Community Day

[sd gross]

Community Day
by Stephen D. Gross

For awhile I worked for a day service which custom-tailored programs for the 300 developmentally disabled adults they cared for. The company's mission was "to improve the quality of life" of its clients, and considerable effort was invested in learning what best suited each individual. There were work days, music classes, physical therapy - but my favorite were "community days." Interaction with the Mainstream - allowing our clients exposure to what transpires and perspires in the Real World.
I always looked forward to Tuesdays - community days with Bronson and Marty. Two of the sweetest, least pretentious people I've ever had the pleasure of hanging with, they were guileless, vulnerable and every day was a joy.
Thirtyish Bronson looked like a cheery sausage stuffed into sweats that were usually the bright red of the University of Nebraska (his dad's alma mater) and boldly revealing. Viewing him as an eight-year-old, his mom lovingly dressed her baby boy and sent him out each day without a thought to anything other than Bronson's happiness and safety. His moony face, eternally aglow with good cheer, Bronson rarely spoke - except for a high nasal, "Yeah!" And he always lovingly clutched paper lunc bags emblazoned with colored pencil drawings done by his mom. Some days there were flower-filled fields of bunnies, or a cottage with smoke curling out of the chimney and a cat on the lawn - always an original. Everybody loved soft, round Bronson who came neatly packaged in stretch polyfleece. And he loved to tease, using the point-and-grin method with great success.
Marty wore a dirty ballcap cocked sideways on his narrow skull, and with mouth permanently frozen open he'd tilt his head and shoot me a prankster's, quizzical grin that made me wonder what the hell was he up to in there? Fragile as an anemic rail, he weighed a very shakey 86 pounds and refused to use any mechanical means of helping keep him upright. Instead, he'd lurch along threatening to plunge to the ground with each unpredictable step. The first time I saw him pitch forward and hit the turf I expected to hear shattering glass and after he pulled himself upright, was amazed at how durable and good humored he was about it all. When getting off our company van I'd ask him to sit and scoot off on his butt - by far the safest method. Standing on the brink of oblivion, he'd grin recklessly at me and I'd stand close by to break his fall. The first time he stared and I spread my arms questioningly - at which point he flung himself with scary confidence, right into my embrace. He always wore a bib to catch the thin thread of drool which endlessly crawled over his lip and at lunchtime, I had to cut his sandwich into 32 tiny pieces and help him get down his Ensure. Chocolate was Marty's favorite, and most of it never made it into his maw. All this was hard for me to deal with at first but I grew to love the insufferable punk and adored his uniqueness.
Instead of doing the standby Mall Walk I would take the guys to ballgames, thrift stores, the beach and bowling over at the low-rent, Magnolia Lanes. It was one of their favorite things to do. Walking on his toes Bronson would make his approach and became ecstatic as his apricot ball smacked the maple and started to roll. Gutter-bumpers ensured he'd connect with at least a few pins and he loved watching the scoreboard light up above our heads. Marty's bowling method consisted of me placing the ball at the lip of a metal ramp which he would help me aim, and then sending it over the lip and on its mission of destruction. Whenever we scored (or didn't) Marty would whack me on my butt as hard as he could which always sent me reeling and left Marty consumed with laughter and puddling the alley with drool.
One dreary Tuesday in February which found the boys in a particularly frisky mood, we were dismayed to find the Magnolia Lanes closed. It was too chilly for the beach or a park adventure, and then my eye was caught by a lady maybe (or not) waiting for a bus and I thought of Miranda. A former working girl, now a successful lawyer, Miranda was a good friend whose brother was autistic - a condition which Miranda's family handled with compassion. She kept in touch with a few coworkers some of whom still worked for a high-priced agency. I got her on her cell, explained the boys' disappointment at finding the Magnolia Bowl closed, and she agreed to help me give Marty and Bronson an early Valentine's Day gift. We met her understanding, compassionate compadre, Simone, at a discreet three-star on the far edge of town and I explained to the guys we were going to a party. Simone had been well-briefed by Miranda and looking well in briefs was an important part of her job.
Reluctant to leave Marty and myself, Bronson haltingly followed Simone into the bedroom first. It was very quiet on the other side of the door but I trusted Miranda to choose wisely and well. After fifteen minutes the door opened and Bronson's beaming face radiated a pinkish glow that effected tides around the world. I asked if he was okay - "Yeah!" "Did you have a good time?" "He stared shyly at the floor - "Yeah!" Simone gently helped Marty to his feet - I'd put a clean bib around his neck for the occasion - and he willingly went off to see what had made Bronson's luminous grin so bright.
Betraying nothing, Marty soon emerged looking dazzled and rested. Looking at me lovingly, he smacked me on my rear end and staggered toward the door.
Things haven't changed much where I worked, except that ever since that rainy Tuesday, the other counselors have never heard the end of Bronson and Marty still loudly insisting on taking their community days with me.