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Excerpt of 'Father's Day'

Excerpt of 'Father's Day'

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Published by Patt Morrison

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Published by: Patt Morrison on May 29, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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 Excerpted from
s Day: A Journey into the Mind and Heart of My Extraordinary Son
by Buzz Bissinger. Copyright © 2012 by H.G. Bissinger. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Allrights reserved.
Zach I am meeting Zach at Brooks Brothers in the sodden, sullen aftermath of Christmas. He has justcome from work at the supermarket where he has bagged groceries for four hours with one fifteen-minutebreak. I cannot imagine my son doing such work at the age of twenty-four. It shames me to think of himplacing sweat-drenched jugs of milk into their proper place and learning initially, with the extensive helpof a job coach, that the eggs must be placed separately in double plastic bags. He has been doing the same
 job for four years, and he will do the same job for the rest of his life. My son’s professional destiny is
paper or plastic.Except for brief lapses in which he pesters fellow employees like a seven-year-old, followingthem and calling out their names in a purposely aggravating singsong voice when they are trying to work,he does his job well. He limits his conversations with customers, although by nature he is ebullient andfriendly. He no longer interjects his views, as he did several years ago when he was working at K-Martone summer stocking supplies. When a customer asked where to find work gloves, he announced that he
found it an odd request: “What do you need gloves for? It’s the summer.” It defied his sense of logic;
gloves are for cold, not hot, and Zach just wanted to make sure the customer understood the order of things.
He is generally well liked. Female cashiers call him “my guy” and “my baby” and treat him with
protectiveness. He calls them by their first names, as if they all served in the trenches of World War Itogether. But he lacks the dexterity, or maybe the confidence, to handle a register or work the deli section.He fears change, because routine is the GPS that guides him. He orders the same entrée virtually everytime we go out for dinner: salmon. He occasionally ventures out into the uncharted territory of a Cajunchicken wrap or even a crab cake, but it is the pink flesh of salmon, even if it is more gray than pink andflaking off in dry chunks, that safely brings him home. He leans back in the La-Z-Boy I once gave him for
his birthday and often watches the ten o’clock news on Fox, not because he wants to keep up on current
events, but because he takes comfort in seeing the usual television newsmakers like the mayor and thepolice chief and the indicted city official proclaiming innocence although the payoff money was foundinside his pants. He also liked learning the names of the anchors and the weatherman. The world by itsnature is chaotic and unpredictable, but Zach always narrows it down to a reliably straight line.Because of trace brain damage at birth, his comprehension skills at the age of twenty-four areroughly those of an eight- or nine-year-
old. He can read, but he doesn’t understand many of the sentences.
He has basic math skills, although he is still prone to using his fingers. He understands money to a certaindegree. Because his mother, Debra, and I encourage independence, he is allowed to use publictransportation to go to Philadelphia where his other job is, stocking supplies at a law firm, and where hisbrother lives. The train stops at 8th Street and Market. He is supposed to walk the rest of the way if it isdaylight
about seven blocks. But sometimes he sneaks in a cab ride. The fare is ten dollars. He dutifullypays the meter but then he leaves a five-dollar tip, making him a favorite among Philadelphia cabdriverswho otherwise drive in silent misery.
He can’t add a hundred plus a hundred, although he does know the result is “a lot,” which is clos
enough when you think about it. He goes to movies, but the action and plot don’t filter down to him; he
seizes on images that he has seen before. I took him to see
once, when he was nine, and, after ablood-flowing scene at a Roman villa where Kirk Douglas single-handedly kills two million buffed-up
soldiers with a plastic knife, he turned to me and said, “Look Dad! A pool!” He has always loved pools.
In his early teens, he belonged to a swim club that competed against other clubs. He swam the fifty-yard
freestyle. He finished far behind the other contestants, but it didn’t matter. He still finished, every strokelike swimming against a frothing high tide. To this day, I don’t know how he did it. It is the most
monumental athletic feat I have ever seen.

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