Blast from the Past # 8: The Misfit

The Misfit

John smiled and nodded at the people who passed him as he made his way to the laundromat. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew John, knew that he was "special", and most were content to simply smile back at the young man when they encountered him on the street. Others, however, considered John a great source of entertainment.

"Hey, ugloid," said a sharp-nosed blonde woman who worked in a local tanning salon, "how you doin' today?"

"Transportitude reconveyable lectionarially posthasteous," John offered, intensifying his smile.

Two girls who were leaning against a nearby wall burst into laughter at John's reply. One said, "Hey, Ronnie, sounds like the geek jus' called you a 'letch'!" while the other cried, in a very shrill voice, "I think you oughtta cuff 'im one!"

"Consider 'im cuffed!" sneered the blonde, as she gave John a solid smack with the back of her hand. "Nex' time I take the time to say 'hi' to you, shitface, you bedder have somethin' nice to say back!"

John ignored the stinging in his cheek. Seeing that the woman had lost interest in him, he moved on, softly noting, "Malfortunaristic deutoplasmy," to himself as he shuffled down the street.


FROM THE FILES OF DR. MILTON FARMER, COUNTY BOARD OF PSYCHIATRY:

(May '71 entry)


... Thus, after several months of examination, I must reluctantly pronounce judgement on the subject. Although further research might have allowed a more detailed report, I can say with a large degree of certainty that the patient, named John Doe (#17), and aged approximately five years old, is the victim of a bizarre, hitherto unknown form of autism. Despite the fact that John shows obvious awareness of his surroundings, and thus might prematurely be diagnosed as non-autistic, his speech patterns indicate a complete divorce from reality. All attempts at communicating with John have proven fruitless. He seems incapable, or possibly unwilling, to understand, or be understood by, anyone around him. I've personally spent many long hours trying to get him to identify such simple objects and concepts as 'apple', 'ball', 'cat', 'up', and 'down'; but he resists each attempt and inveritibly launches into non-repeating streams of gibberish (several samples of this nonsense can be found in Appendix A). His will is actually quite remarkable for a five year old. Unfortunately, that trait is completely counterproductive in this instance. His resistance to my teachings virtually guarantees that John will never be able to speak or write intelligently.

Because of objections raised by Mother Susan of Newfield's, I'm forced to curtail any further explorations of areas that might bring John out of his autistic shell. I had extremely high hopes for the electroshock therapy he was undergoing, as well as our plans to re-establish a chemical balance within John through the administration of phenocarbonitrates. As is so often the case these days, small-minded and short-sighted laymen have stemmed the tide of medical science in its ongoing ...


In the laundromat, John performed one of the routines that he had long-since memorized. He then stood patiently by the side of the washing machine as it shook and groaned and occasionally filled the air with shrieks. At John's feet rested his empty laundry basket.

A middle-aged woman wearing a kerchief around her head came up to John and tapped him on the shoulder. "Do you know if the bus that stops outside goes all the way to Wilson Ave?" she asked. Without pausing, she continued, "You see, I just moved to this neighbourhood, and I really haven't had a chance to unpack my good china yet, let alone figure out the silly bus routes! Charlie - that's my ex-husband - he used to always sit down and figure all that stuff out for me, but he also used to diddle his secretary, so I finally told him to 'hit the road, Jack!' Know what I mean?"

John smiled and said, "Compathetic retrogressified catalystees ostentatively."

A look of disgust appeared on the woman's face as she turned away from John. "God-damn foreigners... act like they own the place!"

Meanwhile, John watched intently as his clothes went round and round and round.


FROM THE PERSONAL DIARY OF MOTHER SUSAN (SMYTHE), ADMINISTRATOR FOR THE NEWFIELD ORPHANAGE:

(March 2/82)

I have to put these thoughts down on paper, so that I can read them back and see how ludicrous they appear.

Lately, when I've been with John Doe, I've felt something bordering on awe toward the young man. When I see him helping the other children, and I hear such wonderful reports about his conduct at St. Martin's during the school hours, I think ...

So many times, over the years, I've gazed out of my office window and seen one or another of the 'problem cases' assaulting John down in the courtyard. I always race down to stop the attack, of course, but in all those incidents I've never once seen John strike back at his attacker. I know I've written of this before, but it recently struck me that not only does he not retaliate, but as far as I can determine (given John's great difficulty in communicating) he's also never shown any malice toward the other children, no matter what atrocities they perpetrate at his expense!

I know it must surely be mad of me to think so, but there are times when I can't help but wonder ... If our Lord were to come back to us as it's prophesized, wouldn't His countenance most likely be plain and unremarkable, as John's is, and what better description of Divine Forgiveness could be imagined than what I've just written of? Could it be that we are incapable of understanding John because of the sins that rest on our souls, much like the punishment that was visited upon the builders of the tower of Babel? Madness? It certainly must be. And yet ...

When I went to Adam Elliot's room several nights ago, in order to 'convince' young Mr. Elliot to decrease the volume of his radio, I paused at his entrance just long enough to hear some of the words of the song he was listening to. For some strange reason, I thought of John. I can't recall the exact wording now, but the song had something to do with the idea that the mute would someday unite and speak in words which we couldn't comprehend. I think so often of John these days. I wonder just what he thinks about ...


John walked briskly back to his apartment when his laundry routine had been completed. Like so many other things in his life, he had the path between the laundromat and his home carefully committed to memory. While the people whom he met changed from one trip to the next, the buildings and streets remained largely the same.

One block short of his destination, John observed that a young couple were strolling toward him, oblivious to all but themselves. When he moved to avoid a collision with them, however, he was nearly bowled over from behind! Bending to pick up the fallen clothes, John heard a sharp voice barking behind him.

"Hey, pal," growled a man in a jogging outfit and tennis shoes, "whas the madder wit chu? Dint you hear me or what? Get cher head oudda the clouds, ok?"

Although the man was quickly out of earshot at a lively pace, John nonetheless remarked, "Outlanderial reciperious expediacate," with a warm smile.

FROM THE RECORDS OF ST. MARTIN'S SCHOOL FOR THE AUTISTIC (FATHER MARTIN RECORDING):

(June 2, 1984)

... Although I know such a move is completely unprecedented in the history of the school, I feel entirely confident that my appointment of John Doe to the post of 'counsellor' will benefit all concerned. No one who has worked with John over the years would contest his qualifications for the position, other than the obvious lack of educational and verbal skills. In the months since John's eighteenth birthday and subsequent graduation, it's become apparent to everyone that sending John away to an adult centre would be both unnecessary and unfortunate. John's willingness to help the other students, as well as his truly inspiring success at getting through to them, makes it imperative that we not lose him. They respond to him with such immediacy that it leaves me speechless some days.

As for John's best interests, I honestly believe that he will benefit from a continued connection with the school. Since he will be getting his own apartment not far from here (with Mother Susan's kind assistance, she assures me) John should have no difficulties with transportation ...


The moment that John had patiently waited for finally arrived as he was folding up his laundry. A bright white dot appeared in his bedroom wall, and quickly grew to several yards in diameter. Two men walked through the hole, and into the room with John.

While John rushed to embrace the older of the two men, the other said, "Exculpatoriousyndromy neochromosomaticeous spatiallycontaintinuumdistorbit remarkificatory!"

John sighed, and replied, "Exculpatorionegatiousness transientality. Vehicularpolarectum, immediaphilososphere."

Together, the three men strode to the waiting portal. John felt a great sense of relief at the thought of finally returning home. His report, once he'd had a chance to rest and collect his thoughts, would show that this planet was still very much mired in barbarism and stupidity. While a few select specimen, such as those he'd discovered at the school, showed promise, the vast majority were virtually mindless. Perhaps later, after a few thousand years of evolution...

John stepped through the gateway, leaving his human form behind.


Down the street, a radio played:

"On the wings of the night
As the daytime is stirring
Where the speechless unite
In a silent accord
Using words you will find are strange
And mesmerized as they light the flame
Feel the new wind of change
On the wings of the night."

- lyrics by Pink Floyd, from the song
"On the Turning Away"