Pax Adams
“I think that green one’s for us, pal,” I say to the excited little cherub clinging to my pant leg. Just seven years old, Derek is all cheeks and tummy. He lives with his parents in an apartment complex on the outskirts of town. His parents are kind and sincere but permanently exhausted. The world and its demands frequently push Derek into a state of explosive overwhelm, and although he can talk, he has a language delay that makes every aspect of functional communication a challenge.
Twenty years old, I attend the local university and work part-time with Derek and a handful of others. I was offered my position by Derek’s lead therapist, who is also a family friend. She hired me for my empathetic nature, but also because she knew I needed a job. I know little about autism, meaning I have very few big ideas about how to “fix it.” Ready to embark on an outing, as we often do, I clutch Derek’s hand, and we approach the neon-green taxi that’s arrived to pick us up.
The driver’s name tag posted on the dashboard silently introduces him, Jerry Baker. I slide over the rough Navajo-print fabric covering the back seat. The smell of stale cigarette smoke paints the interior of the cab, and dust particles left behind by fellow travelers hover in the air, illuminated by the late afternoon sun. Appearing to be about sixty, Jerry has messy gray hair that frames his jarringly hazel eyes and bulbous, red alcoholic’s nose. He turns to us and says, “Hello guys. Where are we heading?” in the husky voice of someone who has smoked a pack-a- day since he was fifteen.
Derek looks at the driver for the first time since entering the cab and squeals with glee. “It’s Pax Adams!” Derek’s family adores Patch Adams, the doctor famous for bringing comedy to his medical practice by wearing a red clown nose while treating patients. Robin Williams portrayed him in a movie. Derek’s family met the real Patch Adams once, and they reminisce about it often.
Derek excitedly lunges forward and pats the back of Jerry’s head. “Hi Pax,” he coos. Jerry looks at me, obviously confused, but he seems to be welcoming Derek’s energy. I smile nervously and shrug and will him to be kind. Jerry places his large hand on Derek’s pudgy fingers. “Hey kid, how ya been?” And we’re off.
My outings with Derek, as with many of my neurodivergent clients, are peppered with moments of system overload, usually theirs, occasionally mine. Derek and I move slowly, in fits and starts, because we are traveling at his processing speed. That is not to say that Derek or any of the others have slow processing speeds. On the contrary, I believe they actually process the world at warp speeds. Derek takes in the environments around us faster than I can, and I sense that he has far more to say about what he sees than his speech-producing systems allow.
I glean insight into Derek’s experiences by paying close attention to his body language and the sporadic comments he makes, his broken phrases, occasional questions, and loud hollers of either tremendous delight or abrupt frustration. I believe it is all intentional communication. When I ask clarifying questions, Derek becomes stressed, so I try my best to join him as an observer. All I can do is be present and bear witness to the grand adventures of a vulnerable little guy out in the big weird world.
One day I arrive at Derek’s apartment to find everyone screaming. Derek’s parents are frustrated, and he is wailing. “Let’s stay on our plan, buddy. I’ll call for our ride,” I say, not sure what else to do. Jerry rolls up five minutes later. Derek tries to hide how upset he is, but his sobs are audible as he huddles next to me in the back seat. I wrap my arm around him and look at Jerry in the rearview mirror. His eyes are on Derek. He puts the cab in gear and drives a few blocks before pulling over. Derek doesn’t seem to notice that we’ve stopped until Jerry turns and taps his foot.
“Hey kid, you having a bad day?” Derek buries his tear-streaked cheeks in my side. “Listen here, pal, Pax doesn’t like to see you so upset. Here, check this out,” and Jerry squeezes his own nose. “Honk!” Derek looks up. “Honk! Honk!” Jerry leans closer, “Now you try.” Derek springs forward and gently squeezes Jerry’s red nose. “Honk!” Jerry belts out his biggest baritone honk yet. Derek lets out a howling, cathartic belly laugh and throws his arms around Jerry’s neck. “That’s it, kid. You’re gonna have some bad days. You will. We all do, but you gotta keep laughing, kid, cuz you got a hell..heck of a laugh.”
After working with Derek and my other clients for a few months, I decided to dedicate myself to Human Services. Twenty years later, I am still dedicated and, incidentally, still as much a student of neurodivergent humans as I was in the beginning. I am still learning from the way they experience a world some may never get to talk about or talk to, in their own words, in a way others will understand. I am still learning from characters like Jerry who have enough courage to dive into someone else’s story without question or judgment.
Isn’t that what we all want? Someone to come alongside us? Someone to fill the empty spaces in our stories? If we pay attention, our most vulnerable fellow humans are teaching us how to bear witness, how to join, how to show up. These are not easy skills to master, especially when we allow ourselves to be seduced by what we think we know. If we are lucky, we’ll come across a Jerry, an unassuming sage, who will make it look effortless and who will remind us to keep laughing, no matter what.
Carrie is a Human Services professional who has spent her career working with individuals on the autism spectrum. After roughly twenty years in the field, she is shifting her focus toward writing. A lifelong Midwesterner, Carrie lives in rural Wisconsin with her two teenage children.