Autism

"In my little town..."

-- Simon and Garfunkel, "My Little Town"

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Today, we played the Newark Midland Theatre, a beautiful and dark space east of Columbus. After the first show, we had our usual question and answer, and when I called on a tiny, jittery, brown-haired second-grader in the house-right section, she sputtered a few false starts to her question, finally squeaking out something about how we do what we do.

"And, um--well--oh my gosh--I sorta--oh my gosh, oh my gosh," she stammered, and older students in the front rows giggled. "--well, I made this picture for you..." And so on.

After questions, while the others went backstage to take off microphones, I hopped down and went to the little girl's section to receive the gift, a hand-drawn crayon rendition of a classic scene from melodrama: a black-cloaked figure, center, sneaking towards the lady in the balcony, with stage lights shining down, with an audience looking on. It's actually a fine picture.

As I accepted her gift, the girl freaked, almost into hysterics. A teacher urged her to give me a hug, so I very gingerly patted her back (a twentysomething straight male working around children can take no chances). I thanked her and she blushed. I felt awkward, naturally, so I turned back toward the stage, and her teacher stopped me and whispered in my ear: "She has Asperger syndrome. Thank you."

I thanked the teacher, went backstage, and shared the picture with the cast.

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Asperger's is a form of autism, characterized by "difficulties in social interaction" and "atypical use of language."

I hope that girl grows up to be a fine actress--or, even better, a playwright.

--

Also watched Adventureland this afternoon. It's wonderful. My girlfriend says the main character seemed a lot like me, and I agree. It was almost too good; what I mean is, I almost can't handle some parts of the movie. Kudos, Mr. Rogen.

The music was composed by Yo La Tengo.

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Outside the Midland Theatre is a bench with a sculpture of Mark Twain seated on it, reading a book, arm slung over the back. It was placed there by Hal Holbrook, famed Twain impersonator and (this I did not know) a 2008 Academy Award-nominee for Best Supporting Actor. I don't put too much stock in the Oscars, but I do esteem the ability to jolt literature to life via performance and recitation. The rewards surpass the awards.

Such is a happy man, I imagine.

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I suppose being introverted is its own kind of autism. Maybe it is merely a relative of the disorder, a sort of great-uncle. It precedes autism, fosters it; in a way, the severe introvert sees the world through a narrow tube, a space between books on a shelf. It is hard to admit when the alienation you feel is not exclusion, but exile: You have done it to yourself.

Like the difference between two women, or the span of summer months, the gap is both large and small, as significant as it is meaningless, like the expansion of the universe.

And all the big words, fancy thoughts, poetic revelations and depressing music can't teach you to live life like a happy person.