I had another all-day training to give today, and with a training partner this time. And I only stressed about it this morning, instead of all last week. So that dragon is slain.
Arriving "home" today, I was glad to see George's car gone, because for the entirety of yesterday, he was loud sloppy drunk. When I walked into the house yesterday, he was screaming raging at something/someone in his room upstairs. He was alone and sports radio was playing. Last year, George had gone to rehab because the Mets had not won the world series and he crashed his car with alcohol-poisoned grief. So I assume that yesterday the Mets had not done well again, and he finally stopped the charade of sobriety so he could mourn Spartan-style. This lasted all through the night, and all through the morning when I was leaving for work. Sloppy, slurry, mumbly drunk. Just like he was before the rehab and flying the flag high for AA.
But what I did see today was the handyman's truck in the driveway, as I pulled up. The handyman is an hispanic fellow whom George's father uses around this house to repair, remodel, and renovate. He's a nice enough fellow whom George seems to hate. Can't say a single kind word about him. So as I'm putting my car in park on the street (since this honkin' big truck is in the driveway), I see a plastic, white ball come rolling out of the open garage and down the driveway. Out dashes the handyman chasing after it as I'm walking up the sidewalk. I figure that he's getting his leisure on--until suddenly there is George's father holding a wiffle-ball bat in his hand in the garage doorway.
George's father looks at me rather woodenly (one of his only expressions I've observed to date) then calls to the handyman, "Okay I think that's enough baseball for now." Only the quaver in his voice gave away the old man's embarassment. I was so surprised that I laughed, and then turned the laugh into encouragement. "No go right ahead and have fun!" I said, dashing past him into the house and making a beeline through the garage to my room.
What the hell..?
For a few hours while I manipulated my blog, my mind kept saying, "That old man is using that handyman for some nasty hijinks!" But then it occured to me. That old man is using the handyman to recapture the times he never had with his son. George is autistic. It's obvious to me now. And his father missed out on raising him because he has never figured him out. And of course, George hates the handyman for being handy, and being able to fix houses, replace skylights, and playing ball with his Dad. And I suppose I would hate the handyman too, if I were George.
But as long as I'm living in this house, I can't be what George needs. If I ever lend myself to him for friendship, I'll need a place to escape to when I've exhausted my daily allotment of goodwill.
I'm sorry, George.
PS; George's father is a millionaire. The Handyman is in for quite a nice payday one day.