I could. My primary-school teacher assessing our handwriting by lining us up randomly and then making comparisons. After each comparison, I would move down, until I reached my inevitable position at the ‘worst’ end. I wasn’t ashamed of my writing. I never complained about the assessment approach, which was doubtless convenient and accurate.
But it was annoying. Like being ‘accidentally’ bumped when I was carrying books or having my pencil case emptied or my exercise book scribbled on or my lunch interfered with or my style of speaking mimicked or my gait imitated or my attempts to hit a ball laughed at or being referred to by my nickname or being the target of a teacher’s wit. An accumulation of reminders that I wasn’t average and didn’t fit in.
‘No example required,’ I said.
‘Don? It’s Neil Warren, Hudson’s teacher.’
‘Is there a problem?’ My immediate thought was that Hudson had failed to bring a critical item for the snow excursion. The school had provided a packing list, but there had been some debate between Hudson and Rosie about its interpretation. Hudson had emptied his drawers into four large bags, which Rosie had reduced to one. Perhaps she had mistakenly discarded something.
‘I’m afraid so. Hudson’s had a bit of a meltdown.’
It took me a few seconds to interpret Mr Warren’s statement, as the use of the term meltdown in the context of snow created a distracting image.
‘He wasn’t happy with the ski boots…Look, he’s okay now, but he won’t be skiing, and we don’t have the resources to look after him if he’s not with the group. I’m afraid someone’s going to have to come and collect him.’
I was already on my way to the car.
4
The GPS indicated a drive of three hours and eighteen minutes to the mountain resort. I texted Rosie to explain the situation: Hudson crisis. Gone to snow.
In the absence of detailed information, there was little I could do to plan my response. Hudson’s teacher could be using the term meltdown to describe anything from anger at an unreasonable rule to the near-complete loss of control that I had suffered sometimes as a child and less frequently as I grew older—only once in the thirteen years, four months and three days since I had met Rosie. Hudson had himself experienced some episodes of this type at home—several in the last few months—but they had been resolved with the time-out protocol.
I guessed that my job would be to reassure Mr Warren that a repeat was unlikely in the short term, assuming the triggering circumstances had been resolved. I recalled that he was about my own age. As a result of a habit I was finding difficult to break, I had also estimated body mass index: twenty-five. I could not picture his face. He had seemed friendly at the parent–teacher night, but I knew from experience that parents’ superficial judgements of teachers are frequently inaccurate.
After negotiating the winding road to the resort, I parked in an ‘emergencies only’ car space, unfortunately failing to notice a bollard obscured by snow. The damage to the front of Phil’s Porsche was only cosmetic. We had the car on ‘permanent loan’, as Rosie’s father had realised that it was more sensible to buy a new Toyota than drive and maintain an old vehicle whose design appeared not to be based on any practical requirements. I texted Professor Lawrence to advise her that I would not be able to attend the afternoon’s hearing, due to a family emergency.
There were multiple voicemails and texts from Rosie, but a single three-part message would have been sufficient: What the fuck is going on? Is Hudson all right? Call me NOW.
Rosie wanted the information that I was being prevented from finding out due to being on the phone to her. I explained this.
‘Are you sure you don’t need me to come up?’ she said.
In conversation, it is impolite to say, ‘Refer previous answer,’ so I repeated, ‘I need to assess the situation first.’
‘You should have called me. You’re not missing anything important? Oh shit, shit, shit.’
‘The disciplinary-committee meeting has been deferred. I’ll call when I have more information on the Hudson problem.’
An employee of the ski school directed me to Hudson, who was sitting on a bench reading The Martian. I was unable to detect any distress. Beside him was a thin white-haired girl of approximately the same age whom I assessed as albino. She was wearing sunglasses and eating a Snickers bar.
‘What happened?’ I asked Hudson.
‘I have to go home. She does too.’ He indicated his companion, who removed the earbuds she had been wearing.
‘She also found the boots unsatisfactory?’
The girl answered the question herself. ‘I’m vision-impaired.’ Albinism is associated with sensitivity to light and compromised eyesight.
Hudson added, ‘When Mr Warren found out, he checked her permission form and it wasn’t on it, so she couldn’t legally ski.’
‘I’m new,’ said the girl. ‘I came to meet everyone. Now I’ve got to go home.’
‘Have to go home,’ said Hudson. My father did not approve of Hudson’s use of gotta. Hudson had corrected the problem and had been sharing the advice with others.
‘They haven’t been able to call my parents because my dad’s in Thailand and my mum’s not in the shop. The masseuse minds it when my mum has to go out for something. My name’s Blanche, by the way.’
It was an easy name to remember.
‘Your mother’s mobile phone is not responding?’
‘She doesn’t have one. Because of cancer. Neither does my dad.’
I was trying to work out what forms of cancer might prevent use of a phone—throat, larynx, possibly brain—and how likely it was that two members of a family had such forms, when Blanche explained. ‘She doesn’t have cancer, but she doesn’t want to get it. From the microwaves.’
‘Can we give her a ride—lift?’ asked Hudson. ‘We’ll need to get permission, because on the form there’s a question about…’
My brain was in danger of becoming overloaded before I had any information relevant to the primary problem. I drew my finger along my lips: the zip it signal. In communication with Hudson it meant suspend talking to receive important input.
‘I need to know the exact nature of the problem.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I have to go home, that’s all.’
‘Mr Warren indicated that there was a problem with boots. If you explain it to me, possibly we can solve it.’
Hudson sat silently, a familiar indication that he wanted to sit silently. An interrogation would be unproductive. However, he was generally willing to argue.
‘I presume there was some error on your part.’
‘No way, Dad. I didn’t do anything. It was their job to have boots that fitted.’
‘Surely they would be equipped for all foot sizes within the normal range.’
Hudson explained that several sizes had been tried, but all were either painfully tight or too loose to enable control of the skis.
The ski-hire assistant had proposed alternative brands, along with supplementary socks and inserts, without significant improvement. The manager had been summoned and explained the necessity of a tight fit. Hudson had not been convinced.
Blanche interrupted. ‘Everybody was putting it on Hudson,’ she said, ‘because they all had their boots and wanted to get skiing.’ It was easy to deduce the missing elements of the story, which Hudson might not want to reveal, due to embarrassment. I knew already that it had ended in a meltdown.
Hudson had a high sensitivity to pain and disliked many forms of physical contact, particularly if they were out of his control. I had the same problem as a child and was regularly mocked as a ‘sissy’. I would likely have had a similar reaction to having another person tightening straps and closing buckles on unfamiliar rigid boots, especially under time pressure.
I tried to imagine myself in Hudson’s current position. I would want to return home, immediately, as he apparently did. My own father would have taken me back to the ski shop, persisted with
the boots and eventually become angry that I was ‘being a sook’. I needed to do better.
The ski school would surely have dealt with this situation before. I found the employee who had been overseeing Hudson and Blanche and explained the problem.
‘Talk to Lucy,’ she said. ‘I promise she will have a… solution.’
We waited at the designated location and Lucy appeared, travelling by snowboard. I guessed her age and BMI as twenty-two. She looked more like a science student than a ski instructor.
She addressed Hudson. ‘I hear we don’t like ski boots.’
‘I don’t like them. Every pair I tried hurt somewhere.’
‘Right. You and me both. You okay with falling in the snow?’ Lucy demonstrated by falling in the snow, firmly. ‘Go on.’
Hudson stood still, but Blanche threw herself into the soft snow, then stood up again, laughing. I guessed Hudson felt pressured to conform. He collapsed, slowly, then performed the action twice more, each time with greater force. Blanche followed, harder again, and Hudson responded by crashing into the snow with what appeared to be maximum effort. Competition had stimulated behaviour that would otherwise be considered ridiculous.
‘That’s as much as it’s going to hurt,’ said Lucy. ‘So, ready to go snowboarding?’
‘I’ve got a vision problem,’ said Blanche.
‘Am I black or white?’ said Lucy.
Blanche laughed. ‘White.’
‘Good to go, then.’ She looked at me and said, ‘And your dad won’t have a problem either.’
I explained that I was not Blanche’s father and that the lesson was only for Hudson. Lucy explained, in turn, that the tuition price was the same. The snowboard and boots would be covered by the credit for the unused skis. ‘And you can come too, if you want.’
‘I have no requirement to be able to use a snowboard,’ I said.
‘I’m thinking about the kids. Everyone’s a bit uncoordinated at first, and if they see you falling about…’
‘I’m recovering from an operation on my hamstring tendon. It would be unwise to stress it.’
She nodded. ‘Okay, then. And you won’t look silly in front of the kids.’ She laughed, but I sensed that I had been criticised.
‘We could be sued if Blanche crashes and dies,’ said Hudson. ‘We don’t have a permission form.’
Hudson was probably right. Blanche’s mother was apparently irrational and might initiate litigation because I had exposed her daughter to radio waves or gluten or the chemicals in sunscreen, which it was obviously essential that she wear. But at that point the original ski-school employee appeared and advised that Blanche’s mother was on the landline.
Blanche explained the situation, then thrust the receiver at me.
‘Hello,’ said Blanche’s mother. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.’
‘No apology required. We haven’t met. I wouldn’t expect you to know my name.’
She left a long pause before saying, ‘I’m Allannah. I can’t believe I missed the disability question on the form. Sorry, I should be thanking you. You’re being so kind.’
‘I’m doing zero. Which should be reassuring to you. I’ve outsourced the problem to a professional. Her name is Lucy. Ski instructing is a highly competitive profession, so unless she obtained the job in some corrupt manner, she should be competent. However, I require you to absolve me of all liability if Blanche is injured or killed, whether or not I am partially or completely responsible.’
‘Um, you’re just being technical, right? You’re not planning anything?’
‘Correct.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t really know the teachers either, so I guess it’s no difference. Sorry, I’m sounding rude.’
‘Definitely not.’ She was sounding rational, which was a surprise.
‘I hate to ask this, but would you be able to bring Blanche back with you too? We’re just in Thornbury.’
‘I have a better solution. If I outsource the day activities to Lucy, she can return Hudson and Blanche to the teacher in the evenings. They will be able to participate in the non-skiing activities and Blanche will achieve her familiarisation goal.’
I could have added, ‘And Hudson will not be embarrassed by having to return home,’ but he and Blanche were listening.
‘Are you serious? You’ll organise all that for Blanche?’
‘There’s minimal incremental effort.’
‘What can I say? Thank you so much. I’m so sorry…’
‘Apology not required. Blanche will provide companionship for Hudson.’
‘Well, thank you again. You’re a good person. But can you make sure she doesn’t eat any sugar?’
Complications arose. Rosie was impressed with my solution, but insisted I stay for the handover to Mr Warren. ‘He may not be as excited as you are.’
Rosie was right, although he was initially friendly.
‘Call me Neil. Actually, you can call me Rabbit. I used to play a bit of cricket and the name’s stuck. Just don’t say it in front of the kids. Listen, I really appreciate you driving all this way, and taking Blanche home as well. I was up to my arse in alligators.’
‘Alligators?’
‘You know, When you’re up to your arse in alligators, it’s hard to remember that your original intention was to drain the swamp.’ Rabbit laughed. ‘Busy.’
It seemed a particularly obtuse way of expressing a state that could be described unambiguously in a single word. I wondered how effectively he communicated with eleven-yearolds.
His friendliness disappeared when I advised him that Hudson and Blanche would be staying. It took fifty-seven minutes to work through his objections. I had already decided that I would remain to oversee the various handovers and periods between lessons.
I had a solution or counter-argument for all of his concerns: the lack of supervisory resources; the legal risk of including activities beyond those originally advised to parents; the need to avoid making an exception, which I pointed out was counter to the school’s mission statement, which emphasised the importance of treating each child as an individual…
Rabbit interrupted me: ‘By God, I see where Hudson gets it from.’
‘Gets what from?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Listen, I’ve been running this activity for thirteen years. In the holidays, off my own bat. In exchange for that, I get to make the calls. I could send Hudson home. Blanche too. But she’s just starting at the school, and she’s got a disability…’
He stopped and tapped his hand on the table a few times. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing for the kids and your being prepared to stay here yourself. Otherwise I’d absolutely be asking you to take him home. But you need to know—and I’d like you to convey this to your wife—that it’s not just about the boots.’
5
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean? “Not just about the boots”?’
I was back home, debriefing Rosie, and did not have an answer for her question. The three days at the snow had been incredibly busy. Securing accommodation was straightforward early in the season, but I spent several hours at the laundromat, dressed in two towels, washing my single set of clothes, twice, and continuing my skills update. I also had to provide high-level supervision for Hudson and Blanche. Rabbit was unavailable for extended conversation, due to the alligator–swamp problem.
At the first end-of-day handover from Lucy, I sought clarification of her statement implying that I was happy she was white.
‘You recognised me from a newspaper article?’ I said.
‘I’m an engineering student. I probably shouldn’t have said anything but if you complain to the ski school…’ She shrugged. ‘Not speaking out is the same as acceptance.’
I began to explain, but she cut me off.
‘I don’t want to discuss it. The kids are good: we’ll just do a couple of lessons tomorrow and they can do the beginner slopes by themselves if you keep an eye on them.’
And th
ere had been a disturbing call from Professor Lawrence.
‘Don, the postponement has given me time to think, and…I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. But you’re an unusual person. Perhaps not so unusual in the Science and Mathematics faculties. But, I was wondering, have you ever seen a psychologist?’
‘Why?’
‘I think even a layperson might guess that you were on the spectrum—the autism spectrum. I imagine I’m not the first person to suggest that.’
‘Correct.’
Professor Lawrence paused. ‘This trouble you’ve got yourself into is all about oppression of minorities. Yet you yourself…’
It took me several seconds to comprehend what she was suggesting.
‘You’re proposing that I claim to have Asperger’s syndrome. Making me a member of a minority entitled to special consideration.’
‘A person with a disability—and one relevant to the mistake you made. You’d need a formal diagnosis, if you don’t already have one.’
My initial feeling was of relief. If I did obtain a diagnosis, I would have a simple explanation to give to people like Lucy. But within minutes of terminating the call, I began to feel uncomfortable.
It seemed to me that claiming Asperger’s syndrome as an excuse for the Genetics Lecture Outrage was cowardly. It would reflect badly on others with Asperger’s who might not have done what I did. And, despite Professor Lawrence’s informal assessment, I did not consider myself ‘on the spectrum’.
In New York, a psychiatrist had argued, after one of our lunch companions had made that suggestion, that I would not qualify for a diagnosis: my personality did not cause me to suffer socially or professionally. The ‘professional suffering’ criterion had now been met, but only as a result of a change in my employer’s attitude to me. I was not prepared to accept that I could acquire a syndrome without any change to myself.
On the other hand, based on my experience of the psychiatric profession, it was likely that we could find someone who was prepared to add Asperger’s to the list that I had accumulated in my early twenties.
The Rosie Result Page 3
