As Jonathan gets older it seems he wants to go out less. But on this particular day, he manages to get himself dressed in something he hasn’t slept in the night before and decides to be a member of society at large.
Mike and I wait in the car about twenty minutes while Jon gathers a paraphernalia of items he likes to bring along when he goes anyplace; odds and ends of sticks, string, old shoe laces tied together, toy swords, a glove for one hand, an old cell phone, used chop sticks or whatever strikes his mood for the day.
He eventually gets in the car, but not until he stands next to it with the door open for several minutes allowing all the air conditioning to escape into the ninety three degree humidity. He slowly eases his behind inside and settles onto the seat.
Now we are sweating. Another minute or two goes by until he shuts the door.
I notice he has no shoes on, so to hurry things along, one of us goes back in the house to find them.
At last everyone is in the car and a collective sigh of relief ensues. We are, however, not ready to leave the driveway just yet.
Jon doesn’t talk much, not to us or anyone else (he will, however, talk to himself for hours on end), so he writes notes.
His notes are similar to Egyptian hieroglyphics. He prints words like they must sound in his brain, which include some backward letters, missing vowels and consonants. He will start sentences in the center or at the extreme right edge of the paper and quickly run out of room. From there the words can go anywhere – above, below, even vertical and as they pile up and around each other, it becomes almost impossible to decipher their meaning.
It takes a specialist trained in decoding ancient languages to figure out what his message means. We are working toward greater proficiency all the time.
After struggling for about five minutes or more to translate his cryptic communication, we figure out that he wants steak and shrimp. No better place for that than Outback Steakhouse, especially since Mike is an avid steak lover.
The seat belt is the next issue. We should refuse to leave until he puts it on but this can add another five to ten minutes to our wait time. By now we are over an hour into this dinner out and haven’t even left the house yet!
As we head down the driveway and out of our neighborhood, I silently thank auto makers for indicator alarms in twenty first century cars. We know from experience that after the seat belt signal beeps at least ten times at thirty second intervals, Jon will comply with its demand. He is not a big fan of loud repetitive sounds.
Finally we are on our way!
Most people drive to their destination, park their car and get out of it immediately. I know this because I have lots of time to watch them do it. Most people are usually in a hurry to get where they are going but Jon is not most people. It takes him forever to get in the car on the leaving end and just as long to get out of it on the arriving end.
His slower than turtle speed can be maddening if you’re on a schedule. We try to ignore time all together when out with him and think in terms of eternity. On this day, however, car exiting is going to be longer than usual, if that’s even possible.
Mike pulls the car into a parking space near the restaurant door and informs me he is going inside to get us a table.
“OK,” I say, “I’ll be in with Jon as soon as he get’s moving.”
We both know what that means. No sense in everyone suffering through waiting for Jon. Sometimes Mike waits, sometimes I do. We attempt to be fair about it and take turns.
The temperature inside the car begins a quick ascent back up to ninety. I sigh and lay my head on the seat back, watching people pull in, turn off their cars, jump out and disappear into the restaurant.
I’m thinking, Wonder what that’s like?
The elderly man with the walker is moving faster than us. Jon hasn’t budged an inch yet, has barely blinked.
I talk to myself: Just be happy that you don’t have to cook dinner tonight, Diane. Stay calm, be thankful.
The car is heating up so I open my door. Jon is finally rustling around and that’s a good sign, a start at least.
He reaches down to the floor in front of him and up comes a long length of thick, black shoelaces knotted together, which he begins to tie high around his waist. After fumbling with that for a few minutes a piece of red nylon netting appears (used as a chair float when fitted over a swimming pool noodle). Jon throws the netting over his left shoulder and tucks the corners underneath his shoestring belt in front and back.
Over the right shoulder goes a power chord unplugged from a piece of electronic equipment in his room. He tucks that under his belt too. Then he puts a bright orange visor on his head and a piece of stiff, bright red ribbon is pushed inside it just above his right ear. It’s protruding straight up like a singular antler over his head. Lastly, another piece of red ribbon is tied on his left ankle over top of his bleached white sock.
I watch all this in increasing disbelief, as each weird item is added, thinking there is no way on earth I’m getting out of the car with him in that getup! After living with Jon all these years it takes a lot to embarrass me but I still have a miniscule thread of dignity left.
At least twenty minutes has passed now and he’s ready to get out of the car. He does a final recheck on all his gear and reaches for the door handle. I abruptly pop the power lock button down.
“Jon, there is no way you are going in there with me, looking like that. It’s not Halloween today you know.”
Immediately his body stiffens and his face turns to the all familiar scowl which indicates he is not in agreement with my opinion. From there the power struggle begins. I spend the next twenty minutes attempting to talk him out of wearing his ‘costume’ into the Outback Steakhouse, going so far as removing some items off his person while he attempts to grab them and put them back on.
We’ve been in the car close to forty minutes now and our skirmish isn’t over yet. I’m sweaty and hungry. My cell phone rings. It’s Mike.
“Why is it taking so long for you guys to get in here? “He asks, “I’ve already ordered the appetizer.”
Really? You’re asking me this question AND eating appetizer without me?!
“It’s a long story,” I try to bury the irritation in my voice, “But if you want to come out here and see what he looks like you’ll know why. Hang tight, I’m hoping we’ll be in soon”
I finally manage to talk Jon out of the shoulder wear, which I stuff in the back seat pocket, hoping for an out of sight out of mind moment, and decide if I ever want to eat we can live with everything else.
The shoestring belt, the ankle ribbon and the orange visor with the ribbon planted in it are still intact.
We get out of the car and I quietly slip up behind Jon, carefully removing his red ribbon ‘antler’ hoping he won’t notice. No such luck. He spins around and glares at me.
“Sorry, Jon, but you look a little bit crazy with that thing sticking out of your head. You can wear it when we get back in the car.”
I shove the ribbon in my pocket and the scowl returns to his face. Jon freezes momentarily and I can see the wheels whirring as he attempts to process what he’s going to do about me, this annoying mother who keeps messing up his wardrobe plan.
At last he turns and starts walking along the front of the building. As he heads toward the door, he reaches down into the shrubs and snatches the longest piece of thick, red bark mulch he sees, returns to an upright position and triumphantly shoves it in his visor where the ribbon was, just above his right ear.
Now I’m glaring at him!
I throw my hands up in the air, “I surrender,” I say out loud to no one in particular and then to Jon, “Come on let’s go eat.”
We eat dinner with the shoestring belt, ankle ribbon and bark mulch visor, but the story doesn’t really end here. It never does.
What happens once we are actually inside the restaurant is a tale for another time. But let it go on record that on this particular day we leave our driveway around 4:30 pm and we arrive home around 10:30 pm.
The only place we visit is the Outback Steakhouse, which is fifteen minutes from our house.
A word of warning to anyone who might want to join us for an evening out, when we bring Jon along, better come in your own car!
would have been the only means of support she had. This poor woman had just lost everything.
