Obcordate

 

“Do waiters have to be patient”?

James is at the Job Centre and his ‘Back to Work’ interview with Mrs. Spicer is not going well.

“What, exactly are they waiting for? – is table no. 3 taking too long to order”?

Mrs. Spicer is, seriously, thinking about putting in for early retirement, she has just had her 42nd birthday.

“Will there be lots of noise in the restaurant and kitchen, usually there is too much noise in restaurants and kitchens and people will be talking won’t they?”

“OK”, she offers, “If restaurants are out of the question – what about Gardening,  Parks and Leisure industries?”

James holds up his hands and stares at his fingers. He moves and stretches each finger like a dancer limbering up. The palms of both hands are face up now and he is determined to make the tips of two of the fingers on each hand touch. All those lines and movements are his hands. Now he takes the soft pad of each index finger and watches it intently.

Eventually after what seems like eons, he lifts his face to hers. “I don’t like leisure Mrs. Spicer – I don’t think there is a job for someone like me”.

“Well you would be working James – you wouldn’t have to do the leisure bit” she replies with great patience.

He suddenly jolts up out of the chair and excitedly exclaims and explains something in a loud voice, seemingly to everyone in the Job Centre.

The security guard shuffles slightly (him and Mrs. Spicer do an eye contact thing which confirms that she is OK with the Excitable Young Client)

“I could work in a nice garden. I used to collect leaves!”.  He Shouts

Mrs. Spicer asks him to sit down and talk some more about his leaf collection.

I had 4,876 at one point – but Dad asked me to take them out of my bedroom because they began to smell.

I collected several obcordate leaves. They are the same shape as a heart you see Mrs. Spicer. I loved those leaves and now they have gone gone gone gone”. James is slightly rocking now in his chair as he mourns the loss of his leaf collection.

“Maybe not gardening” gently suggests Mrs. Spicer.

She left home this morning and took her autistic son to school. Robert is 6 years old and it took him seven minutes to cut ten pieces of jam sandwich into a perfectly formed tiny cubes. Just this morning, she watched him run across the playground into his classroom. She is allowed to kiss him, firmly, on his head and she does so because it gives her great pleasure. She thinks that it also gives her son pleasure because if she forgets to kiss him. He stands still, cocks his head and looks to the sky. He will stand like this for several minutes before she realises she has forgotten to kiss him on the head.

This morning she felt a wave of panic and terror sweep over her. She was thinking of him in the future trying to survive in a world of world and even more world. And his being so different.

She knows James Dawson, siting in front of her, has Asperger Syndrome. She knows because she read his application form and her colleague Maureen had said

“your 9.30am appointment has Ass something or another”

Mrs. Spicer knows all about ‘Ass something or another’  – Which is why, she too, watched him – watch his hands – watch his watch – watch her back – watching him – watch his hands  before coming back to the dialogue.

James is quite impressed. with Mrs. Spicer. 

Not many people allow him time to think about everything he needs to say and think about. 

And if his needs are neglected he could combust like a big fat toad full of porridge and the legs of the toad will shoot across the galaxy with an almighty bang and the world will come to and end just like that while people are watching the TV with Noel Edmunds and the sausages which are cooking under the grill will burn and spit and then the fire engine will come. And then the fire engines might not be able to save the toad because the fire people are out on strike (well, technically, inside outside on strike)

That’s what can happen if James is interrupted from thinking about his heart shaped leaves.

“I could do your job!’ he suddenly declares, beaming with enthusiasm.

They laugh. They laugh together. They both laugh. Together at the same time.

“Yes James” she hoots  “ You could do my job”

He is a 19 year old man and he cocks his head and his dreamy pool eyes are wide open. They are directed at the invisible cobweb tucked up in the Job Centre ceiling. It is invisible but James can see it.

They sigh. They sigh together. They loth sigh. Together at the same time.

James leaves the Job Centre excitedly promising to work on his application as the:

Lead Space Director General of NASA in charge of the sub engines, risk and assessment and technical overseeing…  “just in case a job like that comes up!”

“And if it does”  mumbles Mrs. Spicer to the cobweb  “ If you don’t get it – maybe, one day Robert will.

Quatrefoil

FlatI have reservations about staying in hotels.

I am hiding  in this hotel room, but not successfully. Gary has just phoned to say he wants the article by tomorrow morning.  Gary has emailed four times to say he wants the article by tomorrow morning.  Gary doesn’t need the article tomorrow morning and three other reporters are covering the story.  He will pick one of us seconds before the deadline and he will pick the deadline. He will pick one of us like he picks his nose before wiping his hand in the crotch of his trousers. I have watched him, many times, shake hands with some unsuspecting quarry.

I have written the article and each time he wants me to change it. It is not good enough for him, which means it is not bad enough. The disposability is not tangible and people will read it for too many seconds. They may even read it twice. They may even think about it.

It is about a Woman who stole cosmetics from a supermarket. Gary obtained the full list of items by using the ‘Freedom of Information’ act.

A purple plum lipstick, An eyebrow pencil and a Foundation –  ‘Beige Shimmer’.  She also stole, it seems, an item from the Woman’s Fashion aisle –  knickers from the ‘Special’ range. And that was, probably, why the supermarket was so keen to press charges.

She ran apparently.

She ran through the car park, through the petrol station, through the car wash and up the dual carriage way for a couple of hundred metres. It is reported that she then disappeared either by clambering over the hedgerow or by having an accomplice driving past at some established time.

Gary is on the phone, again,  ranting and spitting bile down the receiver. “Your article is to be called  – Not even a ‘Tranny’ would wear them!,”  he orders  “Stop writing all this crap about his Gender Reassignment”.  I point out that I wrote about her Gender Reassignment and that I don’t want to write the slang ‘Tranny’. I also tell him that none of that is, even, relevant to the story.

“If you want this job Joe” he snarls, “write the article and highlight that he complained about the quality of the knickers in the courtroom”.

I tell Gary that I don’t want the job.

I lie back on the bed and study the cobweb in the corner of the room. I smile and sigh as I remember my childhood running through fields chasing dandelion clocks.

She was right, the quality of the fabric is of net curtains and it feels cheap next to my skin.

Parisian Silk knickers are better.