I'm warning you, in advance, that this story seems outlandish and unreal
—I'm still having a difficult time believing it
—but it is true.
I was sitting in the library studying with my classmate and friend Joey for our Medical Speech Pathology exam, which is tomorrow. Yikes! We were taking turns teaching each other about different topics that will be covered. It was Joey's turn to teach so I was sitting on a bench reading over the materials that I would be teaching next, while she was jotting down notes on the white board. The white board area we were working in is right next to the main thoroughfare on the first floor of the university library. A man in tattered clothes, worn shoes, and a raggedy beanie stopped next to one of the white boards and examined the writing. I let him examine it for what seemed like a few minutes.
"Looks like fun stuff," I said, in attempts to break the awkward silence.
"Spastic Dysarthria" he said. "Sounds like a psychological term," pause. "What are you studying?" he asked.
"Medical Speech Pathology," I replied. "It's not as fancy as it sounds but I sure like it," I added.
"Can I ask you a question?" he inquired.
"Be my guest," I responded.
He said, "Do you know what Asperger's is?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. Why do you ask?" I ignorantly replied, not looking much into why he would be asking such a question.
"I have it," he returned.
"Oh really?" was the best response I could come up with.
"What do you think of when you see a Styrofoam cup?" he asked.
"Well...I think of something that you can drink out of," I hesitated.
"When I look at a Styrofoam cup," he paused to swallow. "When I look at a Styrofoam cup, I see polymers, I see polymers adhered together by "%$&#@" bonds (No, this is not a curse word. They are symbols that represent some scientific term which I was, and remain, unaware of). I think of oil and the chemical process through which it is refined to create a compound which we call Styrofoam. Would you like me to explain that process to you?" he offered.
"I'm not much into chemistry but you can try," I uttered.
"Nevermind. I think of the health benefits that have come to fruition as a result of being able to keep cold things cold and warm things warm," he continued rapidly.
"You have a brilliant mind," I interrupted.
"That's a bit of an understatement," he said.
I thought, for a moment, of being offended by his arrogance but I let it pass. Pragmatic skills don't tend to be a strong suit for those with Asperger's. So the conversation went on, swerving from one scientific discipline to the next like a blindfolded drunk man trying to walk the line. We talked about car engines and jet engines, thermodymanics and physics
—all of which I could barely get a grasp on before we were on to the next topic. Finally, he veered hard left with the conversation and made a crash landing onto a topic that I could finally understand
—humanity.
"Are you a caregiver," he asked, this time looking me in the eyes.
"I guess you could say that I'm a caregiver," I replied.
"I need a caregiver," he said.
"Listen bud, (he hadn't told me his name) if you're asking me for money, I don't have any," I said in the nicest way I knew how.
"I don't need money," pause. "Well, I do. But, I need some food and a roof over my head. I need someone to take care of me."
He pulled out an envelope with an LDS bishop's order for food that had been given to him.
"I have this order for food, but I have nowhere to prepare it," he said as I swallowed hard to fight back the tears.
"Let's talk, my friend," I said as I frantically tried to come up with ideas.
He sat down on the floor and crossed his legs
—his nonverbal way of saying
I'm all ears. I slid down off the bench I had been sitting on and sat crossed legged directly across from him and looked him in the eyes.
"I can't let you stay at my house," I said. "Have you tried the Road Home?" I added.
"I rather go to jail than stay there. You don't understand the types of men that hang around there. They're mean and they do bad things. At jail they at least have guards that keep an eye on people like that. I've been living out of my car since my mom died. She was my caregiver but ever since she died, I've been on my own," he said.
Feeling helpless, I switched from talking about housing to talking about food.
"Let's make a deal," I proposed, not thinking that this tired and hungry man probably wasn't up for striking a deal.
"I don't know what I can do for you tonight as far as housing is concerned. But, let's talk about food. Since I can't provide you with a place to cook the food from the food order, how about I bring some food that is already prepared?" I suggested.
"That won't work. I can't have gluten or milk," he replied.
"That's just fine. I'll bring food and snacks that are gluten free," I said.
"Really?" he asked in disbelief.
"Really, my friend. Do you have any favorite snacks?"
" I like the 50 pack of Kroger brand Pepperoni," he responded, trying to analyze if I was bluffing or not.
"I'm going to brainstorm some ideas for getting you a roof over your head and I want you to do the same thing. We can work together to figure this out if you're willing, but I'm not going to just hand things to you. Truth be told, I don't have much that I can just
give to you. You're going to have to put in your share of the work. Meet me here tomorrow at 3:30, and I'll have some food for you. Brainstorming is much easier when your body has nourishment."
And so the story goes. I met this man, whom I refer to as Bud, in the most bizarre of circumstances. But he set before me, on a proverbial silver platter, things
—so many things
—that I have to be grateful for. The two that come first to my mind are a roof over my head and food in my belly.
I sure as hell hope that Bud shows up tomorrow because there will be a bag full or food (milk and gluten free) waiting for him.
If any of you are aware of resources that may be beneficial for Bud, please let me know.
