I prefer Rufus to Doris. You?

“Can I ask you something? Can I ask you something serious,” Christopher said seriously.

“Sure,” I reply.

“So you don’t mind if I ask you something? You don’t mind, no?”

“No, I don’t mind. You can ask.”

“So I can ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“OK, let me ask you something serious. Do you wear contacts? Do you?” he asks.

He licks the marinara sauce off his fingers, scattering his stare around the pizzeria, waiting intently for my response to his urgent question.

“You know already. You know,” I say, aware that I am about to enter into a game of compulsivity.

“But do you? Do you wear contacts?”

“You know, Christopher. What do you think I do?”

“You don’t wear contacts, right? You don’t, do you?” He straightens his plate and seven crumpled napkins, then starts to shake his head as if shaking out his discomfort.

He follows up by asking, “So you have perfect vision? You were born as a baby with perfect vision?”

“Yes, I was born with perfect vision I guess,” I say. “So how is your work going at Home Depot?”

“You have perfect vision. So you don’t wear glasses then? Do you wear glasses? No, right? Because you have perfect vision so you don’t wear glasses. Right?”

“Are you enjoying your time at Home Depot? Are you taking the bus by yourself?” I asks in an effort to steer our conversation, or what some would call a round of obsessive-compulsive questioning, away from topics that feed Christopher’s fascinations. Christopher has autism. My husband used to work with him once upon a time, and he and I have taken a real liking to each other. We still get together every now and again, for pizza and catching up.

“I asked you a question if you wear glasses and you ignored me. You ignored my question.”

At age twenty, Christopher twitches around in the Formica booth, wiping his hands and face, looking to me for his next fix. Not answering his questions, especially those related to his favorite topics, stirs up an uneasiness in him that swells through his body and cannot be tamed. I know if I answer his line of questioning he’ll instantly feel satiated. He is doing his best to engage me in this process, but the temporary satisfaction will quickly be replaced with more anxiety and agitation.

“I did ignore you because we shouldn’t be talking about this. You know I don’t wear glasses—“

“You don’t wear glasses? I knew you didn’t.”

“—and this isn’t a good use of our time. I just wanted to see you on your lunch break and see how you’re doing, and we’re talking about glasses. How are you?” I push.

“Well,” he says, taking a big sip of his soda, “there is a new girl at work, Ashley. She is there at work with me. Do you like that name, Ashley?” he asks, almost innocently.

“It’s OK, although I’m not a huge fan,” I say, knowing where this conversation is going. I don’t mind the name game, and find myself strangely entertained by it. I live with my own set of obsessive behaviors—including my propensity count things in eights, and to trace shapes (like the outline of the TV) with my teeth in a repetitive manner. On the very low end of obsessive-compulsive behavior my life is only mildly controlled by these tendencies, whereas hearing a name he greatly dislikes, such as Doris, sets the tone of Christopher’s day.

“What about the name Rupert?” I ask with a smile and rise of my eyebrows. I suspect I know the answer.

“Yes, I like the name Rupert. Rupert. Do you like that name?” He starts jutting his head like a whirligig and jumping up in his seat, rocking the booth back and forth. He’s happy with our new dialogue.

“Yea, I like that name, a lot actually. I like the -oop sound, you know?” I know he does because we are almost always in sync with our particular choices in names and the reasons as well.

“Yes, I like that sound and it’s like Rufus, which I also like. Do you like Rufus? Not Rupert, even though they sound alike, but Rufus. Do you like that name?”

“I do! OK, let’s stop talking about names. We’ve talked about names for long enough. Do you like your pizza?” I ask.

“Why don’t you want to talk about names anymore? Is it bad to talk about names? We shouldn’t talk about names? No, we shouldn’t? Or yes, we should?” He looks sterner upon asking this question.

“Let’s talk about the bus. How is the bus working out? Do you still take it on your own to work?”

“You don’t want to talk about names? Why don’t you?”

He is trying in earnest to rope me back in. I know I should stay strong. Lingering in topics like names and vision problems do nothing but cripple him socially and show him it’s appropriate to discuss these subjects with others. Yet while I’m talking with him like this it seems completely fine, no worse than talking with Cece about my clothing options for Saturday night or talking with my mom about the Wednesday night line-up on TV. But it is different, I know.

“That pizza was delicious! And the soda was perfecto! Did you like your pizza, Christopher?” I ask.

“Yes, it was good. I usually get this though. May I ask you something, Jo? You won’t be mad if I ask you something, right? You won’t get mad at me if I ask you something? You wouldn’t get mad.”

“I won’t get mad, but I might not want to talk about it. I won’t get mad, I promise,” I assure him.

“What is your favorite kind of food?”

Good. I think this is a fairly healthy path. “Well, I like everything, really. But not meat because I’m a vegetarian, but you knew that. Umm, I guess I like chocolate the best!” I say, probably due to my need to finish off any meal with a little sweet.

He squeals with laughter and claps his hands once, rocking back and forth. “Me too! But do you like other things like that? Would you eat candy that’s not chocolate? Would you? You don’t mind if I ask you right? This is OK to talk about, right?”

“Sure, it’s fine to ask that. Let me think… Umm, I really like Skittles actually. Do you like Skittles?”

“Yes! Oh yes! I love Skittles. You like Skittles? What about ice cream? Do you like ice cream? “

“Of course! I love ice cream.”

“You do? Do you like vanilla or chocolate ice cream? Because you said you like chocolate but do you like chocolate ice cream? You must like it. Do you?” He is very excited about our tête-à-tête.

“I like vanilla more than chocolate ice cream. Skittles and vanilla ice cream,” I say, summing up my preferences, hungrier than ever for a little sugar.

“Skittles and vanilla ice cream!” he echoes.

Curtis, who was very amused by this lunch and remained silent throughout the duration, speaks up and says, “OK, Christopher. If you’re going to get to work on time then you should start walking to the bus stop. What do you need to take the bus?”

“Well, let’s see, I need 75 cents, which is three quarters.”

“Do you have three quarters?”

“Yes, I have my three quarters, Curtis. Do you like the name Curtis, Jo?” he asks, and I realize Christopher is prolonging our time together and ignoring Curtis’s request to start walking to the bus stop. I’m sad too.

“You have your money? So we can go?” Curtis asks.

“I had it when we got here. But now I can’t find my quarters!”

He looks anxious and starts walking between the table where we ate and the front door of the pizzeria. “I can’t ride the bus if I don’t have three quarters!”

I run to our car parked out front and search the change compartment. I grab a handful of coins and start poking through the pile with my index finger for some arrant quarters. Christopher’s bus is arriving in four minutes, and I’ve found two quarters when I see Curtis and Christopher standing by the front door of the restaurant. Christopher’s head is looking down and he seems to be tearing up. Then he bursts through the front door and Curtis just looks at me with a cockeyed smile and shrugs.

No sooner do I start to climb out of the car, Christopher walks back outside, holding his fist up in the air looking victorious. He opens his palm for Curtis to see and they both wave me on, signaling his discovery of the 75 cents.

I’m frightened by episodes of nervousness such as this and reminded of the randomness of life. Why is my OCD manageable whereas Christopher’s is frustratingly present and overwhelming? I am tired from our thirty-minute lunch, tired from cyclical conversations and tangible angst, and I wonder how Christopher lives through each day—or even worse, though moments of greater crisis than misplacing bus fare.

As I drive my car past the bus stop about fifty feet away, Christopher and Curtis stand under the plastic alcove, and I notice Christopher white-knuckling the coins. Onlookers would not suspect that there is anything wrong with Christopher if they saw these two men waiting for the bus. No one would realize right away that one is a psychologist and the other a man who copes with autism. You would have to talk to them first to realize the differences that cleave them apart.

I wave to them, and Christopher jumps up and gives me a feverish wave back. He’s smiling. He yells something at me, but I’m too far away to hear him. Curtis blows me a kiss and then I drive away, watching them shrink away through the rear view mirror, waiting for the bus.

Later that afternoon I pick up Curtis from town. He is standing in front of a local bookshop, grinning from ear to ear, happy to see me. I know we are lucky. We are lucky that picking out the perfect piece of pizza is not an ordeal or that hearing the name Doris does not fling us into overpowering worry.

“Did you hear what Christopher said to you before?” Curtis asked.

“No! I didn’t!” I frown, “What did he say?”

“He yelled, ‘Skittles and vanilla ice cream.’”

Skittles and vanilla ice cream. I know exactly what he means.