New Connections

To be the parent of a child with autism is to live a life of altered expectations.  We imagine that we will share the things we treasure with our kids, but they may have different ideas.  And this can be especially true if that kid has autism.

Sometimes, though, it all works out.  And when it does, we may find ourselves appreciating the moment in ways both different and profound.  

And so it was that I found myself on a Saturday night in March in the Greensboro (NC) Coliseum with my 19-year-old son, Eric, awaiting the arrival of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.  It had been 42 years since my first Springsteen show--a transformational experience for me at age 16.  Like so many fans, I had been overwhelmed by the energy, the passion, the  commitment of Bruce and the band, and it started me on a journey that continues to this day.  This Greensboro show would be my 23rd.

Eric loved music from the beginning.  His earliest favorite was Allison Krauss (sidebar--in 5th grade it was arranged that she would come to school to meet him.  She spent 45 minutes with us and could not have been more generous.).  But he enjoyed other artists, too, and Bruce was certainly among them.  The songs he liked were the songs he liked.  There are not too many Springsteen fans that would name  Human Touch  as their favorite album, but it is surely Eric's!  Ever the cataloguer of things, Eric worked his way through the entire Springsteen discography, and it became clear that this was one of his preferred artists.  There were others--Maura O'Connell, Thomas Rhett, Kacey Musgraves, Talking Heads, Frank Sinatra--but when he had a choice to make, it was Springsteen as often as anyone else.

At age four, we rolled the dice and took Eric to his first honest-to-goodness concert (Allison Krauss and Nashville's Bridgestone Arena).  He was entranced.  We learned that, chosen with care, concerts could be marvelous experiences for him.  Others followed, and, for the most part, they were highly successful, even if infrequent.

But a Springsteen show is another matter.  They are longer, louder (at least than anything he'd seen), and not always nearby if you happen to live in Middle Tennessee.  When, after a six-year layoff, in part because of COVID, tickets went on sale last summer for concerts this spring, I had a decision to make.  Should I give it a go? Should Eric come with me to share the experience?  Would this be the full-circle father-and-son moment that, if you'd have asked me, I'd have thought we'd never have had the opportunity to enjoy? 

With it having been so long since Bruce and the band toured, demand for tickets was as high as it had been in decades.  There would be no wait-and-see.  So on the July day that passcodes were applied for--those that, if granted, would merely allow the opportunity to queue online for tickets--decisions had to be made.  And my decision was, yes, let's go for it.  Greensboro was offered (a seven-hour drive from Nashville), so that would be the try.  On sale day, the angels were smiling as a pair of seats in the first row of the second deck came up for us.  I clicked in time, and our course was set.  The printed confirmation page was wrapped in a box with a 2023 Tour t-shirt, and on Christmas Day, Eric learned that, three months hence, he and dad would be making a trip to see Bruce.

What would this be like?  Seeing a Bruce show is, truly, one of my absolute favorite things to do, and, selfishly, I would be putting this experience at risk if it didn't go well for Eric.  What if, halfway through the three-hour gig, Eric said, "Dad, can we go?" Make no mistake--this would be a possibility.  Several things were in my favor, though.  For one, we'd be staying in a hotel ("Hotels have TVs, beds, and toilets!").  Any decent arena will have cheeseburgers ("with ketchup and mustard!").  And Eric really does like Bruce Springsteen's music.  But still, you never know.

Even after twenty-two of them, the opening of a Springsteen show is like no other.  Whether beginning with a darkened stage, or with the band walking on one by one with all the house lights up, there is this moment when you see Bruce and the band with your own eyes and you realize that this is really happening.  Would Eric feel this way? How would I know?  As he stood with his phone pointed towards the stage, smiling as he started to record his first video, I had the distinct impression that, in his way, Eric got it just like I did.  With a throaty, "GREENSBORO!! One-two-three-four!" we were into the 1980s anthem "No Surrender", and we were off to the races.

So how was the show?  It was a Bruce Springsteen show, full of grit and grandeur, of great sweeps and emotional gut-punches.  But that's my experience.  What about Eric's? We had one problematic moment--about seven songs in, his phone ran out of storage.  At that point I realized that he'd been making a video of every song.  Unprepared to deal with that in the moment, we had to have a discussion about it, but the crisis did not metastasize.  For the rest of the night, Eric seemed to enjoy himself.  At the very least, he paid attention.  But how much? Was this all worth it to him?

As we drove away, I tried to figure out just wat he'd gotten out of our night.

"What was your favorite song?"

"I don't know."

"What songs did they play?"

"Born in the USA." (They didn't)

I tried a different tack--"What was the first song?"

"No Surrender."  (Correct!)

"What was the last song?"

"I'll See You in My Dreams." (Correct again!)

"What songs did they play from  Darkness on the Edge of Town? "

"Prove it all Night, Promised Land, Candy's Room, Badlands." (Absolutely, 100%, correct!)

Ok, I guess he really did get something out of this!

Eric is an inveterate box-checker.  Often when he has done something once, he doesn't want to do it again--even if he really liked it.  "I've already did_____", he might say.  On the way home, I asked him the question, "If Bruce Springsteen came to Nashville, would you want to go see him?"  Without hesitation, "Yes!" 

How do we choose the places we go? The stores where we shop, the places we go on vacation, the communities where we wind up making a home?  Usually it is some combination of what we've experienced stirred together with what we've heard from others, garnished with a healthy serving of happenstance.  Now, if you are a young man with autism, how do you choose a new restaurant to try?

If you are my son, Eric, it's quite simple, really.  First, you have an attraction to trains that has flourished since your earliest days absorbing Thomas the Tank Engine.  Then, you notice the train tracks running near your pediatrician's office that head toward the place Dad works.  You are greatly focused on these tracks, and every so often you are rewarded by seeing an actual train.  With your love of Google Maps, you carefully catalogue in your mind the path of those same train tracks and all the nearby roads.  You notice Sawyer Brown Road in Bellevue, and with further investigation, you find Plantation Pub, 8321 Sawyer Brown Road, Nashville.  

Upon the discovery of Plantation Pub, Eric immediately asked when we could go (and by "when", he meant precisely what date).  Turned out that Mom was going to the opera on the evening of September 24, so this seemed propitious.  The promise was made, and Eric was utterly committed to seeing it kept.

In retrospect, I might have investigated what other events were taking place during that particular late afternoon/early evening.  Had I done so, I might have noticed that a college football game of considerable local interest was set to take place at that very time.  And, though I was not oblivious to the fact that the game was going on, I was nonetheless surprised when we approached the restaurant and found an overflowing parking lot and a deck bursting with orange-clad revelers.  Screaming football fans (or screaming anybody, for that matter) are not exactly my son's cup of tea.  But neither is a last minute change of plans.  So we gamely walked in.  As we stepped into the breach, a large figure on multiple TV screens ran, or jumped, or tripped, and the patrons reacted with vigor.  Eric's fingers went directly into his ears, and it became apparent that, if we were to stay, outside seating would be preferable.

Despite serving what doubtless would be one of their largest crowds of the year, our waiter was calm and patient.  He paid attention to details.  Our table was a little bit in the sun--no worries, he suggested moving it a few feet.  He picked up on the fact that Eric was not neurotypical, and he thus gave him a little more time to respond.  In a setting that would render most of us harried, at best, our waiter was unfailingly considerate and attentive to our needs. 

As I considered what Plantation Pub might be like without a big football crowd (in other words, normally), I looked for clues to see if our waiter's general demeanor was part of the overall vibe.  Two well-behaved dogs rested by their owners, occasionally drinking from bowls that it appeared the staff had set out for them.  Despite the chaotic appearances, everyone seemed to be getting served in a timely and friendly manner.  No one was placing unreasonable demands on the staff, mainly because it seemed that they were doing such a good job.  In fairness, it didn't hurt that the home team was well on its' way to defeating the hated rival.  Regardless, the atmosphere was friendly, relaxed, accommodating.

With all of that, we still did come there to eat.  Where's Eric? Over at the corner of the deck where the train tracks were in clear view (we mustn't forget about the trains) in a wan hope that maybe, just maybe, things would time out just right.  Not on this day, so Eric came over to order a cheeseburger with JUST ketchup and mustard.  Our waiter patiently clarified that "just" meant "just".  And it did.  I got the catfish basket.  And despite the crowds, despite the chaos, we were served promptly and correctly.  The catfish was quite good, with the batter having that bit of saltiness that I prefer and the fish not being too fishy.  The prices were very reasonable (something we don't seem to say too often these days).  As I think back on the experience, I might ask the reader if they'd like to go to a place with good food, fair prices, and I kind an patient staff?  I know I would.