Autism vs. Neurotypical: Same Experience, Different Perspectives

by Eric E. Cane and Eda Jane

This is Eric, I want to preface this with a little information about what you are to read. I tasked my good friend, Eda, to come with me to the same restaurant and write about her perspective in a stream-of-conscious manner. This was to include my presence and everything she could detail of her own thoughts as she experienced things.

I was to do the same. In the same location at the same time.

Eda is a poet and painter. She also writes short stories. I quite enjoy her writing style. This one is different. We sat experiencing our two perspective and writing them down as close to stream-of-consciousness as we could, not telling or showing the other what we were writing. That came later, after I had to leave and she generously followed me out.

I hope the writing that follows doesn’t strain any of your spelling or grammar demands. I wanted this fresh with only minimal editing after the fact.

Eda Jane’s Perspective

Humid air, yet cool. Am I cold? Gratitude. Remember. Barrier on the median; don’t trip, step high. There is someone walking past, should I hold open the door? A little far away. Ah. He is not coming in.

Familiar, colors and shapes. Oh — I wonder if they’ll ask if I’m alone today. Would rather not explain today, but I will happily. They are nice. New person in the corner. Oo! Dessert. I think I’ll get an Opera cake. Wait. I didn’t like that as much last time. I liked the….chocolate crunch. There it is. Wait, a new pastry. $2.99. That’s much better. I ask her about the pastry. I hope it’s not too eggy, or too sweet. She says it’s good. I want simple and it looks simple. I’ll try it. Life is short. I could allow myself a black coffee and pastry or this cheaper pastry and latte. Doesn’t matter. It’s just money. I’m fine.

Ah, card is an upcharge. I’ll do cash. Oops, one dollar short. I hand it over. I told the waitress we ate across the street. Oh — will she be jealous for the business? No. We are buying things here anyway. She doesn’t care. I wonder when Eric will come in? I look out. Not yet. I set my things down. Should I wash my hands now or wait till he arrives? I do want the pastry right away. I can eat it with a fork and avoid the hand-washing.

I look out the window. Oh no. Those guys. Weird guys from the Greek Restaurant. He was too loud. Too bold. Strange behavior. I wonder if Eric would think so. Maybe I’m overthinking. I hope they don’t recognize me. Don’t want to deal with the interaction. What are the chances they came here too? On the same day? I hope this isn’t their normal routine. They enter. They seem quieter. Fine. Maybe they won’t say anything. Good so far.

Two women across the room at a table. One is doing most of the talking. “Normal,” clean, upper-middle-class presence. She says “insurance” a lot. Business somethings. Her voice is “tinny” and pointed. Reminds me of the real estate people at work. I wonder if she was trained to speak that way. Grew up learning that as a kid from women who sounded that way too. Has to be taught.

The guys from the restaurant get in line.

Oh! Familiar hair, size of person. That woman sitting down in florals is my coworker. How did I not notice? I wonder if she saw me. Our backs were to each other.

Ah, there he is. Eric’s eyes flick briefly to me through the window. Aware of me looking. He enters, wipes his shoes on the mat. Gives a boyish grin. (Mock?) shyness and mischief. He shuffles his keys in his pocket. Steps in line. Clears his throat. Familiar gestures. The man in line ahead of him has a big belly. More than expected. Not quite matching the rest of his appearance. His friend is more serious than him. I’m more comfortable with him around than his friend.

Eric’s hands are in his pockets. His bag is slung across him. Slight protrusion in the smooth rectangular bag. The round raised portion of fabric is highlighted by the sun. Unassuming posture. Casual. Unintrusive. Surprising given what he knows. He could use that… He looks at the menu. Oh — insurance lady saw me looking. Eye to eye. Look away.

Loud restaurant guy sits out front. Wet curls in his hair. Pastry flake in his beard. Fleck of grey on his forehead. He looks out from down-tilted head. Creepy for a moment. It’s fine though. Any one could look like that for a moment. I’m probably being silly still thinking about it. Keep an eye on him though.

Coffee’s a little hot. Slightly sensitive tongue. The pastry is good. Lightly sweet. I have to tell her I liked her suggestion. I look around the corner but don’t see the waitress easily. Ok. Tell her later. Maybe suggest it to Eric. Offer a bite. Nah it’s small. Ha. He won’t mind. I’ll encourage him to try one though.

He comes up, talks to me with animated hands. Not like Italian hands. More like a magicians hands. Blocky hands. Familiar. Holds and shuffles as he explains an encounter he had on his way in. He places his bag on the back of the chair. Goes away. To the bathroom I assume.

Motion out front. Ripples in the puddle in the road, although I can’t see the rain falling in the air. I look up to confirm. Nope. Can’t see it.

Green truck backing out. Those guys. (Don’t hit the car backing up.) Forest green Toyota…I don’t know cars…Tacoma. Eh, good to know.

Eric returns. Cup half full. Guess he’s not that thirsty. He begins speaking while I notice my coworkers friend has thick lenses on her glasses. Should I tell him I know her? Later. I turn back and listen.

Eric E. Cane’s Perspective

The weight of the door, pulling makes my shirt tighten at my shoulders and back. Cool curving metal handle and my straining fingers. I step into bright sounds. Two women at a table, one with eyebrows of a soft puppy, black sheen, framing a face in thirties youth.

Brassy sounds of talking hitting the walls and concrete floor marred with machine-sanded streaks polished to a shine that reflects back into my ears feeling like little mice and chittering birds on my eardrums.

My friend is a small warm form unassuming, quiet, holding her own attention with a brief bright smile and wave to me. I wave back, feeling better because of her, careful of my steps and that I don’t slouch or hit a chair or table.

Walk past the highly reflective curved glass display case stocked with wonderful desserts shaped in colorful squares, rectangles, and circles. A tray of shiny glazed chocolate rectangles reflects the interior case lighting harshly. It hurts to look at them. Bright pin stabs in my eyes and mind. Inside and on their left, the glossy wood frame of the case is my brief reprieve. My eyes hurt less, but still strained.

Greeted warmly with youthful gusto from the woman behind the counter. Her words are tinged with a faint Spanish accent mildly distorted by the shape of her mouth, as if her teeth don’t quite fit. Above and behind her, curly words spell out the menu. Kitchen utensils scrape against metal as I order coffee mocha, having stared at the menu long enough to make sure I say the words in the right order and brace myself for possible questions. I remember to add oat milk and say it wrong — sometimes words don’t fit my mouth. I say it twice more, getting it right. She is less confused and rings me up. I feel the open area leading to the kitchen and to the bathroom and the small expanse behind me where people sit.

I go sit next to my friend and can’t help but smile once. Then chat lightly and organize myself in the chairs so as not to bump them over, I worry about this kind of thing more than I tell anyone. I set down my computer case on the chair between us at the window. I adjust the case so it doesn’t fall when I hear loud tapping. It’s from a well filled-out man, tall, wearing a thin shirt, his big fingers tap the wood in front of the pastry case filled with light and dark brown little mounds and flaky pucks. He and his loud friend were just in the Greek restaurant my friend and I departed to come here. I go use the bathroom, then get water to drink, press down the thin metal flap-handle resisting my efforts. Water spills into the clear plastic cup. I set myself to measure out enough, while being aware of people moving about me. I don’t want to be in someone’s way and adjust my feet, being careful not to bump and spill. I return to my friend. I feel like a child every time doing this.

Trying to focus to not be overwhelmed. Feeling hot but don’t want to take off outer shirt as it would be too cold. In front of me, brown wood pine coated in satin varnish, the pressure against my forearm, breathe, breathe, the rain outside the picture window — small clear needles dropping from the sky at a sharp angle, wetting the blacktop where shallows of it reveal a truck’s passing in its shimmer and waves.

Looking at this while hearing from a woman nearby speak to her companion in a consistent prattle-style soliloquy, mimicking someone’s voice with one that has not left its teenage mentality. Chairs sliding to the backdrop of walls reflecting its noise along with the prattle-voice and filler-words from her counterpart showing attentiveness.

50+ years of training steering my attention away from the overwhelming is greatly strained by my lack of ear protection, lack of sleep, the need to be exposed to write this experience enough for you share and immerse.

Outside, damp people walking by, colors suppressed by the muted grey sky. A bird flying and the waving pole flag highlighting both their directional struggles.

This is the mind-travel I make to avoid the consistent radio from the back room where the chef finds his trade eased, the refrigerator motor from the display case, the vent hood motor and air conditioning hum and drum passing air through vents into the room where my face feels the artificial breeze, the clothing-dulled sharp angle of the chair edge digging into my thighs, my chest and back too warm, the constriction of the watch at my wrist I want to remove fiercely, the clicking of my friend’s keyboard, the tinny plastic distorted sound of a video playing on someone’s phone, the tightness of my shoes at the top of my foot…breathe

Breathe…

The pressure of moving things I see, the way sound shapes differently off of objects whose perspective changes with my observational changes.

In all of this, I am comforted by the presence of my friend. She is a consistent anchor of peace and welcome in this chaos. I have the great desire to leave, to get away from all the overpressure. I focus on my words. This writing. I cannot adequately express, I think, how much I want to run out of here so I can breathe. Getting hard to focus. Will have to end this soon, but I hope it has shown you enough of what I feel, sense, work hard to redirect from. I didn’t sleep enough last night, and that makes this worse, but I felt I needed to share some of the stuff under the surface of our strained smiles and sometimes inattention.

Or departure.

Thank you for reading. Please let us know you enjoyed this by clapping, likeing, commenting, or sharing with someone you think will benefit from seeing how my autistic mind process differs from my friend’s.

Eda Jane links
https://medium.com/@theedajane
https://www.instagram.com/theedajane/
https://twitter.com/theedajane
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100091665093020

Eric E. Cane links

https://www.instagram.com/ericecane/
https://www.facebook.com/ericecane/
(My music on various platforms) https://music.lnk.to/QrxaIp
My novels and audiobooks) https://www.amazon.com/stores/Eric-E.-Cane/author/B01EGTVZ5E
(My podcast) https://open.spotify.com/show/0ZV0xoX4P1eVKfWF463IMf