Most people yawn with their eyes closed. I do not. I yawn with my eyes open, which I understand makes me look like a ravenous lion about to devour anyone in my path. Instinctual behavior that is inherent to most is not to me. But I want to fit in, so I copy them.
Conversely, I’m also compelled to complete rituals that don’t seem to be part of everyone else’s wheelhouse. When I turn on lights, I tap the switch three times. Five times when I turn them off. I don’t just close a door, I have to yank on it to make sure it’s firmly shut. Three times. I count stairs ascending and descending, even if they’re the same steps I went up yesterday or the day before. I know what the number is going to be but I can’t accept it unless I verify it every time. Plus, if I count them, it stops me from worrying about falling up (or down) them.
I don’t like my foods to touch each other on my plate. I start at the twelve o’clock position and work my way clockwise around the food servings. I’m okay when the ingredients are mixed together in a soup or casserole, but if the elements are servedseparately, like meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and peas, those peas had better not start rolling out of their territory.
My mom tells me the food one is normal, and that a lot of people have it, but I’ve not witnessed that. The truth is, I think my mom has a touch of the ‘tism herself. Not that she’d ever go through the steps to be diagnosed at this point in her life. She’s carved out her place and seems pretty happy with it.
Once my kung pao shrimp is ordered, I go to my front closet and retrieve the box of socks I have at the ready. Some people prep for the end of the world by stockpiling rice and dried beans. Not me; I buy socks. I don’t fear starvation as much as I fear unhappy feet.
I carry the box to the couch before sitting down to perform one of my most favorite tasks. I pick up the pack of dark grays and blacks first. As I caress the silky fibers, my entire body unclenches and releases stress I didn’t consciously know I was carrying. I like the dark ones just fine, but for some reason, I think the cream-colored socks are softer. I spend even more time petting those.
Several minutes later, I move onto the baby pink socks. They are the softest and bring me the most joy. Which is why I save them for last. Always end things on a high note, am I right?
You might be wondering why I don’t just buy pink and not bother with secondary colors, but even I know I can’t wear pink with everything. For instance, what if I wear a bright orange sweater—not that I ever would because I don’t like bright orange. But if I did, the cream-colored socks would be a better combination. When I wear black clothes, I like to match them with black socks. Also, there’s something about knowing that all my socks aren’t the softest that makes the pink days even more prized. It’s the anticipation of it all.
When the buzzer rings, alerting me that my supper has arrived, I hurry to reorganize the box of spare socks and returnthem to the front closet. Then I open the door and wait for my food.
As Flip, the delivery boy, walks up the stairs, he smiles and waves. “Kung pao again?”
“Kung pao always,” I assure him. I’m sure he’s not surprised when I ask, “Three fortune cookies?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t pack the bag.”
After handing him a five-dollar tip, I open the brown paper sack in front of him and look inside. Shoot, there are four cookies, not three. I know they do this because I’m a regular customer and they’re trying to make me happy. They don’t understand that four cookies makes me anxious.
“How many?” Flip asks.
“Four,” I grumble.
He knows the drill. When I stretch the bag out to him, he pulls one out and takes it back. He’s learned to never open it in front of me though because I can’t remain calm if I’ve given away a good fortune. Not that fortune cookies ever have bad news, but what if he took the best one?
Once he has his cookie, Flip tells me, “Have a good night, Finley.”
“You, too,” I reply before shutting the door and pulling at the handle three times.
Being autistic may sound like a lot of work, but luckily at this point in my journey, most of my compulsions are automatic. It’s when a new impulse hits me that it can be overwhelming. Happily, it’s been a while since I’ve felt the need to add additional stuff to my routine, which makes me hopeful I might be past that little segue into neurodivergence.
For some reason, the silkiness of Thomas’s hair springs to mind, and I start to worry that touching it will become a new compulsion. I try to think about something else, so I don’tmanifest this. Blue cheese … butterflies … lemon scented floor wax … tacos … Thomas’s hair … Thomas’s hair … Thomas’s hair.
Uh-oh.
This wouldn’t be such a big deal if I knew I wasn’t going to see him again. I’m not so far gone that I’d stalk him just to touch his hair. But I am going to have to see him a minimum of four more times—probably more so he can pick up his prints when we’re all done.
