Chapter 14
Hairspray, the once loved classic starring Nikki Blonski, John Travolta, Zac Efron, has rapidly morphed from my autistic comfort movie, to the most hated, dreaded, nausea inducing thing in my life.
Apart from gum chewers.
When my Australian Mom died and my American Dad decided to relocate us kids back to Boston, Hairspray was my first thought.
And possibly the first indicator of my sexuality, but that’s a whole other conversation.
Poor Dad must have reinforced that Boston and Baltimore weren’t the same place a hundred times, but I refused to listen.
As far as I was concerned, I was going to live in the same city as Tracy Turnblad, and I couldn’t wait to catch the bus and sing Good Morning to my adopted city.
Like me, Dylan is a big ‘Spray fan. Watching and dancing to the musical with Dad was one of his favorite things, and since we lost him, there have been days where he would do nothing but sit in Dad’s chair and watch or listen to the soundtrack on repeat.
The color, the music … I think all of it provides Dyl with a sense of safety—predictability—when the person who once bought him those things in abundance suddenly disappeared.
Hence why, on the third day Manny has been off ill, possibly vanishing like Dad in Dyl’s mind, we’ve done nothing but listen to that not-so-brand-new beat.
Our morning started well enough. Dylan had a rare full night’s sleep and woke happy and seemingly content.
Breakfast was eaten with minimal fuss. We showered, brushed teeth and dressed, then went for our regular walk to the nearby dog park where Dylan met up with three of his neighborhood friends, Maria, Jose and Lyle.
I sat with their moms while the four of them laughed and cuddled the pups, before coming home to wait for Manny. That’s when we got the call.
So yeah, Hairspray is on repeat and loud because Dyl’s been so distressed that he’s snapped both pairs of his headphones; the feel of them over his ears just too much when he is so heightened and hypersensitive.
It breaks my heart seeing him like this … So vulnerable. So voiceless. So trapped in his fear and entirely debilitated. It also demonstrates my absolute ineptitude to support my brother the way he deserves.
It’s almost six p.m. now … I am exhausted, frustrated and overwhelmed, so I leave Dyl in the kitchen and call Maria’s mom, Sue.
“I’m sorry,” I whimper, hello barely having passed her lips.
“I don’t know what to do. Dyl’s smashed another mirror, his headphones, and he’s crying, Sue.
He can’t stop crying. I … I don’t know how to help him. ”
“It’s Alexithymia, James. His routine’s fucked, and he’s having trouble regulating his emotions. Have you put on—”
“Hairspray, yep. It’s been on all day and it’s helped I think, but he’s been picking at his skin and I can’t seem to make him stop.” Through the phone, I hear footsteps, the distinct jingling of keys and then Sue’s muffled voice.
“Maria,” she sing-songs, “you up for a trip to the park with Charlie? Awesome. James, honey, I’m back. Do me a favor, okay? Play the soundtrack on your phone, take as long as you need, we’ll be waiting for you by the swings.”
It takes almost twenty-five minutes for me to get Dylan out the door, another ten to walk the two blocks to the park, Boston’s pink-hued dusk darkening on each step.
I hear, rather than see, Maria as we approach the hedge row fence, the effect of her squeals of glee immediately visible in the upturn of Dylan’s lips.
Charlie, the mildly psychotic Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, is the first to greet us after we unlock the gate, her excitable, high-pitched yap infinitely worse than her non-existent bite.
“James, Dylan, over here!” Waving her arms is Sue. “You made it, well done.” There’s no patronization in her praise, just genuine understanding and heartfelt acceptance. “Rough day, huh?”
“Understatement of the decade.” Like a sack of spent shit, I drop onto the damp grass and verbalize the panic that has my insides twisted in a knot.
“Remember how Manny’s been away? Well, he has strep, so he’ll be off ‘til Saturday. Faith’s in New York until Friday, so I’ve had to call in sick at the paid placement I’ve only just started.
I’ll probably get fired, and if I do we’re fucked.
I don’t know how I am going to cope by myself for another three days.
I’m not built for this, Sue. I’m the absolute fucking worst person to be left responsible for another human.
I can hardly regulate myself, just ask my ex.
How the fuck am I supposed to help him?”
I don’t realize I’m flat on my back until I feel the press of Sue’s shoulder against mine.
She’s beside me, her graying blonde curls splayed out on the grass like a paint brush.
“Yesterday I hid in the pantry and ate a whole jar of peanut butter. The day before that I got into the shower with my socks and glasses on, and that night went to bed at seven when Maria did, and laid in there listening to Folklore for four hours.”
“It is a great album.”
“It really is.”
“My point is. None of us know what we are doing all the time. All of our kids, or siblings cope with stressors differently, and we do too.”
I squeeze my eyes closed to stop a fresh wave of tears. “I know, but it feels like I can’t cope.”
“Oh really.” Sue sits and points to Dyl who’s sitting on the swing next to Maria, not swinging as such, more rocking. “Did Dylan eat today?”
“Yeah, yeah he did. Mainly just toast and bananas but he ate.”
“And did he drink?”
“Yeah. Some water and juice.”
“Did you make sure he hadn’t hurt himself when he smashed the mirror or the headphones?”
“Of course, but—”
“And did you try to distract him from picking his skin by dancing and singing to Hairspray even though you never want to hear Travolta say ‘stricken chicken’ again?”
Pinching the bridge of my noise, a huffed laugh escapes me. “I did. Yeah. Think I might have popped a hip I boogied so hard.”
“And is Dylan safe, and smiling at my daughter right now?”
Joining Sue, I push up onto my elbows, a small smile breaking through. “He is.”
“Well then, congratulations, Mr. Plum. You survived, and sometimes that’s the most we can ask for. Now, what are you guys doing Saturday? I have an idea.”
Weighed down with Fifth Avenue shopping bags, and looking annoyingly refreshed, Faith walks through the door Friday evening and promptly kicks me out.
“Pack your face masks, go to your apartment and get some sleep. You can come take Dyl to the program tomorrow but other than that, I don’t want to see you back here until Monday afternoon. ”
I’d argued until I was blue in the face, but as I learned at a very early age, there is no winning against a determined Faith Plum. Taking her advice, I did as she said, I packed my masks, favorite bath oils, and some clothes, and headed to Chestnut Hill.
Driving well below the speed limit, I played no music, and despite the chill of the evening, had all the windows down, enjoying the cool night air on my face.
I’d made Dyl and I some dinner, but had left before eating, so I ventured into enemy territory, passing Boston University to grab two Raising Canes’s chicken sandwiches, some crinkle-cut fries, and a whole jug of sweet tea.
Guilt gnaws at my stomach as much as hunger does.
I shouldn’t feel so relieved to have a break, but I needed this.
I’ve spent my first week at home alone with Dylan, and for the most part he’s been happy.
Somewhat surprisingly, I have been too. We had fun painting, Dylan paced the backyard while I pulled weeds, and hoped for the best as I planted the beets, peas and spinach seedlings we picked up from a local garden center.
The park was visited more than once each day, and hours were spent scouring through Dylan’s enormous DVD collection for some new musicals.
A decision I slightly regretted after my fourth Trying to Solve a Problem like Maria.
So, while I wouldn’t say we thrived, we more than survived.
A block out from my apartment, I pull up to a red light, close my eyes, let my head fall against the seat and let the gentle hum of traffic wash over me.
“We keeping you up, Doc?” You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. “I suppose it is past seven. That must be like midnight once you’re over forty.”
Without looking, I reply to the one person who calls me ‘Doc’, my tone as civilized as I can manage with a mouth full of fried potato. “Firstly, not forty, I was born this millennium, and I know book smarts aren’t a traditional strength for your kind, but you do know I’m not a doctor, right?”
Cory’s laugh is disturbingly arousing. “My kind? I dunno. From what I hear, you were once one of us sport loving plebeians, and look at you now? All doctored up in your all wheel drive BMW eating fancy chicken us mere mortals could only dream of.”
Since the world’s longest red light refuses to switch, I roll my head to the side and see Cory on the sidewalk, looking straight into my window. Damn. Flush-cheeked Cory in a sweat-soaked sleeveless tee, is a sight. Doing my best not to drool, I give a snide, “Why are you here?”
Smirking, he looks down, pinches his tee between his fingers and raises it, exposing an inch or two of tight, toned, glistening abdominal.
“Jogging. But I think I’ve gone far enough.
Can I grab a ride?” It’s a rhetorical question.
Before I can reply, he’s skipping around the hood of the car, opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat, moist skin squelching against leather. “Light’s green, by the way.”