Everybody's
Friend
by
Jeff Stimpson © 2005
Ned had to have speech therapy a few years ago.
Even then, upon meeting him, one therapist said, "He seems like a
nice, friendly little guy."
Too true. Ned seems to think everybody's his
friend. There's an older boy in our building; he must be about 10.
Friendly enough with kids his own age, from what I've seen, like
many boys, but visibly unmoved by toddlers. Ned counts him as a
friend, as seriously as if they'd lived in same dorm then worked
together at the same dot-com for half a decade. "Yeah, Terry's my
best friend," says Ned.
I guess I wasn't moved by toddlers either,
especially, until I had one. "Well you know, Ned," I say, "Terry's
kind of older than you are."
"Yeah. He's my friend."
Oh, Ned. I tell myself it doesn't matter at Ned's
age.
A few months ago, Ned and I were on a downtown bus
on Fifth Avenue, and we took a seat next to kids who were maybe 8 or
9, two boys and a girl. After a few minutes, it was apparent that
Ned kept looking at them and looking at them. We passed a church
that has an elementary school adjacent. The kids started talking
about that school, which is where they go, on a block of the Upper
East Side that contains more money than the whole state I grew up
in. Ned started telling them how Jill bought a fold-up tunnel at a
thrift sale at that church. Then I think he added something about
how his friend Annette comes to our apartment and plays in the
tunnel, too. And Alex. And a few other dear friends and
acquaintances of Ned that these kids didn't seem too interested in
knowing about.
"Okay kid, okay kid, that's enough," one of them
said, half to himself and his companions. Not admonishing or
bullying, just dismissive. Just dismissive. This is how kids talk.
How they've always talked. Ned continued on about Andy, another
friend. Okay kid, okay kid. They got off the bus. Ned watched them
leave.
He seemed unmoved. Maybe he's used to this with
Alex, who I think has yet to answer any of the thousands of
questions Ned has asked him. "You didn't have to be nice to those
kids, Ned," I tell him. "If you're nice to someone and they're not
nice back, you don't have to be nice to them." Was this the right
thing to say? Ned has all the makings of an outstanding salesman -
gregarious, genuinely happy to see most people (at least so far),
yet occasionally showing a thick skin for dismissal.
Still, life can be tough on a nice, friendly
little guy who thinks everyone's on his side. I was 24 years old,
for instance, before I learned that I may have had my dreams, but
other people had theirs, too, and it was, for me, suddenly clear
that year which they considered more important. For the longest
time, and still, when somebody says something I think makes no
sense, something that runs contrary to how I know my world works, I
honestly think they have to be just fooling.
There's a lovely little girl at pre-school of whom
Ned is fond. She's chilly, to put it mildly, and will probably grow
up to be one of those chilly, lovely women that Ned's dad has
sometimes had questionable luck avoiding. "She's my best friend,"
says Ned.
What qualifies me to give someone like Ned advice
that he may carry through the next seven decades? Who am I to try to
set straight a future Salesman of the Month? The other day on a big
slide, for instance, he tried to draw the attention of an older boy
who was sitting nearby atop monkey bars. "Watch me, big kid, watch
me," Ned said before he zipped down the slide. He hit the ground and
headed over to stand at the foot of the monkey bars. "Did you see
me?" he asked the big kid. "Would you like to go down the
slide?"
"No," the kid answered.
Ned paused, wrinkling his nose. "Why do you
think you wouldn't want to go down the slide?" he asked. The kid
left.
Not that he's a lousy judge of character: Annette,
one of his best girlfriends, is a sweet little kid who, at her
birthday party, took cake out of her own mouth to give to
Ned. I wouldn't even do that.
"Annie has a boyfriend," Ned announced one night.
"Who's that?" I asked, as if I didn't know.
I didn't know; it was some guy I'd never heard of.
Ned seemed unmoved. You know when he's unmoved. You know when he's
moved, too. Tears. Stamping feet. Screeching. All that stuff that
should be allowed longer in life than it is.
"We've got to talk to Ned about when he thinks
somebody has hurt his feelings," says Jill. "Hurt my feelings" is
one of Ned's bedrock phrases, and it can mean anything from "Took a
toy away from me" to "Bit me." We do have to teach him what do to in
those moments. I will, too, just as soon as I learn myself.
Copyright 2005 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
