Mom and Dad think he is shy— timid, antisocial, perhaps a bit retarded.
It never happens when it’s just Grandpa, the uncles, and Auntie Jay.
Not when there is deliberate, meaningful discussion. Not when there is civilized conversation. Not when there are pauses between sentences, and even a few occasional contemplative silences.
Later, when the rest of the crowd arrives— the energetic ones, the siblings, neighbors, workmates, cousins—
trivialities become topics. Conversation becomes competitive.
Interruptions. Escalating volume. Everyone talking at once. Talking over, around, and through each other. Talking so fast they steal all the oxygen.
Gossip, false compliments, small talk— the chattering, chittering frenzy. Excruciating. Punishing. Suffocating.
Babbling, blathering chitchat overwhelms his reason, driving him frantic until he feels compelled to withdraw deep into his inner shell—into the inner calm accompanied by the vacant stare that scares the muggles.
Even better: creep under the table. Crawl away unnoticed into the darkness.
Yes! Escape into the dark.
Escape to the crepuscular crawl space beneath the kitchen sink, to the somber dimness of the basement, or— best yet—sneak out the back door, run fast past the garage, skip down the uneven steps, and arrive, lungs burning, panting, heart pounding, in the chill obscurity of
the abandoned coal room. That wonderful, windowless space, enveloped by musty, mossy, soot-blackened brick.
Dark. Safe. Secure. Silent.
The old coal room is like being in a castle surrounded by a moat filled with murky water and hungry crocodiles, towers protected by watchful gargoyles, battlements patrolled by dragons breathing fire, portcullis grates lowered, drawbridges raised.
Escaping into a dark, quiet place, retreating to quiet and calm— joyously alone.
Breathing. Relaxing. Unwinding in the darkness. Regrouping. Soon, refreshed, recharged, and ready to reintegrate when they eventually find him.
Desert Dweller 